SECT. I. Diviſion of the Subject.

AS all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into impreſſions and ideas, ſo the impreſſions admit of another diviſion into original and ſe⯑condary. This diviſion of the impreſſions is [2] the ſame with that which ^* I formerly made uſe of when I diſtinguiſh'd them into im⯑preſſions of ſenſation and reflection. Origi⯑nal impreſſions or impreſſions of ſenſation are ſuch as without any antecedent percep⯑tion ariſe in the ſoul, from the conſtitution of the body, from the animal ſpirits, or from the application of objects to the ex⯑ternal organs. Secondary, or reflective im⯑preſſions are ſuch as proceed from ſome of theſe original ones, either immediately or by the interpoſition of its idea. Of the firſt kind are all the impreſſions of the ſenſes, and all bodily pains and pleaſures: Of the ſecond are the paſſions, and other emotions reſembling them.

'TIS certain, that the mind, in its per⯑ceptions, muſt begin ſomewhere; and that ſince the impreſſions precede their corre⯑ſpondent ideas, there muſt be ſome impreſ⯑ſions, which without any introduction make their appearance in the ſoul. As theſe de⯑pend upon natural and phyſical cauſes, the examination of them wou'd lead me too far from my preſent ſubject, into the ſci⯑ences of anatomy and natural philoſophy. For this reaſon I ſhall here confine myſelf to thoſe other impreſſions, which I have [3] call'd ſecondary and reflective, as ariſing either from the original impreſſions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleaſures are the ſource of many paſſions, both when felt and conſider'd by the mind; but ariſe ori⯑ginally in the ſoul, or in the body, which⯑ever you pleaſe to call it, without any pre⯑ceding thought or perception. A fit of the gout produces a long train of paſſions, as grief, hope, fear; but is not deriv'd imme⯑diately from any affection or idea.

THE reflective impreſſions may be di⯑vided into two kinds, viz. the calm and the violent. Of the firſt kind is the ſenſe of beauty and deformity in action, compoſition, and external objects. Of the ſecond are the paſſions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. This diviſion is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and muſic frequently riſe to the greateſt height; while thoſe other impreſſions, pro⯑perly call'd paſſions, may decay into ſo ſoft an emotion, as to become, in a manner, imperceptible. But as in general the paſ⯑ſions are more violent than the emotions ariſing from beauty and deformity, theſe im⯑preſſions have been commonly diſtinguiſh'd from each other. The ſubject of the hu⯑man mind being ſo copious and various, [4] I ſhall here take advantage of this vulgar and ſpecious diviſion, that I may proceed with the greater order; and having ſaid all I thought neceſſary concerning our ideas, ſhall now explain thoſe violent emotions or paſſions, their nature, origin, cauſes, and effects.

WHEN we take a ſurvey of the paſſions, there occurs a diviſion of them into direct and indirect. By direct paſſions I under⯑ſtand ſuch as ariſe immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleaſure. By indirect ſuch as proceed from the ſame principles, but by the conjunction of other qualities. This diſtinction I cannot at preſent juſtify or explain any farther. I can only obſerve in general, that under the indirect paſſions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition, vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, ge⯑neroſity, with their dependants. And under the direct paſſions, deſire, averſion, grief, joy, hope, fear, deſpair and ſecurity. I ſhall begin with the former.

SECT. II. Of pride and humility; their objects and cauſes.

THE paſſions of PRIDE and HUMI⯑LITY being ſimple and uniform impreſſions, 'tis impoſſible we can ever, by a multitude of words, give a juſt definition of them, or indeed of any of the paſſions. The utmoſt we can pretend to is a deſcrip⯑tion of them, by an enumeration of ſuch circumſtances, as attend them: But as theſe words, pride and humility, are of general uſe, and the impreſſions they repreſent the moſt common of any, every one, of himſelf, will be able to form a juſt idea of them, with⯑out any danger of miſtake. For which rea⯑ſon, not to loſe time upon preliminaries, I ſhall immediately enter upon the examina⯑tion of theſe paſſions.

'TIS evident, that pride and humility, tho' directly contrary, have yet the ſame OBJECT. This object is ſelf, or that ſuc⯑ceſſion of related ideas and impreſſions, of which we have an intimate memory and con⯑ſciouſneſs. Here the view always fixes when [6] we are actuated by either of theſe paſſions. According as our idea of ourſelf is more or leſs advantageous, we feel either of thoſe op⯑poſite affections, and are elated by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may be comprehended by the mind, they are always conſider'd with a view to ourſelves; otherwiſe they wou'd never be able either to excite theſe paſſions, or pro⯑duce the ſmalleſt encreaſe or diminution of them. When ſelf enters not into the con⯑fideration, there is no room either for pride or humility.

BUT tho' that connected ſucceſſion of perceptions, which we call ſelf, be always the object of theſe two paſſions, 'tis impoſ⯑ſible it can be their CAUSE, or be ſufficient alone to excite them. For as theſe paſſions are directly contrary, and have the ſame object in common; were their object alſo their cauſe; it cou'd never produce any de⯑gree of the one paſſion, but at the ſame time it muſt excite an equal degree of the other; which oppoſition and contrariety muſt de⯑ſtroy both. 'Tis impoſſible a man can at the ſame time be both proud and humble; and where he has different reaſons for theſe paſſions, as frequently happens, the paſſions either take place alternately; or if they en⯑counter, [7] the one annihilates the other, as far as its ſtrength goes, and the remainder only of that, which is ſuperior, continues to ope⯑rate upon the mind. But in the preſent caſe neither of the paſſions cou'd ever become ſuperior; becauſe ſuppoſing it to be the view only of ourſelf, which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to either, muſt produce both in the very ſame proportion; or in other words, can produce neither. To excite any paſſion, and at the ſame time raiſe an equal ſhare of its antagoniſt, is im⯑mediately to undo what was done, and muſt leave the mind at laſt perfectly calm and indifferent.

WE muſt, therefore, make a diſtinction betwixt the cauſe and the object of theſe paſſions; betwixt that idea, which excites them, and that to which they direct their view, when excited. Pride and humility, being once rais'd, immediately turn our at⯑tention to ourſelf, and regard that as their ultimate and final object; but there is ſome⯑thing farther requiſite in order to raiſe them: Something, which is peculiar to one of the paſſions, and produces not both in the very ſame degree. The firſt idea, that is pre⯑ſented to the mind, is that of the cauſe or productive principle. This excites the paſ⯑ſion, [8] connected with it; and that paſſion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is that of ſelf. Here then is a paſſion plac'd betwixt two ideas, of which the one produces it, and the other is produc'd by it. The firſt idea, therefore, repreſents the cauſe, the ſecond the object of the paſ⯑ſion.

TO begin with the cauſes of pride and humility; we may obſerve, that their moſt obvious and remarkable property is the vaſt variety of ſubjects, on which they may be plac'd. Every valuable quality of the mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, me⯑mory or diſpoſition; wit, good-ſenſe, learning, courage, juſtice, integrity; all theſe are the cauſes of pride; and their oppoſites of hu⯑mility. Nor are theſe paſſions confin'd to the mind, but extend their view to the body likewiſe. A man may be proud of his beauty, ſtrength, agility, good mein, addreſs in dancing, riding, fencing, and of his dexte⯑rity in any manual buſineſs or manufacture. But this is not all. The paſſion looking far⯑ther, comprehend whatever objects are in the leaſt ally'd or related to us. Our coun⯑try, family, children, relations, riches, houſes, gardens, horſes, dogs, cloaths; any of theſe may become a cauſe either of pride or of humility.

[9] FROM the conſideration of theſe cauſes, it appears neceſſary we ſhou'd make a new diſtinction in the cauſes of the paſ⯑ſion, betwixt that quality, which operates, and the ſubject, on which it is plac'd. A man, for inſtance, is vain of a beautiful houſe, which belongs to him, or which he has himſelf built and contriv'd. Here the object of the paſſion is himſelf, and the cauſe is the beautiful houſe: Which cauſe again is ſub-divided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates upon the paſſion, and the ſubject, in which the quality in⯑heres. The quality is the beauty, and the ſubject is the houſe, conſider'd as his property or contrivance. Both theſe parts are eſſential, nor is the diſtinction vain and chimerical. Beauty, conſider'd merely as ſuch, unleſs plac'd upon ſomething related to us, never produces any pride or vanity; and the ſtrongeſt relation alone, without beauty, or ſomething elſe in its place, has as little influence on that paſſion. Since, therefore, theſe two particulars are eaſily ſe⯑parated, and there is a neceſſity for their conjunction, in order to produce the paſ⯑ſion, we ought to conſider them as com⯑ponent parts of the cauſe; and infix in our minds an exact idea of this diſtinction.

SECT. III. Whence theſe objects and cauſes are deriv'd.

BEING ſo far advanc'd as to obſerve a difference betwixt the object of the paſſions and their cauſe, and to diſtinguiſh in the cauſe the quality, which operates on the paſſions, from the ſubject, in which it inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to be what it is, and aſſigns ſuch a particular object, and quality, and ſubject to theſe affections. By this means we ſhall fully underſtand the origin of pride and humility.

'TIS evident in the firſt place, that theſe paſſions are determin'd to have ſelf for their ob⯑ject, not only by a natural but alſo by an original property. No one can doubt but this property is natural from the conſtancy and ſteadineſs of its operations. 'Tis always ſelf, which is the object of pride and hu⯑mility; and whenever the paſſions look be⯑yond, 'tis ſtill with a view to ourſelves, nor can any perſon or object otherwiſe have any influence upon us.

[11] THAT this proceeds from an original quality or primary impulſe, will likewiſe ap⯑pear evident, if we conſider that 'tis the diſtinguiſhing characteriſtic of theſe paſſions. Unleſs nature had given ſome original qua⯑lities to the mind, it cou'd never have any ſecondary ones; becauſe in that caſe it wou'd have no foundation for action, nor cou'd ever begin to exert itſelf. Now theſe qua⯑lities, which we muſt conſider as original, are ſuch as are moſt inſeparable from the ſoul, and can be reſolv'd into no other: And ſuch is the quality, which determines the object of pride and humility.

WE may, perhaps, make it a greater queſtion, whether the cauſes, that produce the paſſion, be as natural as the object, to which it is directed, and whether all that vaſt variety proceeds from caprice or from the conſtitution of the mind. This doubt we ſhall ſoon remove, if we caſt our eye upon human nature, and conſider that in all nations and ages, the ſame objects ſtill give riſe to pride and humility; and that upon the view even of a ſtranger, we can know pretty nearly, what will either encreaſe or dimi⯑niſh his paſſions of this kind. If there be any variation in this particular, it pro⯑ceeds from nothing but a difference in the [12] tempers and complexions of men; and is beſides very inconſiderable. Can we ima⯑gine it poſſible, that while human nature remains the ſame, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their power, riches, beauty or perſonal merit, and that their pride and vanity will not be affected by theſe advantages?

BUT tho' the cauſes of pride and humi⯑lity be plainly natural, we ſhall find upon examination, that they are not original, and that 'tis utterly impoſſible they ſhou'd each of them be adapted to theſe paſſions by a particular proviſion, and primary con⯑ſtitution of nature. Beſide their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, and ariſe partly from the induſtry, partly from the caprice, and partly from the good fortune of men. Induſtry produces houſes, furniture, cloaths. Caprice deter⯑mines their particular kinds and qualities. And good fortune frequently contributes to all this, by diſcovering the effects that re⯑ſult from the different mixtures and com⯑binations of bodies. 'Tis abſurd, therefore, to imagine, that each of theſe was foreſeen and provided for by nature, and that every new production of art, which cauſes pride or humility; inſtead of adapting itſelf to [13] the paſſion by partaking of ſome general quality, that naturally operates on the mind; is itſelf the object of an original principle, which till then lay conceal'd in the ſoul, and is only by accident at laſt brought to light. Thus the firſt mechanic, that in⯑vented a fine ſcritoure, produc'd pride in him, who became poſſeſt of it, by principles dif⯑ferent from thoſe, which made him proud of handſome chairs and tables. As this ap⯑pears evidently ridiculous, we muſt conclude, that each cauſe of pride and humility is not adapted to the paſſions by a diſtinct ori⯑ginal quality; but that there are ſome one or more circumſtances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends.

BESIDES, we find in the courſe of nature, that tho' the effects be many, the princi⯑ples, from which they ariſe, are commonly but few and ſimple, and that 'tis the ſign of an unſkilful naturaliſt to have recourſe to a different quality, in order to explain every different operation. How much more muſt this be true with regard to the hu⯑man mind, which being ſo confin'd a ſub⯑ject may juſtly be thought incapable of con⯑taining ſuch a monſtrous heap of principles, as wou'd be neceſſary to excite the paſſions of pride and humility, were each diſtinct [14] cauſe adapted to the paſſion by a diſtinct ſet of principles?

HERE, therefore, moral philoſophy is in the ſame condition as natural, with re⯑gard to aſtronomy before the time of Co⯑pernicus. The antients, tho' ſenſible of that maxim, that nature does nothing in vain, contriv'd ſuch intricate ſyſtems of the hea⯑vens, as ſeem'd inconſiſtent with true phi⯑loſophy, and gave place at laſt to ſomething more ſimple and natural. To invent with⯑out ſcruple a new principle to every new phaenomenon, inſtead of adapting it to the old; to overload our hypotheſes with a va⯑riety of this kind; are certain proofs; that none of theſe principles is the juſt one, and that we only deſire, by a number of falſe⯑hoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth.

SECT. IV. Of the relations of impreſſions and ideas.

THUS we have eſtabliſh'd two truths without any obſtacle or difficulty, that 'tis from natural principles this va⯑riety of cauſes excite pride and humility, [15] and that 'tis not by a different principle each different cauſe is adapted to its paſſion. We ſhall now proceed to enquire how we may reduce theſe principles to a leſſer number, and find among the cauſes ſomething common, on which their influence depends.

IN order to this we muſt reflect on cer⯑tain properties of human nature, which tho' they have a mighty influence on every ope⯑ration both of the underſtanding and paſ⯑ſions, are not commonly much inſiſted on by philoſophers. The firſt of theſe is the aſſociation of ideas, which I have ſo often obſerv'd and explain'd. 'Tis impoſſible for the mind to fix itſelf ſteadily upon one idea for any conſiderable time; nor can it by its utmoſt efforts ever arrive at ſuch a conſtan⯑cy. But however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and method in their changes. The rule, by which they proceed, is to paſs from one object to what is reſembling, contiguous to, or produc'd by it. When one idea is pre⯑ſent to the imagination, any other, united by theſe relations, naturally follows it, and enters with more facility by means of that introduction.

THE ſecond property I ſhall obſerve in the human mind is a like aſſociation of im⯑preſſions. [16] All reſembling impreſſions are connected together, and no ſooner one ariſes than the reſt immediately follow. Grief and diſappointment give riſe to anger, an⯑ger to envy, envy to malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be com⯑pleated. In like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itſelf into love, generoſity, pity, courage, pride, and the other reſembling affections. 'Tis difficult for the mind, when actuated by any paſſion, to confine itſelf to that paſſion alone, without any change or variation. Hu⯑man nature is too inconſtant to admit of any ſuch regularity. Changeableneſs is eſ⯑ſential to it. And to what can it ſo natu⯑rally change as to affections or emotions, which are ſuitable to the temper, and agree with that ſet of paſſions, which then prevail? 'Tis evident, then, there is an attraction or aſſociation among impreſſions, as well as among ideas; tho' with this re⯑markable difference, that ideas are aſſociated by reſemblance, contiguity, and cauſation; and impreſſions only by reſemblance.

IN the third place, 'tis obſervable of theſe two kinds of aſſociation, that they very much aſſiſt and forward each other, and that the tranſition is more eaſily made where [17] they both concur in the ſame object. Thus a man, who, by any injury from another, is very much diſcompos'd and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred ſubjects of diſcontent, impatience, fear, and other uneaſy paſſions; eſpecially if he can diſ⯑cover theſe ſubjects in or near the perſon, who was the cauſe of his firſt paſſion. Thoſe principles, which forward the tranſition of ideas, here concur with thoſe, which ope⯑rate on the paſſions; and both uniting in one action, beſtow on the mind a double impulſe. The new paſſion, therefore, muſt ariſe with ſo much greater violence, and the tranſition to it muſt be render'd ſo much more eaſy and natural.

UPON this occaſion I may cite the au⯑thority of an elegant writer, who expreſſes himſelf in the following manner. ‘As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, ſtrange, or beautiful, and is ſtill more pleas'd the more it finds of theſe perfections in the ſame object, ſo it is ca⯑pable of receiving a new ſatisfaction by the aſſiſtance of another ſenſe. Thus any continu'd ſound, as the muſic of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens every mo⯑ment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the ſeveral [18] beauties of the place, that lie before him. Thus if there ariſes a fragrancy of ſmells or perfumes, they heighten the pleaſure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the land⯑ſchape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both ſenſes recommend each other, and are pleaſanter together than when they enter the mind ſeparately: As the different colours of a picture, when they are well diſpoſed, ſet off one anotehr, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the ſituation.’ In this phae⯑nomenon we may remark the aſſociation both of impreſſions and ideas, as well as the mutual aſſiſtance they lend each other.

SECT. V. Of the influence of theſe relations on pride and humility.

THESE principles being eſtabliſh'd on unqueſtionable experience, I be⯑gin to conſider how we ſhall apply them, by revolving over all the cauſes of pride and humility, whether theſe cauſes be regarded, as the qualities, that operate, or as the ſub⯑jects, on which the qualities are plac'd. In [19] examining theſe qualities I immediately find many of them to concur in producing the ſenſation of pain and pleaſure, indepen⯑dent of thoſe affections, which I here endea⯑vour to explain. Thus the beauty of our perſon, of itſelf, and by its very appear⯑ance, gives pleaſure, as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. A magnificent feaſt delights us, and a ſordid one diſpleaſes. What I diſcover to be true in ſome inſtances, I ſuppoſe to be ſo in all; and take it for granted at preſent, with⯑out any farther proof, that every cauſe of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a ſeparate pleaſure, and of humility a ſeparate uneaſineſs.

AGAIN, in conſidering the ſubjects, to which theſe qualities adhere, I make a new ſuppoſition, which alſo appears probable from many obvious inſtances, viz. that theſe ſub⯑jects are either parts of ourſelves, or ſome⯑thing nearly related to us. Thus the good and bad qualities of our actions and manners conſtitute virtue and vice, and determine our perſonal character, than which nothing operates more ſtrongly on theſe paſ⯑ſions. In like manner, 'tis the beauty or de⯑formity of our perſon, houſes, equipage, or furniture, by which we are render'd either [20] vain or humble. The ſame qualities, when transfer'd to ſubjects, which bear us no re⯑lation, influence not in the ſmalleſt degree either of theſe affections.

HAVING thus in a manner ſuppos'd two properties of the cauſes of theſe affections, viz. that the qualities produce a ſeparate pain or pleaſure, and that the ſubjects, on which the qualities are plac'd, are related to ſelf; I proceed to examine the paſſions themſelves, in order to find ſome⯑thing in them, correſpondent to the ſuppos'd properties of their cauſes. Firſt, I find, that the peculiar object of pride and humility is determin'd by an original and natural inſtinct, and that 'tis abſolutely impoſſible, from the primary conſtitution of the mind, that theſe paſſions ſhou'd ever look beyond ſelf, or that individual perſon, of whoſe actions and ſentiments each of us is intimately con⯑ſcious. Here at laſt the view always reſts, when we are actuated by either of theſe paſſions; nor can we, in that ſituation of mind, ever loſe ſight of this object. For this I pretend not to give any reaſon; but conſider ſuch a peculiar direction of the thought as an original quality.

THE ſecond quality, which I diſcover in theſe paſſions, and which I likewiſe conſider as [21] an original quality, is their ſenſations, or the peculiar emotions they excite in the ſoul, and which conſtitute their very being and eſſence. Thus pride is a pleaſant ſen⯑ſation, and humility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleaſure and pain, there is in reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling convinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reaſon or diſpute.

IF I compare, therefore, theſe two e⯑ſtabliſh'd properties of the paſſions, viz. their object, which is ſelf, and their ſenſa⯑tion, which is either pleaſant or painful, to the two ſuppos'd properties of the cauſes, viz. their relation to ſelf, and their tendency to produce a pain or pleaſure, independent of the paſſion; I immediately find, that taking theſe ſuppoſitions to be juſt, the true ſyſtem breaks in upon me with an irreſiſtible evi⯑dence. That cauſe, which excites the paſ⯑ſion, is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the paſſion; the ſenſation, which the cauſe ſeparately produces, is related to the ſenſation of the paſſion: From this double relation of ideas and im⯑preſſions, the paſſion is deriv'd. The one idea is eaſily converted into its cor-relative; and the one impreſſion into that, which re⯑ſembles [22] and correſponds to it: With how much greater facility muſt this tranſition be made, where theſe movements mutually aſſiſt each other, and the mind receives a double im⯑pulſe from the relations both of its impreſ⯑ſions and ideas?

THAT we may comprehend this the bet⯑ter, we muſt ſuppoſe, that nature has given to the organs of the human mind, a certain diſpoſition fitted to produce a peculiar im⯑preſſion or emotion, which we call pride: To this emotion ſhe has aſſign'd a certain idea, viz. that of ſelf, which it never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is eaſily conceiv'd. We have many inſtances of ſuch a ſituation of affairs. The nerves of the noſe and palate are ſo diſpos'd, as in certain circumſtances to convey ſuch pecu⯑liar ſenſations to the mind: The ſenſations of luſt and hunger always produce in us the idea of thoſe peculiar objects, which are ſuitable to each appetite. Theſe two cir⯑cumſtances are united in pride. The or⯑gans are ſo diſpos'd as to produce the paſ⯑ſion; and the paſſion, after its production, naturally produces a certain idea. All this needs no proof. 'Tis evident we never ſhou'd be poſſeſt of that paſſion, were there not a diſpoſition of mind proper for it; and 'tis [23] as evident, that the paſſion always turns our view to ourſelves, and makes us think of our own qualities and circumſtances.

THIS being fully comprehended, it may now be aſk'd, Whether nature produces the paſſion immediately, of herſelf; or whether ſhe muſt be aſſiſted by the co-operation of other cauſes? For 'tis obſervable, that in this par⯑ticular her conduct is different in the dif⯑ferent paſſions and ſenſations. The palate muſt be excited by an external object, in order to produce any reliſh: But hunger a⯑riſes internally, without the concurrence of any external object. But however the caſe may ſtand with other paſſions and impreſ⯑ſions, 'tis certain, that pride requires the aſ⯑ſiſtance of ſome foreign object, and that the organs, which produce it, exert not them⯑ſelves like the heart and arteries, by an ori⯑ginal internal movement. For firſt, daily experience convinces us, that pride requires certain cauſes to excite it, and languiſhes when unſupported by ſome excellency in the cha⯑racter, in bodily accompliſhments, in cloaths, equipage or fortune. Secondly, 'tis evident pride wou'd be perpetual, if it aroſe im⯑mediately from nature; ſince the object is always the ſame, and there is no diſ⯑poſition of body peculiar to pride, as there [24] is to thirſt and hunger. Thirdly, Hu⯑mility is in the very ſame ſituation with pride; and therefore, either muſt, upon this ſuppoſition, be perpetual likewiſe, or muſt deſtroy the contrary paſſion from the very firſt moment; ſo that none of them cou'd ever make its appearance. Upon the whole, we may reſt ſatisfy'd with the foregoing concluſion, that pride muſt have a cauſe, as well as an object, and that the one has no influence without the other.

THE difficulty, then, is only to diſcover this cauſe, and find what it is that gives the firſt motion to pride, and ſets thoſe organs in action, which are naturally fitted to pro⯑duce that emotion. Upon my conſulting experience, in order to reſolve this difficulty, I immediately find a hundred different cauſes, that produce pride; and upon examining theſe cauſes, I ſuppoſe, what at firſt I perceive to be probable, that all of them concur in two circumſtances; which are, that of themſelves they produce an impreſſion, ally'd to the paſſion, and are plac'd on a ſubject, ally'd to the object of the paſſion. When I con⯑ſider after this the nature of relation, and its effects both on the paſſions and ideas, I can no longer doubt, upon theſe ſuppoſi⯑tions, [25] that 'tis the very principle, which gives riſe to pride, and beſtows motion on thoſe organs, which being naturally diſpos'd to produce that affection, require only a firſt impulſe or beginning to their action. Any thing, that gives a pleaſant ſenſation, and is related to ſelf, excites the paſſion of pride, which is alſo agreeable, and has ſelf for its object.

WHAT I have ſaid of pride is equally true of humility. The ſenſation of humi⯑lity is uneaſy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reaſon the ſeparate ſenſation, a⯑riſing from the cauſes, muſt be revers'd, while the relation to ſelf continues the ſame. Tho' pride and humility are directly contrary in their effects, and in their ſenſations, they have notwithſtanding the ſame object; ſo that 'tis requiſite only to change the rela⯑tion of impreſſions, without making any change upon that of ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful houſe, belonging to ourſelves, produces pride; and that the ſame houſe, ſtill belonging to ourſelves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is chang'd into deformity, and thereby the ſenſation of pleaſure, which correſponded to pride, is transform'd into pain, which is re⯑lated to humility. The double relation be⯑tween [26] the ideas and impreſſions ſubſiſts in both caſes, and produces an eaſy tranſition from the one emotion to the other.

IN a word, nature has beſtow'd a kind of attraction on certain impreſſions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance, naturally introduces its correlative. If theſe two attractions or aſſociations of impreſſions and ideas concur on the ſame object, they mutually aſſiſt each other, and the tranſition of the affections and of the imagination is made with the greateſt eaſe and facility. When an idea produces an impreſſion, re⯑lated to an impreſſion, which is connected with an idea, related to the firſt idea, theſe two impreſſions muſt be in a manner inſepa⯑rable, nor will the one in any caſe be un⯑attended with the other. 'Tis after this manner, that the particular cauſes of pride and humility are determin'd. The quality, which operates on the paſſion, produces ſe⯑parately an impreſſion reſembling it; the ſubject, to which the quality adheres, is re⯑lated to ſelf, the object of the paſſion: No wonder the whole cauſe, conſiſting of a qua⯑lity and of a ſubject, does ſo unavoidably give riſe to the paſſion.

TO illuſtrate this hypotheſis, we may com⯑pare it to that, by which I have already ex⯑plain'd [27] the belief attending the judgments, which we form from cauſation. I have ob⯑ſerv'd, that in all judgments of this kind, there is always a preſent impreſſion, and a related idea; and that the preſent impreſſion gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveys this vivacity, by an eaſy tranſition, to the re⯑lated idea. Without the preſent impreſſion, the attention is not fix'd, nor the ſpirits ex⯑cited. Without the relation, this attention reſts on its firſt object, and has no farther conſequence. There is evidently a great ana⯑logy betwixt that hypotheſis, and our pre⯑ſent one of an impreſſion and idea, that transfuſe themſelves into another impreſſion and idea by means of their double relation: Which analogy muſt be allow'd to be no deſpicable proof of both hypotheſes.

SECT. VI. Limitations of this ſyſtem.

BUT before we proceed farther in this ſubject, and examine particularly all the cauſes of pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make ſome limitations to the ge⯑neral ſyſtem, that all agreeable objects, re⯑lated to ourſelves, by an aſſociation of ideas [28] and of impreſſions, produce pride, and diſagree⯑able ones, humility: And theſe limitations are deriv'd from the very nature of the ſubject.

I. SUPPOSE an agreeable object to acquire a relation to ſelf, the firſt paſſion, that ap⯑pears on this occaſion, is joy; and this paſ⯑ſion diſcovers itſelf upon a ſlighter relation than pride and vain-glory. We may feel joy upon being preſent at a feaſt, where our ſenſes are regal'd with delicacies of every kind: But 'tis only the maſter of the feaſt, who, beſide the ſame joy, has the additional paſſion of ſelf-applauſe and vanity. 'Tis true, men ſometimes boaſt of a great enter⯑tainment, at which they have only been preſent; and by ſo ſmall a relation convert their pleaſure into pride: But however, this muſt in general be own'd, that joy ariſes from a more inconſiderable relation than va⯑nity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce pride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleaſure. The rea⯑ſon of the difference may be explain'd thus. A relation is requiſite to joy, in order to ap⯑proach the object to us, and make it give us any ſatisfaction. But beſide this, which is common to both paſſions, 'tis requiſite to pride, in order to produce a tranſition [29] from one paſſion to another, and convert the ſatisfaction into vanity. As it has a double taſk to perform, it muſt be endow'd with double force and energy. To which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not a very cloſe relation to ourſelves, they commonly do to ſome other perſon; and this latter relation not only excels; but even diminiſhes, and ſometimes deſtroys the former, as we ſhall ſee afterwards ^*.

HERE then is the firſt limitation, we muſt make to our general poſition, that every thing related to us, which produces pleaſure or pain, produces likewiſe pride or humility. There is not only a relation requir'd, but a cloſe one, and a cloſer than is requir'd to joy.

II. THE ſecond limitation is, that the agreeable or diſagreeable object be not only cloſely related, but alſo peculiar to ourſelves, or at leaſt common to us with a few per⯑ſons. 'Tis a quality obſervable in human nature, and which we ſhall endeavour to ex⯑plain afterwards, that every thing, which is often preſented, and to which we have been long accuſtom'd, loſes its value in our eyes, and is in a little time deſpis'd and neglected. We likewiſe judge of objects more from [30] compariſon than from their real and intrinſic merit; and where we cannot by ſome con⯑traſt enhance their value, we are apt to over⯑look even what is eſſentially good in them. Theſe qualities of the mind have an effect up⯑on joy as well as pride; and 'tis remarkable, that goods, which are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by cuſtom, give us little ſatisfaction; tho' perhaps of a more excellent kind, than thoſe on which, for their ſingularity, we ſet a much higher value. But tho' this circumſtance operates on both theſe paſſions, it has a much greater influence on vanity. We are rejoic'd for many goods, which, on account of their frequency, give us on pride. Health, when it returns after a long abſence, affords us a very ſenſible ſatisfac⯑tion; but is ſeldom regarded as a ſubject of vanity, becauſe 'tis ſhar'd with ſuch vaſt numbers.

THE reaſon, why pride is ſo much more delicate in this particular than joy, I take to be, as follows. In order to excite pride, there are always two objects we muſt con⯑template, viz. the cauſe or that object which produces pleaſure; and ſelf, which is the real object of the paſſion. But joy has only one object neceſſary to its production, viz. that which gives pleaſure; and tho' it be requi⯑ſite, [31] that this bear ſome relation to ſelf, yet that is only requiſite in order to render it agreeable; nor is ſelf, properly ſpeaking, the object of this paſſion. Since, therefore, pride has in a manner two objects, to which it directs our view; it follows, that where neither of them have any ſingularity, the paſſion muſt be more weaken'd upon that account, than a paſſion, which has only one object. Upon comparing ourſelves with o⯑thers, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in the leaſt diſtinguiſh'd; and upon comparing the object we poſſeſs, we diſcover ſtill the ſame unlucky circum⯑ſtance. By two compariſons ſo diſadvan⯑tageous the paſſion muſt be entirely de⯑ſtroy'd.

III. THE third limitation is, that the pleaſant or painful object be very diſcernible and obvious, and that not only to ourſelves, but to others alſo. This circumſtance, like the two foregoing, has an effect upon joy, as well as pride. We fancy ourſelves more happy, as well as more virtuous or beauti⯑ful, when we appear ſo to others; but are ſtill more oſtentacious of our virtues than of our pleaſures. This proceeds from cauſes, which I ſhall endeavour to explain after⯑wards.

[32] IV. THE fourth limitation is deriv'd from the inconſtancy of the cauſe of theſe paſ⯑ſions, and from the ſhort duration of its con⯑nexion with ourſelves. What is caſual and inconſtant gives but little joy, and leſs pride. We are not much ſatisfy'd with the thing itſelf; and are ſtill leſs apt to feel any new degrees of ſelf-ſatisfaction upon its account. We foreſee and anticipate its change by the imagination; which makes us little ſatisfy'd with the thing: We compare it to our⯑ſelves, whoſe exiſtence is more durable; by which means its inconſtancy appears ſtill greater. It ſeems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourſelves from an object, which is of ſo much ſhorter duration, and attends us during ſo ſmall a part of our exiſtence. 'Twill be eaſy to com⯑prehend the reaſon, why this cauſe ope⯑rates not with the ſame force in joy as in pride; ſince the idea of ſelf is not ſo eſſen⯑tial to the former paſſion as to the latter.

V. I MAY add as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this ſyſtem, that ge⯑neral rules have a great influence upon pride and humility, as well as on all the other paſſions. Hence we form a notion of dif⯑ferent ranks of men, ſuitable to the power or riches they are poſſeſt of; and this no⯑tion [33] we change not upon account of any peculiarities of the health or temper of the perſons, which may deprive them of all en⯑joyment in their poſſeſſions. This may be accounted for from the ſame principles, that explain'd the influence of general rules on the underſtanding. Cuſtom readily carries us beyond the juſt bounds in our paſſions, as well as in our reaſonings.

IT may not be amiſs to obſerve on this occaſion, that the influence of general rules and maxims on the paſſions very much con⯑tributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we ſhall explain in the progreſs of this treatiſe. For 'tis evident, that if a perſon full-grown, and of the ſame nature with ourſelves, were on a ſudden tranſ⯑ported into our world, he wou'd be very much embarraſs'd with every object, and wou'd not readily find what degree of love or hatred, pride or humility, or any other paſſion he ought to attribute to it. The paſſions are often vary'd by very inconſider⯑able principles; and theſe do not always play with a perfect regularity, eſpecially on the firſt trial. But as cuſtom and practice have brought to light all theſe principles, and have ſettled the juſt value of every thing; this muſt certainly contribute to the eaſy production of the paſ⯑ſions, [34] and guide us, by means of general eſtab⯑liſh'd maxims, in the proportions we ought to obſerve in preferring one object to another. This remark may, perhaps, ſerve to obviate difficulties, that may ariſe concerning ſome cauſes, which I ſhall hereafter aſcribe to par⯑ticular paſſions, and which may be eſteem'd too refin'd to operate ſo univerſally and cer⯑tainly, as they are found to do.

I SHALL cloſe this ſubject with a re⯑flection deriv'd from theſe five limitations. This reflection is, that the perſons, who are proudeſt, and who in the eye of the world have moſt reaſon for their pride, are not always the happieſt; nor the moſt humble always the moſt miſerable, as may at firſt ſight be imagin'd from this ſyſtem. An evil may be real, tho' its cauſe has no re⯑lation to us: It may be real, without be⯑ing peculiar: It may be real, without ſhew⯑ing itſelf to others: It may be real, with⯑out being conſtant: And it may be real, without falling under the general rules. Such evils as theſe will not fail to render us mi⯑ſerable, tho' they have little tendency to diminiſh pride: And perhaps the moſt real and the moſt ſolid evils of life will be found of this nature.

SECT. VII. Of vice and virtue.

TAKING theſe limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the cauſes of pride and humility; and ſee, whe⯑ther in every caſe we can diſcover the double relations, by which they operate on the paſ⯑ſions. If we find that all theſe cauſes are related to ſelf, and produce a pleaſure or uneaſineſs ſeparate from the paſſion, there will remain no farther ſcruple with regard to the preſent ſyſtem. We ſhall princi⯑pally endeavour to prove the latter point; the former being in a manner ſelf-evident.

TO begin with VICE and VIRTUE, which are the moſt obvious cauſes of theſe paſſions; 'twou'd be entirely foreign to my preſent purpoſe to enter upon the contro⯑verſy, which of late years has ſo much ex⯑cited the curioſity of the publick, whether theſe moral diſtinctions be founded on natural and original principles, or ariſe from inte⯑reſt and education. The examination of this I reſerve for the following book; and in the mean time ſhall endeavour to ſhow, that my ſyſtem maintains its ground upon [36] either of theſe hypotheſes; which will be a ſtrong proof of its ſolidity.

FOR granting that morality had no foun⯑dation in nature, it muſt ſtill be allow'd, that vice and virtue, either from ſelf-intereſt or the prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleaſure; and this we may obſerve to be ſtrenuouſly aſſerted by the defenders of that hypotheſis. Every paſſion, habit, or turn of character (ſay they) which has a tendency to our advantage or preju⯑dice, gives a delight or uneaſineſs; and 'tis from thence the approbation or diſ-appro⯑bation ariſes. We eaſily gain from the li⯑berality of others, but are always in danger of loſing by their avarice: Courage defends us, but cowardice lays us open to every at⯑tack: Juſtice is the ſupport of ſociety, but injuſtice, unleſs check'd, wou'd quickly prove its ruin: Humility exalts; but pride mor⯑tifies us. For theſe reaſons the former qua⯑lities are eſteem'd virtues, and the latter re⯑garded as vices. Now ſince 'tis granted there is a delight or uneaſineſs ſtill attending merit or demerit of every kind, this is all that is requiſite for my purpoſe.

BUT I go farther, and obſerve, that this moral hypotheſis and my preſent ſyſtem not only agree together, but alſo that, allow⯑ing [37] the former to be juſt, 'tis an abſolute and invincible proof of the latter. For if all morality be founded on the pain or plea⯑ſure, which ariſes from the proſpect of any loſs or advantage, that may reſult from our own characters, or from thoſe of others, all the effects of morality muſt be deriv'd from the ſame pain or pleaſure, and among the reſt, the paſſions of pride and humility. The very eſſence of virtue, according to this hypotheſis, is to produce pleaſure, and that of vice to give pain. The virtue and vice muſt be part of our character in order to excite pride or humility. What farther proof can we deſire for the double relation of impreſſions and ideas?

THE ſame unqueſtionable argument may be deriv'd from the opinion of thoſe, who maintain that morality is ſomething real, eſſential, and founded on nature. The moſt probable hypotheſis, which has been ad⯑vanc'd to explain the diſtinction betwixt vice and virtue, and the origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a pri⯑mary conſtitution of nature certain charac⯑ters and paſſions, by the very view and con⯑templation, produce a pain, and others in like manner excite a pleaſure. The uneaſi⯑neſs and ſatisfaction are not only inſeparable [38] from vice and virtue, but conſtitute their very nature and eſſence. To approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon its appearance. To diſapprove of it is to be ſenſible of an uneaſineſs. The pain and pleaſure, therefore, being the primary cauſes of vice and virtue, muſt alſo be the cauſes of all their effects, and conſequently of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that diſtinction.

BUT ſuppoſing this hypotheſis of moral philoſophy ſhou'd be allow'd to be falſe, 'tis ſtill evident, that pain and pleaſure, if not the cauſes of vice and virtue, are at leaſt inſeparable from them. A generous and noble character affords a ſatisfaction even in the ſurvey; and when preſented to us, tho' only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us. On the other hand cruelty and treachery diſpleaſe from their very nature; nor is it poſſible ever to recon⯑cile us to theſe qualities, either in ourſelves or others. Thus one hypotheſis of mora⯑lity is an undeniable proof of the foregoing ſyſtem, and the other at worſt agrees with it.

BUT pride and humility ariſe not from theſe qualities alone of the mind, which, according to the vulgar ſyſtems of ethicks, [39] have been comprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a con⯑nexion with pleaſure and uneaſineſs. No⯑thing flatters our vanity more than the ta⯑lent of pleaſing by our wit, good humour, or any other accompliſhment; and nothing gives us a more ſenſible mortification than a diſappointment in any attempt of that na⯑ture. No one has ever been able to tell what wit is, and to ſhew why ſuch a ſy⯑ſtem of thought muſt be receiv'd under that denomination, and ſuch another rejected. 'Tis only by taſte we can decide concerning it, nor are we poſſeſt of any other ſtandard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind. Now what is this taſte, from which true and falſe wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of theſe denomina⯑tions? 'Tis plainly nothing but a ſenſation of pleaſure from true wit, and of uneaſineſs from falſe, without our being able to tell the reaſons of that pleaſure or uneaſineſs. The power of beſtowing theſe oppoſite ſen⯑ſations is, therefore, the very eſſence of true and falſe wit; and conſequently the cauſe of that pride or humility, which ariſes from them.

THERE may, perhaps, be ſome, who being accuſtom'd to the ſtyle of the ſchools [40] and pulpit, and having never conſider'd hu⯑man nature in any other light, than that in which they place it, may here be ſur⯑priz'd to hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a vice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught to conſider as a virtue. But not to diſpute about words, I obſerve, that by pride I underſtand that agreeable impreſſion, which ariſes in the mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power makes us ſatisfy'd with ourſelves: And that by humility I mean the oppoſite impreſſion. 'Tis evident the former im⯑preſſion is not always vicious, nor the latter virtuous. The moſt rigid morality allows us to receive a pleaſure from reflecting on a generous action; and 'tis by none eſ⯑teem'd a virtue to feel any fruitleſs remorſes upon the thoughts of paſt villiany and baſe⯑neſs. Let us, therefore, examine theſe im⯑preſſions, conſider'd in themſelves; and en⯑quire into their cauſes, whether plac'd on the mind or body, without troubling our⯑ſelves at preſent with that merit or blame, which may attend them.

SECT. VIII. Of beauty and deformity.

WHETHER we conſider the body as a part of ourſelves, or aſſent to thoſe philoſophers, who regard it as ſome⯑thing external, it muſt ſtill be allow'd to be near enough connected with us to form one of theſe double relations, which I have aſſerted to be neceſſary to the cauſes of pride and humility. Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation of impreſſions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with aſſurance either of theſe paſſions, according as the impreſſion is pleaſant or uneaſy. But beauty of all kinds gives us a peculiar de⯑light and ſatisfaction; as deformity produces pain, upon whatever ſubject it may be plac'd, and whether ſurvey'd in an animate or in⯑animate object. If the beauty or deformity, therefore, be plac'd upon our own bodies, this pleaſure or uneaſineſs muſt be con⯑verted into pride or humility, as having in this caſe all the circumſtances requiſite to produce a perfect tranſition of impreſſions and ideas. Theſe oppoſite ſenſations are re⯑lated to the oppoſite paſſions. The beauty [42] or deformity is cloſely related to ſelf, the object of both theſe paſſions. No wonder, then our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of humility.

BUT this effect of perſonal and bodily qualities is not only a proof of the preſent ſyſtem, by ſhewing that the paſſions ariſe not in this caſe without all the circum⯑ſtances I have requir'd, but may be employ'd as a ſtronger and more convincing argument. If we conſider all the hypotheſes, which have been form'd either by philoſophy or common reaſon, to explain the difference be⯑twixt beauty and deformity, we ſhall find that all of them reſolve into this, that beau⯑ty is ſuch an order and conſtruction of parts, as either by the primary conſtitution of our nature, by cuſtom, or by caprice, is fitted to give a pleaſure and ſatisfaction to the ſoul. This is the diſtinguiſhing cha⯑racter of beauty, and forms all the diffe⯑rence betwixt it and deformity, whoſe na⯑tural tendency is to produce uneaſineſs. Pleaſure and pain, therefore, are not only neceſſary attendants of beauty and defor⯑mity, but conſtitute their very eſſence. And indeed, if we conſider, that a great part of the beauty, which we admire either in ani⯑mals or in other objects, is deriv'd from the [43] idea of convenience and utility, we ſhall make no ſcruple to aſſent to this opinion. That ſhape, which produces ſtrength, is beautiful in one animal; and that which is a ſign of agility in another. The order and convenience of a palace are no leſs eſſential to its beauty, than its mere figure and ap⯑pearance. In like manner the rules of ar⯑chitecture require, that the top of a pillar ſhou'd be more ſlender than its baſe, and that becauſe ſuch a figure conveys to us the idea of ſecurity, which is pleaſant; where⯑as the contrary form gives us the apprehen⯑ſion of danger, which is uneaſy. From in⯑numerable inſtances of this kind, as well as from conſidering that beauty like wit, cannot be defin'd, but is diſcern'd only by a taſte or ſenſation, we may conclude, that beauty is nothing but a form, which pro⯑duces pleaſure, as deformity is a ſtructure of parts, which conveys pain; and ſince the power of producing pain and pleaſure make in this manner the eſſence of beauty and deformity, all the effects of theſe qualities muſt be deriv'd from the ſenſation; and a⯑mong the reſt pride and humility, which of all their effects are the moſt common and remarkable.

[44] THIS argument I eſteem juſt and deci⯑ſive; but in order to give greater authori⯑ty to the preſent reaſoning, let us ſuppoſe it falſe for a moment, and ſee what will follow. 'Tis certain, then, that if the power of pro⯑ducing pleaſure and pain forms not the eſſence of beauty and deformity, the ſenſations are at leaſt inſeparable from the qualities, and 'tis even difficult to conſider them apart. Now there is nothing common to natural and moral beauty, (both of which are the cauſes of pride) but this power of producing plea⯑ſure; and as a common effect ſuppoſes always a common cauſe, 'tis plain the pleaſure muſt in both caſes be the real and influencing cauſe of the paſſion. Again; there is no⯑thing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and the beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has a near relation to ourſelves, which is wanting in the other. This original difference, there⯑fore, muſt be the cauſe of all their other differences, and among the reſt, of their dif⯑ferent influence upon the paſſion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our per⯑ſon, but is not affected in the leaſt by that of foreign and external objects. Placing, then, theſe two concluſions together, we find they compoſe the preceding ſyſtem betwixt [45] them, viz. that pleaſure, as a related or re⯑ſembling impreſſion, when plac'd on a re⯑lated object, by a natural tranſition, pro⯑duces pride; and its contrary, humility. This ſyſtem, then, ſeems already ſufficient⯑ly confirm'd by experience; tho' we have not yet exhauſted all our arguments.

'TIS not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but alſo its ſtrength and force. Strength is a kind of power; and therefore the deſire to excel in ſtrength is to be conſider'd as an inferior ſpecies of am⯑bition. For this reaſon the preſent phaeno⯑menon will be ſufficiently accounted for, in explaining that paſſion.

CONCERNING all other bodily accom⯑pliſhments we may obſerve in general, that whatever in ourſelves is either uſeful, beau⯑tiful, or ſurpriſing, is an object of pride; and it's contrary, of humility. Now 'tis obvious, that every thing uſeful, beautiful or ſurpriſing, agrees in producing a ſeparate pleaſure, and agrees in nothing elſe. The pleaſure, therefore, with the relation to ſelf muſt be the cauſe of the paſſion.

THO' it ſhou'd be queſtion'd, whether beauty be not ſomething real, and different from the power of producing pleaſure, it can never be diſputed, that as ſurprize is no⯑thing [46] but a pleaſure ariſing from novelty, it is not, properly ſpeaking, a quality in any object, but merely a paſſion or impreſſion in the ſoul. It muſt, therefore, be from that impreſſion, that pride by a natural tran⯑ſition ariſes. And it ariſes ſo naturally, that there is nothing in us or belonging to us, which produces ſurprize, that does not at the ſame time excite that other paſſion. Thus we are vain of the ſurpriſing adventures we have met with, the eſcapes we have made, and dangers we have been expos'd to. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men with⯑out any intereſt, and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, which are either the fictions of their brain, or if true, have at leaſt no connexion with themſelves. Their fruitful invention ſupplies them with a variety of adventures; and and where that talent is wanting, they ap⯑propriate ſuch as belong to others, in order to ſatisfy their vanity.

IN this phaenomenon are contain'd two curious experiments, which if we compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we judge of cauſe and effect in anatomy, natural philoſophy, and other ſciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the double relations above⯑mention'd. [47] By one of theſe experiments we find, that an object produces pride mere⯑ly by the interpoſition of pleaſure; and that becauſe the quality, by which it produces pride, is in reality nothing but the power of producing pleaſure. By the other experi⯑ment we find, that the pleaſure produces the pride by a tranſition along related ideas; be⯑cauſe when we cut off that relation the paſ⯑ſion is immediately deſtroy'd. A ſurpriſing adventure, in which we have been ourſelves engag'd, is related to us, and by that means produces pride: But the adventures of o⯑thers, tho' they may cauſe pleaſure, yet for want of this relation of ideas, never excite that paſſion. What farther proof can be deſired for the preſent ſyſtem?

THERE is only one objection to this ſyſtem with regard to our body; which is, that tho' nothing be more agreeable than health, and more painful than ſick⯑neſs, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one, nor mortify'd with the other. This will eaſily be accounted for, if we conſider the ſecond and fourth limitations, propos'd to our general ſyſtem. It was obſerv'd, that no object ever produces pride or humility, if it has not ſomething pe⯑culiar [48] to ourſelf; as alſo, that every cauſe of that paſſion muſt be in ſome meaſure conſtant, and hold ſome proportion to the duration of ourſelf, which is its object. Now as health and ſickneſs vary inceſ⯑ſantly to all men, and there is none, who is ſolely or certainly fix'd in either, theſe accidental bleſſings and calamities are in a manner ſeparated from us, and are never conſider'd as connected with our be⯑ing and exiſtence. And that this account is juſt appears hence, that wherever a ma⯑lady of any kind is ſo rooted in our con⯑ſtitution, that we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it be⯑comes an object of humility; as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the conſideration of their age and in⯑firmities. They endeavour, as long as poſ⯑ſible, to conceal their blindneſs and deaf⯑neſs, their rheums and gouts; nor do they ever confeſs them without reluctance and uneaſineſs. And tho' young men are not aſham'd of every head-ach or cold they fall into, yet no topic is ſo proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our lives ſubject to [49] ſuch infirmities. This ſufficiently proves that bodily pain and ſickneſs are in themſelves proper cauſes of humility; tho' the cuſtom of eſtimating every thing by compariſon more than by its intrinſic worth and value, makes us overlook theſe calamities, which we find to be incident to every one, and cauſes us to form an idea of our merit and character independent of them.

WE are aſham'd of ſuch maladies as af⯑fect others, and are either dangerous or diſ⯑agreeable to them. Of the epilepſy; be⯑cauſe it gives a horror to every one preſent: Of the itch; becauſe it is infectious: Of the king's-evil; becauſe it commonly goes to poſterity. Men always conſider the ſen⯑timents of others in their judgment of themſelves. This has evidently appear'd in ſome of the foregoing reaſonings; and will appear ſtill more evidently, and be more fully explain'd afterwards.

SECT. IX. Of external advantages and diſad⯑vantages.

BUT tho' pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, that is ſelf, for their natural and more immediate cauſes, we find by experience, that there are many other objects, which produce theſe affections, and that the primary one is, in ſome meaſure, obſcur'd and loſt by the mul⯑tiplicity of foreign and extrinſic. We found a vanity upon houſes, gardens, equipages, as well as upon perſonal merit and accom⯑pliſhments; and tho' theſe external advan⯑tages be in themſelves widely diſtant from thought or a perſon, yet they conſiderably influence even a paſſion, which is directed to that as its ultimate object. This happens when external objects acquire any particular relation to ourſelves, and are aſſociated or connected with us. A beautiful fiſh in the ocean, an animal in a deſart, and in⯑deed any thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qua⯑lities [51] it may be endow'd with, and what⯑ever degree of ſurprize and admiration it may naturally occaſion. It muſt be ſome way aſſociated with us in order to touch our pride. Its idea muſt hang in a manner, upon that of ourſelves; and the tranſition from the one to the other muſt be eaſy and natural.

BUT here 'tis remarkable, that tho' the relation of reſemblance operates upon the mind in the ſame manner as contiguity and cauſation, in conveying us from one idea to another, yet 'tis ſeldom a foundation either of pride or of humility. If we reſemble a perſon in any of the valuable parts of his character, we muſt, in ſome degree, poſſeſs the quality, in which we reſemble him; and this quality we always chuſe to ſurvey directly in ourſelves rather than by re⯑flexion in another perſon, when we wou'd found upon it any degree of vanity. So that tho' a likeneſs may occaſionally produce that paſſion by ſuggeſting a more advan⯑tageous idea of ourſelves, 'tis there the view fixes at laſt, and the paſſion finds its ultimate and final cauſe.

THERE are inſtances, indeed, wherein men ſhew a vanity in reſembling a great man in his countenance, ſhape, air, or other [52] minute circumſtances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation; but it muſt be confeſs'd, that this extends not very far, nor is of any conſiderable moment in theſe affections. For this I aſſign the following reaſon. We can never have a vanity of re⯑ſembling in trifles any perſon, unleſs he be poſſeſs'd of very ſhining qualities, which give us a reſpect and veneration for him. Theſe qualities, then, are, properly ſpeak⯑ing, the cauſes of our vanity, by means of their relation to ourſelves. Now after what manner are they related to ourſelves? They are parts of the perſon we value, and con⯑ſequently connected with theſe trifles; which are alſo ſuppos'd to be parts of him. Theſe trifles are connected with the reſembling qua⯑lities in us; and theſe qualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and by that means form a chain of ſeveral links betwixt ourſelves and the ſhining qualities of the perſon we reſemble. But beſides that this multitude of relations muſt weaken the connexion; 'tis evident the mind, in paſſing from the ſhining qualities to the tri⯑vial ones, muſt by that contraſt the better perceive the minuteneſs of the latter, and be in ſome meaſure aſham'd of the compa⯑riſon and reſemblance.

[53] THE relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of cauſation, betwixt the cauſe and object of pride and humility, is alone requi⯑ſite to give riſe to theſe paſſions; and theſe relations are nothing elſe but qualities, by which the imagination is convey'd from one idea to another. Now let us conſider what effect theſe can poſſibly have upon the mind, and by what means they become ſo requiſite to the production of the paſſions. 'Tis evident, that the aſſociation of ideas operates in ſo ſilent and imperceptible a manner, that we are ſcarce ſenſible of it, and diſcover it more by its effects than by any immediate feeling or perception. It produces no emotion, and gives riſe to no new im⯑preſſion of any kind, but only modifies thoſe ideas, of which the mind was formerly poſſeſs'd, and which it cou'd recal upon oc⯑caſion. From this reaſoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may con⯑clude, that an aſſociation of ideas, however neceſſary, is not alone ſufficient to give riſe to any paſſion.

'TIS evident, then, that when the mind feels the paſſion either of pride or humility upon the appearance of a related object, there is, beſide the relation or tranſition of thought, an emotion or original impreſſion produc'd [54] by ſome other principle. The queſtion is, whether the emotion firſt produc'd be the paſſion itſelf, or ſome other impreſſion rela⯑ted to it. This queſtion we cannot be long in deciding. For beſides all the other argu⯑ments, with which this ſubject abounds, it muſt evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which experience ſhews to be ſo re⯑quiſite a circumſtance to the production of the paſſion, wou'd be entirely ſuperflu⯑ous, were it not to ſecond a relation of af⯑fections, and facilitate the tranſition from one impreſſion to another. If nature pro⯑duc'd immediately the paſſion of pride or humility, it wou'd be compleated in it⯑ſelf, and wou'd require no farther addition or encreaſe from any other affection. But ſuppoſing the firſt emotion to be only rela⯑ted to pride or humility, 'tis eaſily con⯑ceiv'd to what purpoſe the relation of objects may ſerve, and how the two different aſſo⯑ciations, of impreſſions and ideas, by uniting their forces, may aſſiſt each other's opera⯑tion. This is not only eaſily conceiv'd, but I will venture to affirm 'tis the only man⯑ner, in which we can conceive this ſubject. An eaſy tranſition of ideas, which, of itſelf, cauſes no emotion, can never be neceſſary, or even uſeful to the paſſions, but by for⯑warding [55] the tranſition betwixt ſome related impreſſions. Not to mention, that the ſame object cauſes a greater or ſmaller de⯑gree of pride, not only in proportion to the encreaſe or decreaſe of its qualities, but al⯑ſo to the diſtance or nearneſs of the rela⯑lation; which is a clear argument for the tranſition of affections along the relation of ideas; ſince every change in the relation produces a proportionable change in the paſ⯑ſion. Thus one part of the preceding ſyſ⯑tem, concerning the relations of ideas is a ſufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impreſſions; and is itſelf ſo evidently founded on experience, that 'twou'd be loſt time to endeavour farther to prove it.

THIS will appear ſtill more evidently in particular inſtances. Men are vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their pariſh. Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleaſure. This pleaſure is related to pride. The object or cauſe of this pleaſure is, by the ſuppoſition, related to ſelf, or the object of pride. By this double relation of impreſſions and ideas, a tranſi⯑tion is made from the one impreſſion to the other.

MEN are alſo vain of the temperature of the climate, in which they were born; of [56] the fertility of their native ſoil; of the good⯑neſs of the wines, fruits or victuals, produc'd by it; of the ſoftneſs or force of their language; with other particulars of that kind. Theſe objects have plainly a reference to the plea⯑ſures of the ſenſes, and are originally con⯑ſider'd as agreeable to the feeling, taſte or hearing. How is it poſſible they cou'd ever become objects of pride, except by means of that tranſition above-explain'd?

THERE are ſome, that diſcover a vanity of an oppoſite kind, and affect to depre⯑ciate their own country, in compariſon of thoſe, to which they have travell'd. Theſe perſons find, when they are at home, and ſurrounded with their countrymen, that the ſtrong relation betwixt them and their own nation is ſhar'd with ſo many, that 'tis in a manner loſt to them; whereas their diſtant relation to a foreign country, which is form'd by their having ſeen it and liv'd in it, is augmented by their conſidering how few there are who have done the ſame. For this reaſon they always admire the beauty, utility and rarity of what is a⯑broad, above what is at home.

SINCE we can be vain of a country, climate or any inanimate object, which bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we are vain [57] of the qualities of thoſe, who are connected with us by blood or friendſhip. Accord⯑ingly we find, that the very ſame qualities, which in ourſelves produce pride, produce alſo in a leſſer degree the ſame affection, when diſcover'd in perſons related to us. The beauty, addreſs, merit, credit and honours of their kindred are carefully diſplay'd by the proud, as ſome of their moſt conſidera⯑ble ſources of their vanity.

AS we are proud of riches in ourſelves, ſo to ſatisfy our vanity we deſire that every one, who has any connexion with us, ſhou'd likewiſe be poſſeſt of them, and are aſham'd of any one, that is mean or poor, among our friends and relations. For this reaſon we remove the poor as far from us as poſ⯑ſible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in ſome diſtant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our neareſt relations; upon this account every one affects to be of a good family, and to be deſcended from a long ſucceſſion of rich and honourable anceſ⯑tors.

I HAVE frequently obſerv'd, that thoſe, who boaſt of the antiquity of their fami⯑lies, are glad when they can join this cir⯑cumſtance, that their anceſtors for many ge⯑nerations have been uninterrupted proprie⯑tors [58] of the ſame portion of land, and that their family has never chang'd its poſſeſſions, or been tranſplanted into any other county or province. I have alſo obſerv'd, that 'tis an additional ſubject of vanity, when they can boaſt, that theſe poſſeſſions have been tranſmitted thro' a deſcent compos'd entire⯑ly of males, and that the honours and for⯑tune have never paſt thro' any female. Let us endeavour to explain theſe phaenomena by the foregoing ſyſtem.

'TIS evident, that when any one boaſts of the antiquity of his family, the ſubjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number of anceſtors, but alſo their riches and credit, which are ſuppos'd to re⯑flect a luſtre on himſelf on account of his relation to them. He firſt conſiders theſe objects; is affected by them in an agreeable manner; and then returning back to him⯑ſelf, thro' the relation of parent and child, is elevated with the paſſion of pride, by means of the double relation of impreſſions and ideas. Since therefore the paſſion de⯑pends on theſe relations, whatever ſtrengthens any of the relations muſt alſo encreaſe the paſſion, and whatever weakens the relations muſt diminiſh the paſſion. Now 'tis cer⯑tain the identity of the poſſeſſion ſtrengthens [59] the relation of ideas ariſing from blood and kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one generation to another, from the remoteſt anceſtors to their poſterity, who are both their heirs and their deſcend⯑ants. By this facility the impreſſion is tranſ⯑mitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity.

THE caſe is the ſame with the tranſ⯑miſſion of the honours and fortune thro' a ſucceſſion of males without their paſſing thro' any female. 'Tis a quality of human na⯑ture, which we ſhall conſider ^* afterwards, that the imagination naturally turns to what⯑ever is important and conſiderable; and where two objects are preſented to it, a ſmall and a great one, uſually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the latter. As in the ſociety of marriage, the male ſex has the advantage above the female, the huſband firſt engages our attention; and whether we conſider him directly, or reach him by paſſing thro' related objects, the thought both reſts upon him with greater ſatisfac⯑tion, and arrives at him with greater fa⯑cility than his conſort. 'Tis eaſy to ſee, that this property muſt ſtrengthen the child's relation to the father, and weaken that to [60] the mother. For as all relations are nothing but a propenſity to paſs from one idea to another, whatever ſtrengthens the propen⯑ſity ſtrengthens the relation; and as we have a ſtronger propenſity to paſs from the idea of the children to that of the father, than from the ſame idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the former relation as the cloſer and more conſiderable. This is the reaſon why children commonly bear their father's name, and are eſteem'd to be of nobler or baſer birth, according to his fa⯑mily. And tho' the mother ſhou'd be poſ⯑ſeſt of a ſuperior ſpirit and genius to the father, as often happens, the general rule prevails, notwithſtanding the exception, ac⯑cording to the doctrine above-explain'd. Nay even when a ſuperiority of any kind is ſo great, or when any other reaſons have ſuch an effect, as to make the children rather repreſent the mother's family than the father's, the gene⯑ral rule ſtill retains ſuch an efficacy that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of break in the line of anceſtors. The ima⯑gination runs not along them with facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and cre⯑dit of the anceſtors to their poſterity of the ſame name and family ſo readily, as when the tranſition is conformable to the general [61] rules, and paſſes from father to ſon, or from brother to brother.

SECT. X. Of property and riches.

BUT the relation, which is eſteem'd the cloſeſt, and which of all others produces moſt commonly the paſſion of pride, is that of property. This relation 'twill be impoſſible for me fully to ex⯑plain before I come to treat of juſtice and the other moral virtues. 'Tis ſuffi⯑cient to obſerve on this occaſion, that pro⯑perty may be defin'd, ſuch a relation be⯑twixt a perſon and an object as permits him, but forbids any other, the free uſe and poſ⯑ſeſſion of it, without violating the laws of juſtice and moral equity. If juſtice, there⯑fore, be a virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind, pro⯑perty may be look'd upon as a particular ſpe⯑cies of cauſation; whether we conſider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate as he pleaſe upon the object, or the advantages, which he reaps from it. 'Tis the ſame caſe, if juſtice, according to the ſyſtem of certain philoſophers, ſhou'd be eſteem'd an [62] artificial and not a natural virtue. For then honour, and cuſtom, and civil laws ſupply the place of natural conſcience, and produce, in ſome degree, the ſame effects. This in the mean time is certain, that the men⯑tion of the property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the pro⯑prietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation of ideas is all that is requiſite to our preſent purpoſe. A relation of ideas, join'd to that of impreſſions, al⯑ways produces a tranſition of affections; and therefore, whenever any pleaſure or pain a⯑riſes from an object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, that either pride or humility muſt ariſe from this conjunction of relations; if the foregoing ſyſtem be ſolid and ſatisfactory. And whether it be ſo or not, we may ſoon ſatisfy ourſelves by the moſt curſory view of human life.

EVERY thing belonging to a vain man is the beſt that is any where to be found. His houſes, equipage, furniture, cloaths, horſes, hounds, excel all others in his con⯑ceit; and 'tis eaſy to obſerve, that from the leaſt advantage in any of theſe, he draws a new ſubject of pride and vanity. His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more ex⯑quiſite; [63] his table more orderly; his ſervants more expert; the air, in which he lives, more healthful; the ſoil he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier and to greater perfection: Such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; ſuch another for its antiquity: This is the workmanſhip of a famous artiſt; that belong'd once to ſuch a prince or great man: All objects, in a word, that are uſeful, beautiful ot ſurprizing, or are related to ſuch, may, by means of property, give riſe to this paſſion. Theſe agree in giving pleaſure, and agree in nothing elſe. This alone is com⯑mon to them; and therefore muſt be the quality that produces the paſſion, which is their common effect. As every new in⯑ſtance is a new argument, and as the in⯑ſtances are here without number, I may venture to affirm, that ſcarce any ſyſtem was ever ſo fully prov'd by experience, as that which I have here advanc'd.

IF the property of any thing, that gives pleaſure either by its utility, beauty or no⯑velty, produces alſo pride by a double re⯑lation of impreſſions and ideas; we need not be ſurpriz'd, that the power of acquiring this property, ſhou'd have the ſame effect. Now riches are to be conſider'd as the power of acquiring the property of what pleaſes; [64] and 'tis only in this view they have any influence on the paſſions. Paper will, on many occaſions, be conſider'd as riches, and that becauſe it may convey the power of acquiring money: And money is not riches, as it is a metal endow'd with certain qua⯑lities of ſolidity, weight and fuſibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleaſures and conveniences of life. Taking then this for granted, which is in itſelf ſo evident, we may draw from it one of the ſtrongeſt argu⯑ments I have yet employ'd to prove the in⯑fluence of the double relations on pride and humility.

IT has been obſerv'd in treating of the underſtanding, that the diſtinction, which we ſometimes make betwixt a power and the exerciſe of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any other being ought ever to be thought poſſeſt of any ability, unleſs it be exerted and put in action. But tho' this be ſtrictly true in a juſt and philoſophi⯑cal way of thinking, 'tis certain it is not the philoſophy of our paſſions; but that many things operate upon them by means of the idea and ſuppoſition of power, independent of its actual exerciſe. We are pleas'd when we acquire an ability of procuring pleaſure, and are diſpleas'd when another acquires a [65] power of giving pain. This is evident from experience; but in order to give a juſt ex⯑plication of the matter, and account for this ſatisfaction and uneaſineſs, we muſt weigh the following reflections.

'TIS evident the error of diſtinguiſhing power from its exerciſe proceeds not entire⯑ly from the ſcholaſtic doctrine of free-will, which, indeed, enters very little into com⯑mon life, and has but ſmall influence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. Ac⯑cording to that doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our power of performing or forbearing any action. But according to common notions a man has no power, where very conſiderable motives lie betwixt him and the ſatisfaction of his de⯑ſires, and determine him to forbear what he wiſhes to perform. I do not think I have fallen into my enemies power, when I ſee him paſs me in the ſtreets with a ſword by his ſide, while I am unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil magiſtrate is as ſtrong a reſtraint as any of iron, and that I am in as perfect ſafety as if he were chain'd or impriſon'd. But when a perſon acquires ſuch an autho⯑rity over me, that not only there is no ex⯑ternal obſtacle to his actions; but alſo that [66] he may puniſh or reward me as he pleaſes, without any dread of puniſhment in his turn, I then attribute a full power to him, and conſider myſelf as his ſubject or vaſſal.

NOW if we compare theſe two caſes, that of a perſon, who has very ſtrong mo⯑tives of intereſt or ſafety to forbear any ac⯑tion, and that of another, who lies under no ſuch obligation, we ſhall find, according to the philoſophy explain'd in the foregoing book, that the only known difference be⯑twixt them lies in this, that in the former caſe we conclude from paſt experience, that the perſon never will perform that action, and in the latter, that he poſſibly or pro⯑bably will perform it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconſtant on many occa⯑ſions, than the will of man; nor is there any thing but ſtrong motives, which can give us an abſolute certainty in pronounc⯑ing concerning any of his future actions. When we ſee a perſon free from theſe mo⯑tives, we ſuppoſe a poſſibility either of his acting or forbearing; and tho' in general we may conclude him to be determin'd by motives and cauſes, yet this removes not the uncertainty of our judgment concerning theſe cauſes, nor the influence of that un⯑certainty on the paſſions. Since therefore [67] we aſcribe a power of performing an action to every one, who has no very powerful motive to forbear it, and refuſe it to ſuch as have; it may juſtly be concluded, that power has always a reference to its ex⯑erciſe, either actual or probable, and that we conſider a perſon as endow'd with any abi⯑lity when we find from paſt experience, that 'tis probable, or at leaſt poſſible he may exert it. And indeed, as our paſſions al⯑ways regard the real exiſtence of objects, and we always judge of this reality from paſt inſtances; nothing can be more likely of itſelf, without any farther reaſoning, than that power conſiſts in the poſſibility or pro⯑bability of any action, as diſcover'd by ex⯑perience and the practice of the world.

NOW 'tis evident, that wherever a perſon is in ſuch a ſituation with regard to me, that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from injuring me, and conſequently 'tis uncertain whether he will injure me or not, I muſt be uneaſy in ſuch a ſituation, and cannot conſider the poſſibility or probabi⯑lity of that injury without a ſenſible con⯑cern. The paſſions are not only affected by ſuch events as are certain and infallible, but alſo in an inferior degree by ſuch as are poſſible and contingent. And tho' per⯑haps [68] I never really feel any harm, and diſcover by the event, that, philoſophically ſpeaking, the perſon never had any power of harming me; ſince he did not exert any; this prevents not my uneaſineſs from the preceding uncertainty. The agreeable paſ⯑ſions may here operate as well as the un⯑eaſy, and convey a pleaſure when I per⯑ceive a good to become either poſſible or probable by the poſſibility or probability of another's beſtowing it on me, upon the re⯑moval of any ſtrong motives, which might formerly have hinder'd him.

BUT we may farther obſerve, that this ſatisfaction encreaſes, when any good ap⯑proaches in ſuch a manner that it is in one's own power to take or leave it, and there neither is any phyſical impediment, nor any very ſtrong motive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men deſire pleaſure, nothing can be more probable, than its exiſtence when there is no external obſtacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger in fol⯑lowing their inclinations. In that caſe their imagination eaſily anticipates the ſatisfac⯑tion, and conveys the ſame joy, as if they were perſwaded of its real and actual ex⯑iſtence.

[69] BUT this accounts not ſufficiently for the ſatisfaction, which attends riches. A miſer receives delight from his money; that is, from the power it affords him of procuring all the pleaſures and conveniences of life, tho' he knows he has enjoy'd his riches for forty years without ever employing them; and conſequently cannot conclude by any ſpecies of reaſoning, that the real exiſtence of theſe pleaſures is nearer, than if he were entirely depriv'd of all his poſſeſſions. But tho' he cannot form any ſuch concluſion in a way of reaſoning concerning the nearer approach of the pleaſure, 'tis certain he imagines it to approach nearer, whenever all external obſtacles are remov'd, along with the more powerful motives of intereſt and danger, which oppoſe it. For farther ſatiſ⯑faction on this head I muſt refer to my ac⯑count of the will, where I ſhall ^* explain that falſe ſenſation of liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing, that is not very dangerous or deſtructive. Whenever any other perſon is under no ſtrong obligations of intereſt to forbear any pleaſure, we judge from experience, that the pleaſure will exiſt, and that he will pro⯑bably obtain it. But when ourſelves are [70] in that ſituation, we judge from an illuſion of the fancy, that the pleaſure is ſtill cloſer and more immediate. The will ſeems to move eaſily every way, and caſts a ſha⯑dow or image of itſelf, even to that ſide, on which it did not ſettle. By means of this image the enjoyment ſeems to approach nearer to us, and gives us the ſame lively ſatisfaction, as if it were perfectly certain and unavoidable.

'TWILL now be eaſy to draw this whole reaſoning to a point, and to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their poſſeſſors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by means of a double relation of impreſ⯑ſions and ideas. The very eſſence of riches conſiſts in the power of procuring the plea⯑ſures and conveniences of life. The very eſſence of this power conſiſts in the proba⯑bility of its exerciſe, and in its cauſing us to anticipate, by a true or falſe reaſoning, the real exiſtence of the pleaſure. This an⯑ticipation of pleaſure is, in itſelf, a very con⯑ſiderable pleaſure; and as its cauſe is ſome poſſeſſion or property, which we enjoy, and which is thereby related to us, we here clearly ſee all the parts of the foregoing ſyſtem moſt exactly and diſtinctly drawn out before us.

[71] FOR the ſame reaſon, that riches cauſe pleaſure and pride, and poverty excites un⯑eaſineſs and humility, power muſt produce the former emotions, and ſlavery the latter. Power or an authority over others makes us capable of ſatisfying all our deſires; as ſla⯑very, by ſubjecting us to the will of others, expoſes us to a thouſand wants, and mortifi⯑cations.

'TIS here worth obſerving, that the va⯑nity of power, or ſhame of ſlavery, are much augmented by the conſideration of the perſons, over whom we exerciſe our au⯑thority, or who exerciſe it over us. For ſup⯑poſing it poſſible to frame ſtatues of ſuch an admirable mechaniſm, that they cou'd move and act in obedience to the will; 'tis evident the poſſeſſion of them wou'd give pleaſure and pride, but not to ſuch a de⯑gree, as the ſame authority, when exerted over ſenſible and rational creatures, whoſe condition, being compar'd to our own, makes it ſeem more agreeable and honourable. Compariſon is in every caſe a ſure method of augmenting our eſteem of any thing. A rich man feels the felicity of his condi⯑tion better by oppoſing it to that of a beg⯑gar. But there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contraſt, which is, in a man⯑ner, [72] preſented to us, betwixt ourſelves and the perſon we command. The compariſon is obvious and natural: The imagination finds it in the very ſubject: The paſſage of the thought to its conception is ſmooth and eaſy. And that this circumſtance has a conſiderable effect in augmenting its influ⯑ence, will appear afterwards in examining the nature of malice and envy.

SECT. XI. Of the love of fame.

BUT beſide theſe original cauſes of pride and humility, there is a ſecon⯑dary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence on the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name are conſiderations of vaſt weight and impor⯑tance; and even the other cauſes of pride; virtue, beauty and riches; have little influ⯑ence, when not ſeconded by the opinions and ſentiments of others. In order to ac⯑count for this phaenomenon 'twill be neceſ⯑ſary to take ſome compaſs, and firſt explain the nature of ſympathy.

NO quality of human nature is more re⯑markable, both in itſelf and in its conſe⯑quences, [73] than that propenſity we have to ſympathize with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and ſenti⯑ments, however different from, or even contrary to our own. This is not only conſpicuous in children, who implicitly em⯑brace every opinion propos'd to them; but alſo in men of the greateſt judgment and underſtanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reaſon or inclination, in oppoſition to that of their friends and daily companions. To this principle we ought to aſcribe the great uniformity we may obſerve in the humours and turn of thinking of thoſe of the ſame nation; and 'tis much more probable, that this reſemblance ariſes from ſympathy, than from any influence of the ſoil and climate, which, tho' they continue invariably the ſame, are not able to preſerve the character of a nation the ſame for a century together. A good-natur'd man finds himſelf in an inſtant of the ſame hu⯑mour with his company; and even the proudeſt and moſt ſurly take a tincture from their countrymen and acquaintance. A chearful countenance infuſes a ſenſible com⯑placency and ſerenity into my mind; as an angry or ſorrowful one throws a ſudden damp upon me. Hatred, reſentment, eſ⯑teem, [74] love, courage, mirth and melancho⯑ly; all theſe paſſions I feel more from com⯑munication than from my own natural tem⯑per and diſpoſition. So remarkable a phae⯑nomenon merits our attention, and muſt be trac'd up to its firſt principles.

WHEN any affection is infus'd by ſym⯑pathy, it is at firſt known only by its ef⯑fects, and by thoſe external ſigns in the countenance and converſation, which con⯑vey an idea of it. This idea is preſently converted into an impreſſion, and acquires ſuch a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the very paſſion itſelf, and produce an equal emotion, as any original affection. However inſtantaneous this change of the idea into an impreſſion may be, it proceeds from certain views and reflections, which will not eſcape the ſtrict ſcrutiny of a philoſo⯑pher, tho' they may the perſon himſelf, who makes them.

'TIS evident, that the idea, or rather impreſſion of ourſelves is always intimately preſent with us, and that our conſciouſneſs gives us ſo lively a conception of our own perſon, that 'tis not poſſible to imagine, that any thing can in this particular go be⯑yond it. Whatever object, therefore, is related to ourſelves muſt be conceived with [75] a like vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and tho' this relation ſhou'd not be ſo ſtrong as that of cauſation, it muſt ſtill have a conſiderable influence. Reſemblance and contiguity are relations not to be neglected; eſpecially when by an inference from cauſe and effect, and by the obſervation of external ſigns, we are in⯑form'd of the real exiſtence of the object, which is reſembling or contiguous.

NOW 'tis obvious, that nature has pre⯑ſerv'd a great reſemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark any paſſion or principle in others, of which, in ſome degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourſelves. The caſe is the ſame with the fabric of the mind, as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in ſhape or ſize, their ſtructure and compoſition are in general the ſame. There is a very remarkable reſemblance, which preſerves itſelf amidſt all their varie⯑ty; and this reſemblance muſt very much contribute to make us enter into the ſenti⯑ments of others, and embrace them with facility and pleaſure. Accordingly we find, that where, beſide the general reſemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar ſimi⯑larity in our manners, or character, or [76] country, or language, it facilitates the ſym⯑pathy. The ſtronger the relation is betwixt ourſelves and any object, the more eaſily does the imagination make the tranſition, and convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we always form the idea of our own perſon.

NOR is reſemblance the only relation, which has this effect, but receives new force from other relations, that may accompany it. The ſentiments of others have little influ⯑ence, when far remov'd from us, and re⯑quire the relation of contiguity, to make them communicate themſelves entirely. The relations of blood, being a ſpecies of cauſation, may ſometimes contribute to the ſame effect; as alſo acquaintance, which operates in the ſame manner with education and cuſtom; as we ſhall ſee more fully Part II. Sect. 3. afterwards. All theſe rela⯑tions, when united together, convey the impreſſion or conſciouſneſs of our own per⯑ſon to the idea of the ſentiments or paſ⯑ſions of others, and makes us conceive them in the ſtrongeſt and moſt lively manner.

IT has been remark'd in the beginning of this treatiſe, that all ideas are borrow'd from impreſſions, and that theſe two kinds [77] of perceptions differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity, with which they ſtrike upon the ſoul. The component parts of ideas and impreſſions are preciſely alike. The manner and order of their appearance may be the ſame. The different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, the only particulars, that diſtinguiſh them: And as this difference may be remov'd, in ſome meaſure, by a relation betwixt the impreſ⯑ſions and ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of a ſentiment or paſſion, may by this means be ſo inliven'd as to become the very ſenti⯑ment or paſſion. The lively idea of any ob⯑ject always approaches its impreſſion; and 'tis certain we may feel ſickneſs and pain from the mere force of imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. But this is moſt remarkable in the opi⯑nions and affections; and 'tis there princi⯑pally that a lively idea is converted into an impreſſion. Our affections depend more upon ourſelves, and the internal operations of the mind, than any other impreſſions; for which reaſon they ariſe more naturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of them. This is the nature and cauſe of ſympathy; and 'tis after this man⯑ner we enter ſo deep into the opinions and [78] affections of others, whenever we diſcover them.

WHAT is principally remarkable in this whole affair is the ſtrong confirmation theſe phaenomena give to the foregoing ſyſtem concerning the underſtanding, and conſe⯑quently to the preſent one concerning the paſſions; ſince theſe are analogous to each other. 'Tis indeed evident, that when we ſympathize with the paſſions and ſentiments of others, theſe movements appear at firſt in our mind as mere ideas, and are conceiv'd to belong to another perſon, as we con⯑ceive any other matter of fact. 'Tis alſo evident, that the ideas of the affections of others are converted into the very impreſ⯑ſions they repreſent, and that the paſſions ariſe in conformity to the images we form of them. All this is an object of the plain⯑eſt experience, and depends not on any hy⯑potheſis of philoſophy. That ſcience can only be admitted to explain the phaenomena; tho' at the ſame time it muſt be confeſt, they are ſo clear of themſelves, that there is but little occaſion to employ it. For be⯑ſides the relation of cauſe and effect, by which we are convinc'd of the reality of the paſſion, with which we ſympathize; beſides this, I ſay, we muſt be aſſiſted by the rela⯑tions [79] of reſemblance and contiguity, in or⯑der to feel the ſympathy in its full perfec⯑tion. And ſince theſe relations can entire⯑ly convert an idea into an impreſſion, and convey the vivacity of the latter into the for⯑mer, ſo perfectly as to loſe nothing of it in the tranſition, we may eaſily conceive how the relation of cauſe and effect alone, may ſerve to ſtrengthen and inliven an idea. In ſympathy there is an evident converſion of an idea into an impreſſion. This converſion ariſes from the relation of objects to ourſelf. Ourſelf is always intimately preſent to us. Let us compare all theſe circumſtances, and we ſhall find, that ſympathy is exactly correſpon⯑dent to the operations of our underſtanding; and even contains ſomething more ſurpriſing and extraordinary.

'TIS now time to turn our view from the general conſideration of ſympathy, to its in⯑fluence on pride and humility, when theſe paſſions ariſe from praiſe and blame, from reputation and infamy. We may obſerve, that no perſon is ever prais'd by another for any quality, which wou'd not, if real, produce, of itſelf, a pride in the perſon poſ⯑ſeſt of it. The elogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, or family, or virtue; all of which are ſubjects of vanity, that we have [80] already explain'd and accounted for. 'Tis certain, then, that if a perſon conſider'd himſelf in the ſame light, in which he ap⯑pears to his admirer, he wou'd firſt receive a ſeparate pleaſure, and afterwards a pride or ſelf-ſatisfaction, according to the hypo⯑theſis above explain'd. Now nothing is more natural than for us to embrace the opinions of others in this particular; both from ſym⯑pathy, which renders all their ſentiments in⯑timately preſent to us; and from reaſoning, which makes us regard their judgment, as a kind of argument for what they affirm. Theſe two principles of authority and ſym⯑pathy influence almoſt all our opinions; but muſt have a peculiar influence, when we judge of our own worth and character. Such judgments are always attended with paſ⯑ſion Book I. Part III. Sect. 10.; and nothing tends more to diſturb our underſtanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however unreaſonable, than their connexion with paſſion; which dif⯑fuſes itſelf over the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related idea. To which we may add, that being conſcious of great partiality in our own favour, we are peculiarly pleas'd with any thing, that con⯑firms [81] the good opinion we have of ourſelves, and are eaſily ſhock'd with whatever oppoſes it.

ALL this appears very probable in theo⯑ry; but in order to beſtow a full certainty on this reaſoning, we muſt examine the phaenomena of the paſſions, and ſee if they agree with it.

AMONG theſe phaenomena we may eſ⯑teem it a very favourable one to our pre⯑ſent purpoſe, that tho' fame in general be agreeable, yet we receive a much greater ſa⯑tisfaction from the approbation of thoſe, whom we ourſelves eſteem and approve of, than of thoſe, whom we hate and deſpiſe. In like manner we are principally mortify'd with the contempt of perſons, upon whoſe judgment we ſet ſome value, and are, in a great meaſure, indifferent about the opinions of the reſt of mankind. But if the mind receiv'd from any original inſtinct a deſire of fame, and averſion to infamy, fame and in⯑famy wou'd influence us without diſtinc⯑tion; and every opinion, according as it were favourable or unfavourable, wou'd e⯑qually excite that deſire or averſion. The judgment of a fool is the judgment of ano⯑ther perſon, as well as that of a wiſe man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own judgment.

[82] WE are not only better pleas'd with the approbation of a wiſe man than with that of a fool, but receive an additional ſatis⯑faction from the former, when 'tis obtain'd after a long and intimate acquaintance. This is accounted for after the ſame manner.

THE praiſes of others never give us much pleaſure, unleſs they concur with our own opinion, and extol us for thoſe quali⯑ties, in which we chiefly excel. A mere ſoldier little values the character of eloquence: A gownman of courage: A biſhop of hu⯑mour: Or a merchant of learning. What⯑ever eſteem a man may have for any quali⯑ty, abſtractedly conſider'd; when he is con⯑ſcious he is not poſſeſt of it; the opini⯑ons of the whole world will give him lit⯑tle pleaſure in that particular, and that be⯑cauſe they never will be able to draw his own opinion after them.

NOTHING is more uſual than for men of good families, but narrow circumſtances, to leave their friends and country, and ra⯑ther ſeek their livelihood by mean and me⯑chanical employments among ſtrangers, than among thoſe, who are acquainted with their birth and education. We ſhall be unknown, ſay they, where we go. No body will ſuſpect from what family we are ſprung. We [83] ſhall be remov'd from all our friends and acquaintance, and our poverty and mean⯑neſs will by that means ſit more eaſy upon us. In examining theſe ſentiments, I find they afford many very convincing arguments for my preſent purpoſe.

FIRST, We may infer from them, that the uneaſineſs of being contemn'd depends on ſym⯑pathy, and that ſympathy depends on the rela⯑tion of objects to ourſelves; ſince we are moſt uneaſy under the contempt of perſons, who are both related to us by blood, and conti⯑guous in place. Hence we ſeek to dimi⯑niſh this ſympathy and uneaſineſs by ſepa⯑rating theſe relations, and placing ourſelves in a contiguity to ſtrangers, and at a diſ⯑tance from relations.

SECONDLY, We may conclude, that relations are requiſite to ſympathy, not ab⯑ſolutely conſider'd as relations, but by their influence in converting our ideas of the ſen⯑timents of others into the very ſentiments, by means of the aſſociation betwixt the idea of their perſons, and that of our own. For here the relations of kindred and contiguity both ſubſiſt; but not being united in the ſame perſons, they contribute in a leſs de⯑gree to the ſympathy.

[84] THIRDLY, This very circumſtance of the diminution of ſympathy by the ſepara⯑tion of relations is worthy of our attention. Suppoſe I am plac'd in a poor condition among ſtrangers, and conſequently am but lightly treated; I yet find myſelf eaſier in that ſituation, than when I was every day expos'd to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. Here I feel a double con⯑tempt; from my relations, but they are abſent; from thoſe about me, but they are ſtrangers. This double contempt is like⯑wiſe ſtrengthen'd by the two relations of kindred and contiguity. But as the per⯑ſons are not the ſame, who are connected with me by thoſe two relations, this dif⯑ference of ideas ſeparates the impreſſions ariſing from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other. The con⯑tempt of my neighbours has a certain in⯑fluence; as has alſo that of my kindred: But theſe influences are diſtinct, and never unite; as when the contempt proceeds from perſons who are at once both my neigh⯑bours and kindred. This phaenomenon is analogous to the ſyſtem of pride and hu⯑mility above-explain'd, which may ſeem ſo extraordinary to vulgar apprehenſions.

[85] FOURTHLY, A perſon in theſe circum⯑ſtances naturally conceals his birth from thoſe among whom he lives, and is very uneaſy, if any one ſuſpects him to be of a family, much ſuperior to his preſent for⯑tune and way of living. Every thing in this world is judg'd of by compariſon. What is an immenſe fortune for a private gentle⯑man is beggary for a prince. A peaſant wou'd think himſelf happy in what cannot afford neceſſaries for a gentleman. When a man has either been acuſtom'd to a more ſplendid way of living, or thinks himſelf intitled to it by his birth and quality, every thing below is diſagreeable and even ſhame⯑ful; and 'tis with the greateſt induſtry he conceals his pretenſions to a better fortune. Here he himſelf knows his misfortunes; but as thoſe, with whom he lives, are ig⯑norant of them, he has the diſagreeable reflection and compariſon ſuggeſted only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by a ſympathy with others; which muſt con⯑tribute very much to his eaſe and ſatisfaction.

IF there be any objections to this hypo⯑theſis, that the pleaſure, which we receive from praiſe, ariſes from a communication of ſentiments, we ſhall find, upon examination, that theſe objections, when taken in a pro⯑per [86] light, will ſerve to confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable even to a man, who deſpiſes the vulgar; but 'tis becauſe their multitude gives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are delighted with praiſes, which they are conſcious they do not deſerve; but this is a kind of caſtle⯑building, where the imagination amuſes it⯑ſelf with its own fictions, and ſtrives to render them firm and ſtable by a ſympathy with the ſentiments of others. Proud men are moſt ſhock'd with contempt, tho' they do not moſt readily aſſent to it; but 'tis be⯑cauſe of the oppoſition betwixt the paſſion, which is natural to them, and that receiv'd by ſympathy. A violent lover in like man⯑ner is very much diſpleas'd when you blame and condemn his love; tho' 'tis evident your oppoſition can have no influence, but by the hold it takes of himſelf, and by his ſympathy with you. If he deſpiſes you, or perceives you are in jeſt, whatever you ſay has no effect upon him.

SECT. XII. Of the pride and humility of animals.

THUS in whatever light we conſider this ſubject, we may ſtill obſerve, that the cauſes of pride and humility corre⯑ſpond exactly to our hypotheſis, and that nothing can excite either of theſe paſſions, unleſs it be both related to ourſelves, and produces a pleaſure or pain independent of the paſſion. We have not only prov'd, that a tendency to produce pleaſure or pain is com⯑mon to all the cauſes of pride or humility, but alſo that 'tis the only thing, which is common; and conſequently is the quality, by which they operate. We have farther prov'd, that the moſt conſiderable cauſes of theſe paſ⯑ſions are really nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneaſy ſenſa⯑tions; and therefore that all their effects, and amongſt the reſt, pride and humility, are deriv'd ſolely from that origin. Such ſimple and natural principles, founded on ſuch ſolid proofs, cannot fail to be receiv'd [88] by philoſophers, unleſs oppos'd by ſome ob⯑jections, that have eſcap'd me.

'TIS uſual with anatomiſts to join their obſervations and experiments on human bo⯑dies to thoſe on beaſts, and from the agree⯑ment of theſe experiments to derive an ad⯑ditional argument for any particular hypo⯑theſis. 'Tis indeed certain, that where the ſtructure of parts in brutes is the ſame as in men, and the operation of theſe parts alſo the ſame, the cauſes of that operation cannot be different, and that whatever we diſcover to be true of the one ſpecies, may be concluded without heſitation to be cer⯑tain of the other. Thus tho' the mixture of humours and the compoſition of mi⯑nute parts may juſtly be preſum'd to be ſomewhat different in men from what it is in mere animals; and therefore any expe⯑riment we make upon the one concerning the effects of medicines will not always apply to the other; yet as the ſtructure of the veins and muſcles, the fabric and ſituation of the heart, of the lungs, the ſtomach, the liver and other parts, are the ſame or nearly the ſame in all animals, the very ſame hypothe⯑ſis, which in one ſpecies explains muſcular mo⯑tion, the progreſs of the chyle, the circula⯑tion of the blood, muſt be applicable to e⯑very [89] one; and according as it agrees or diſ⯑agrees with the experiments we may make in any ſpecies of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falſhood on the whole. Let us, therefore, apply this method of en⯑quiry, which is found ſo juſt and uſeful in reaſonings concerning the body, to our preſent anatomy of the mind, and ſee what diſcoveries we can make by it.

IN order to this we muſt firſt ſhew the correſpondence of paſſions in men and ani⯑mals, and afterwards compare the cauſes, which produce theſe paſſions.

'TIS plain, that almoſt in every ſpecies of creatures, but eſpecially of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility. The very port and gait of a ſwan, or turkey, or peacock ſhow the high idea he has entertain'd of himſelf, and his contempt of all others. This is the more remarkable, that in the two laſt ſpecies of animals, the pride always attends the beauty, and is diſcover'd in the male only. The vanity and emulation of nightingales in ſing⯑ing have been commonly remark'd; as like⯑wiſe that of horſes in ſwiftneſs, of hounds in ſagacity and ſmell, of the bull and cock in ſtrength, and of every other animal in [90] his particular excellency. Add to this, that every ſpecies of creatures, which approach ſo often to man, as to familiarize themſelves with him, ſhow an evident pride in his ap⯑probation, and are pleas'd with his praiſes and careſſes, independent of every other con⯑ſideration. Nor are they the careſſes of eve⯑ry one without diſtinction, which give them this vanity, but thoſe principally of the perſons they know and love; in the ſame manner as that paſſion is excited in man⯑kind. All theſe are evident proofs, that pride and humility are not merely human paſſions, but extend themſelves over the whole animal creation.

THE cauſes of theſe paſſions are likewiſe much the ſame in beaſts as in us, making a juſt allowance for our ſuperior knowledge and underſtanding. Thus animals have little or no ſenſe of virtue or vice; they quickly loſe ſight of the relations of blood; and are incapable of that of right and property: For which reaſon the cauſes of their pride and humility muſt lie ſolely in the body, and can never be plac'd either in the mind or external objects. But ſo far as regards the body, the ſame qualities cauſe pride in the animal as in the human kind; and 'tis on beauty, ſtrength, ſwiftneſs or ſome other [91] uſeful or agreeable quality that this paſſion is always founded.

THE next queſtion is, whether, ſince thoſe paſſions are the ſame, and ariſe from the ſame cauſes thro' the whole creation, the manner, in which the cauſes operate, be alſo the ſame. According to all rules of analogy, this is juſtly to be expected; and if we find upon trial, that the explication of theſe phaenomena, which we make uſe of in one ſpecies, will not apply to the reſt, we may preſume that that explication, how⯑ever ſpecious, is in reality without foun⯑dation.

IN order to decide this queſtion, let us conſider, that there is evidently the ſame relation of ideas, and deriv'd from the ſame cauſes, in the minds of animals as in thoſe of men. A dog, that has hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his thought paſſes eaſily to what he formerly conceal'd, by means of the contiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. In like manner, when he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his ap⯑proach to it, even tho' he diſcover no ſigns of any preſent danger. The effects of re⯑ſemblance are not ſo remarkable; but as that [92] relation makes a conſiderable ingredient in cauſation, of which all animals ſhew ſo evi⯑dent a judgment, we may conclude that the three relations of reſemblance, contiguity and cauſation operate in the ſame manner upon beaſts as upon human creatures.

THERE are alſo inſtances of the relation of impreſſions, ſufficient to convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each other in the inferior ſpecies of crea⯑tures as well as in the ſuperior, and that their minds are frequently convey'd thro' a ſeries of connected emotions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into love and kindneſs, whether of his maſter or of the ſex. In like manner, when full of pain and ſorrow, he becomes quarrelſome and ill-natur'd; and that paſſion, which at firſt was grief, is by the ſmalleſt occaſion con⯑verted into anger.

THUS all the internal principles, that are neceſſary in us to produce either pride or humility, are common to all crea⯑tures; and ſince the cauſes, which excite theſe paſſions, are likewiſe the ſame, we may juſtly conclude, that theſe cauſes ope⯑rate after the ſame manner thro' the whole animal creation. My hypotheſis is ſo ſimple, [93] and ſuppoſes ſo little reflection and judge⯑ment, that 'tis applicable to every ſenſible creature; which muſt not only be allow'd to be a convincing proof of its veracity, but, I am confident, will be found an ob⯑jection to every other ſyſtem.

SECT. I. Of the object and cauſes of love and hatred.

TIS altogether impoſſible to give any definition of the paſſions of love and hatred; and that becauſe they produce merely a ſimple impreſ⯑ſion, without any mixture or compoſition. 'Twou'd be as unneceſſary to attempt any deſcription of them, drawn from their na⯑ture, origin, cauſes and objects; and that both becauſe theſe are the ſubjects of our pre⯑ſent enquiry, and becauſe theſe paſſions of themſelves are ſufficiently known from our common feeling and experience. This we have already obſerv'd concerning pride and [96] humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and indeed there is ſo great a reſemblance betwixt theſe two ſets of paſ⯑ſions, that we ſhall be oblig'd to begin with a kind of abridgment of our reaſonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter.

As the immediate object of pride and humility is ſelf or that identical perſon, of whoſe thoughts, actions, and ſenſations we are intimately conſcious; ſo the object of love and hatred is ſome other perſon, of whoſe thoughts, actions, and ſenſations we are not conſcious. This is ſufficient⯑ly evident from experience. Our love and hatred are always directed to ſome ſenſi⯑ble being external to us; and when we talk of ſelf-love, 'tis not in a proper ſenſe, nor has the ſenſation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion, which is excited by a friend or miſtreſs. 'Tis the ſame caſe with hatred. We may be mor⯑tified by our own faults and follies; but never feel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others.

BUT tho' the object of love and hatred be always ſome other perſon, 'tis plain that the object is not, properly ſpeaking, the cauſe of theſe paſſions, or alone ſufficient to [97] excite them. For ſince love and hatred are directly contrary in their ſenſation, and have the ſame object in common, if that object were alſo their cauſe, it wou'd pro⯑duce theſe oppoſite paſſions in an equal de⯑gree; and as they muſt, from the very firſt moment, deſtroy each other, none of them wou'd ever be able to make its appearance. There muſt, therefore, be ſome cauſe diffe⯑rent from the object.

IF we conſider the cauſes of love and hatred, we ſhall find they are very much diverſify'd, and have not many things in common. The virtue, knowledge, wit, good ſenſe, good humour of any perſon, produce love and eſteem; as the oppoſite qualities, hatred and contempt. The ſame paſſions ariſe from bodily accompliſhments, ſuch as beauty, force, ſwiftneſs, dexteri⯑ty; and from their contraries; as likewiſe from the external advantages and diſad⯑vantages of family, poſſeſſions, cloaths, na⯑tion and climate. There is not one of theſe objects, but what by its different qualities may produce love and eſteem, or hatred and contempt.

FROM the view of theſe cauſes we may derive a new diſtinction betwixt the quality that operates, and the ſubject on which it [98] is plac'd. A prince, that is poſſeſs'd of a ſtately palace, commands the eſteem of the people upon that account; and that firſt, by the beauty of the palace, and ſecondly, by the relation of property, which connects it with him. The removal of either of theſe de⯑ſtroys the paſſion; which evidently proves that the cauſe is a compounded one.

'TWOU'D be tedious to trace the paſſions of love and hatred, thro' all the obſervations which we have form'd concerning pride and humility, and which are equally applicable to both ſets of paſſions. 'Twill be ſufficient to remark in general, that the object of love and hatred is evidently ſome thinking perſon; and that the ſenſation of the former paſſion is always agreeable, and of the latter un⯑eaſy. We may alſo ſuppoſe with ſome ſhew of probability, that the cauſe of both theſe paſſions is always related to a thinking being, and that the cauſe of the former pro⯑duce a ſeparate pleaſure, and of the latter a ſeparate uneaſineſs.

ONE of theſe ſuppoſitions, viz. that the cauſe of love and hatred muſt be related to a perſon or thinking being, in order to produce theſe paſſions, is not only probable, but too evident to be conteſted. Virtue and vice, when conſider'd in the abſtract; beauty [99] and deformity, when plac'd on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belong⯑ing to a third perſon, excite no degree of love or hatred, eſteem or contempt to⯑wards thoſe, who have no relation to them. A perſon looking out at a window, ſees me in the ſtreet, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with which I have no concern: I believe none will pretend, that this perſon will pay me the ſame reſpect, as if I were owner of the palace.

'TIS not ſo evident at firſt ſight, that a rela⯑tion of impreſſions is requiſite to theſe paſſions, and that becauſe in the tranſition the one im⯑preſſion is ſo much confounded with the other, that they become in a manner undiſtinguiſhable. But as in pride and humility, we have eaſi⯑ly been able to make the ſeparation, and to prove, that every cauſe of theſe paſſions pro⯑duces a ſeparate pain or pleaſure, I might here obſerve the ſame method with the ſame ſucceſs, in examining particularly the ſeve⯑ral cauſes of love and hatred. But as I ha⯑ſten to a full and deciſive proof of theſe ſy⯑ſtems, I delay this examination for a mo⯑ment: And in the mean time ſhall endea⯑vour to convert to my preſent purpoſe all my reaſonings concerning pride and humi⯑lity, [100] by an argument that is founded on un⯑queſtionable experience.

THERE are few perſons, that are ſatis⯑fy'd with their own character, or genius, or fortune, who are not deſirous of ſhewing themſelves to the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now 'tis evident, that the very ſame qualities and circumſtances, which are the cauſes of pride or ſelf-eſteem, are alſo the cauſes of va⯑nity or the deſire of reputation; and that we always put to view thoſe particulars with which in ourſelves we are beſt ſatisfy'd. But if love and eſteem were not produc'd by the ſame qualities as pride, according as theſe qualities are related to ourſelves or o⯑thers, this method of proceeding wou'd be very abſurd, nor cou'd men expect a cor⯑reſpondence in the ſentiments of every o⯑ther perſon, with thoſe themſelves have en⯑tertain'd. 'Tis true, few can form exact ſyſtems of the paſſions, or make reflections on their general nature and reſemblances. But without ſuch a progreſs in philoſophy, we are not ſubject to many miſtakes in this particular, but are ſufficiently guided by common experience, as well as by a kind of preſenſation; which tells us what will o⯑perate on others, by what we feel immedi⯑ately [101] in ourſelves. Since then the ſame qualities that produce pride or humility, cauſe love or hatred; all the arguments that have been employ'd to prove, that the cauſes of the former paſſions excite a pain or pleaſure independent of the paſſion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the cauſes of the latter.

SECT. II. Experiments to confirm this ſyſtem.

UPON duly weighing theſe argu⯑ments, no one will make any ſcru⯑ple to aſſent to that concluſion I draw from them, concerning the tranſition along rela⯑ted impreſſions and ideas, eſpecially as 'tis a principle, in itſelf, ſo eaſy and natural. But that we may place this ſyſtem beyond doubt both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make ſome new experiments upon all theſe paſſions, as well as to recal a few of theſe obſervations, which I have formerly touch'd upon.

IN order to make theſe experiments, let us ſuppoſe I am in company with a perſon, whom I formerly regarded without any ſen⯑timents [102] either of friendſhip or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of all theſe four paſſions plac'd before me. My⯑ſelf am the proper object of pride or humi⯑lity; the other perſon of love or hatred.

REGARD now with attention the nature of theſe paſſions, and their ſituation with reſpect to each other. 'Tis evident here are four affections, plac'd, as it were, in a ſquare or regular connexion with, and di⯑ſtance from each other. The paſſions of pride and humility, as well as thoſe of love and hatred, are connected together by the identity of their object, which to the firſt ſet of paſſions is ſelf, to the ſecond ſome other perſon. Theſe two lines of com⯑munication or connexion form two oppo⯑ſite ſides of the ſquare. Again, pride and love are agreeable paſſions; hatred and hu⯑mility uneaſy. This ſimilitude of ſenſation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred form a new connexion, and may be conſider'd as the other two ſides of the ſquare. Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love with ha⯑tred, by their objects or ideas: Pride with love, humility with hatred, by their ſenſa⯑tions or impreſſions.

[103] I SAY then, that nothing can produce any of theſe paſſions without bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the paſſion, and of ſenſation to the paſ⯑ſion itſelf. This we muſt prove by our ex⯑periments.

FIRST EXPERIMENT. To proceed with the greater order in theſe experiments, let us firſt ſuppoſe, that being plac'd in the ſi⯑tuation above-mention'd, viz. in company with ſome other perſon, there is an object preſented, that has no relation either of impreſſions or ideas to any of theſe paſſions. Thus ſuppoſe we regard together an ordi⯑nary ſtone, or other common object, be⯑longing to neither of us, and cauſing of it⯑ſelf no emotion, or independent pain and pleaſure: 'Tis evident ſuch an object will produce none of theſe four paſſions. Let us try it upon each of them ſucceſſively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humi⯑lity, to pride; none of them ever ariſes in the ſmalleſt degree imaginable. Let us change the object, as oft as we pleaſe; pro⯑vided ſtill we chooſe one, that has neither of theſe two relations. Let us repeat the experiment in all the diſpoſitions, of which the mind is ſuſceptible. No object, in the vaſt variety of nature, will, in any diſpoſi⯑tion, [104] produce any paſſion without theſe re⯑lations.

SECOND EXPERIMENT. Since an ob⯑ject, that wants both theſe relations can ever produce any paſſion, let us beſtow on it only one of theſe relations; and ſee what will follow. Thus ſuppoſe, I regard a ſtone or any common object, that belongs either to me or my companion, and by that means acquires a relation of ideas to the ob⯑ject of the paſſions: 'Tis plain, that to con⯑ſider the matter a priori, no emotion of any kind can reaſonably be expected. For be⯑ſides, that a relation of ideas operates ſe⯑cretly and calmly on the mind, it beſtows an equal impulſe towards the oppoſite paſſions of pride and humility, love and hatred, accord⯑ing as the object belongs to ourſelves or o⯑thers; which oppoſition of the paſſions muſt deſtroy both, and leave the mind per⯑fectly free from any affection or emotion. This reaſoning a priori is confirm'd by ex⯑perience. No trivial or vulgar object, that cauſes not a pain or pleaſure, independent of the paſſion, will ever, by its property or other relations, either to ourſelves or o⯑thers, be able to produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred.

[105] THIRD EXPERIMENT. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas is not a⯑ble alone to give riſe to theſe affections. Let us now remove this relation, and in its ſtead place a relation of impreſſions, by pre⯑ſenting an object, which is agreeable or diſ⯑agreeable, but has no relation either to our⯑ſelf or companion; and let us obſerve the conſequences. To conſider the matter firſt a priori, as in the preceding experiment; we may conclude, that the object will have a ſmall, but an uncertain connexion with theſe paſſions. For beſides, that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal force to two contrary paſſions, which by their oppo⯑ſition deſtroy each other. But if we con⯑ſider, on the other hand, that this tranſition from the ſenſation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle, that produces a tranſition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that tho' the one impreſſion be eaſily transfus'd into the other, yet the change of objects is ſuppos'd contrary to all the principles, that cauſe a tranſition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will ever be a ſteady or durable cauſe of any paſſion, that is connected with the paſſion merely by a [106] relation of impreſſions. What our reaſon wou'd conclude from analogy, after bal⯑lancing theſe arguments, wou'd be, that an object, which produces pleaſure or un⯑eaſineſs, but has no manner of connexion either with ourſelves or others, may give ſuch a turn to the diſpoſition, as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility or hatred, and ſearch for other objects, up⯑on which, by a double relation, it can found theſe affections; but that an object, which has only one of theſe relations, tho' the moſt advantageous one, can never give riſe to any conſtant and eſtabliſh'd paſſion.

MOST fortunately all this reaſoning is found to be exactly conformable to expe⯑rience, and the phaenomena of the paſſions. Suppoſe I were travelling with a compa⯑nion thro' a country, to which we are both utter ſtrangers; 'tis evident, that if the pro⯑ſpects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me in⯑to good humour both with myſelf and fel⯑low-traveller. But as we ſuppoſe, that this country has no relation either to myſelf or friend, it can never be the immediate cauſe of pride or love; and therefore if I found not the paſſion on ſome other object, that bears either of us a cloſer relation, my emotions [107] are rather to be conſider'd as the overflow⯑ings of an elevate or humane diſpoſition, than as an eſtabliſh'd paſſion. The caſe is the ſame where the object produces uneaſi⯑neſs.

FOURTH EXPERIMENT. Having found, that neither an object without any relation of ideas or impreſſions, nor an object, that has only one relation, can ever cauſe pride or humility, love or hatred; reaſon alone may convince us, without any farther ex⯑periment, that whatever has a double rela⯑tion muſt neceſſarily excite theſe paſſions; ſince 'tis evident they muſt have ſome cauſe. But to leave as little room for doubt as poſ⯑ſible, let us renew our experiments, and ſee whether the event in this caſe anſwers our expectation. I chooſe an object, ſuch as virtue, that cauſes a ſeparate ſatisfaction: On this object I beſtow a relation to ſelf; and find, that from this diſpoſition of af⯑fairs, there immediately ariſes a paſſion. But what paſſion? That very one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea is related to that of ſelf, the object of the paſſion: The ſenſation it cauſes re⯑ſembles the ſenſation of the paſſion. That I may be ſure I am not miſtaken in this experiment, I remove firſt one relation; then [108] another; and find, that each removal de⯑ſtroys the paſſion, and leaves the object per⯑fectly indifferent. But I am not content with this. I make a ſtill farther trial; and inſtead of removing the relation, I only change it for one of a different kind. I ſuppoſe the virtue to belong to my compa⯑nion, not to myſelf; and obſerve what fol⯑lows from this alteration. I immediately perceive the affections wheel about, and leav⯑ing pride, where there is only one relation, viz. of impreſſions, fall to the ſide of love, where they are attracted by a double rela⯑tion of impreſſions and ideas. By repeating the ſame experiment, in changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the affections back to pride; and by a new repetition I again place them at love or kindneſs. Being fully convinc'd of the influence of this relation, I try the effects of the other; and by chang⯑ing virtue for vice, convert the pleaſant im⯑preſſion, which ariſes from the former, into the diſagreeable one, which proceeds from the latter. The effect ſtill anſwers expec⯑tation. Vice, when plac'd on another, ex⯑cites, by means of its double relations, the paſſion of hatred, inſtead of love, which for the ſame reaſon ariſes from virtue. To conti⯑nue the experiment, I change anew the relation [109] of ideas, and ſuppoſe the vice to belong to myſelf. What follows? What is uſual. A ſubſequent change of the paſſion from ha⯑tred to humility. This humility I convert into pride by a new change of the impreſ⯑ſion; and find after all that I have com⯑pleated the round, and have by theſe changes brought back the paſſion to that very ſituation, in which I firſt found it.

BUT to make the matter ſtill more cer⯑tain, I alter the object; and inſtead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity, riches and poverty, power and ſervitude. Each of theſe objects runs the circle of the paſſions in the ſame manner, by a change of their relations: And in what⯑ever order we proceed, whether thro' pride, love, hatred, humility, or thro' humility, hatred, love, pride, the experiment is not in the leaſt diverſify'd. Eſteem and con⯑tempt, indeed, ariſe on ſome occaſions in⯑ſtead of love and hatred; but theſe are at the bottom the ſame paſſions, only diver⯑ſify'd by ſome cauſes, which we ſhall ex⯑plain afterwards.

FIFTH EXPERIMENT. To give greater authority to theſe experiments, let us change the ſituation of affairs as much as poſſible, and place the paſſions and objects in all the [110] different poſitions, of which they are ſuſ⯑ceptible. Let us ſuppoſe, beſide the relations above-mention'd, that the perſon, along with whom I make all theſe experiments, is cloſely connected with me either by blood or friend⯑ſhip. He is, we ſhall ſuppoſe, my ſon or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar acquaintance. Let us next ſuppoſe, that the cauſe of the paſſion acquires a double relation of impreſſions and ideas to this perſon; and let us ſee what the ef⯑fects are of all theſe complicated attractions and relations.

BEFORE we conſider what they are in fact, let us determine what they ought to be, conformable to my hypotheſis. 'Tis plain, that, according as the impreſſion is either pleaſant or uneaſy, the paſſion of love or hatred muſt ariſe towards the perſon, who is thus connected to the cauſe of the im⯑preſſion by theſe double relations, which I have all along requir'd. The virtue of a brother muſt make me love him; as his vice or infamy muſt excite the contrary paſ⯑ſion. But to judge only from the ſituation of affairs, I ſhou'd not expect, that the af⯑fections wou'd reſt there, and never tranſ⯑fuſe themſelves into any other impreſſion. As there is here a perſon, who by means of [111] a double relation is the object of my paſ⯑ſion, the very ſame reaſoning leads me to think the paſſion will be carry'd farther. The perſon has a relation of ideas to my⯑ſelf, according to the ſuppoſition; the paſ⯑ſion, of which he is the object, by be⯑ing either agreeable or uneaſy, has a rela⯑tion of impreſſions to pride or humility. 'Tis evident, then, that one of theſe paſ⯑ſions muſt ariſe from the love or ha⯑tred.

THIS is the reaſoning I form in confor⯑mity to my hypotheſis; and am pleas'd to find upon trial that every thing anſwers ex⯑actly to my expectation. The virtue or vice of a ſon or brother not only excites love or hatred, but by a new tranſition, from ſimi⯑lar cauſes, gives riſe to pride or humility. Nothing cauſes greater vanity than any ſhin⯑ing quality in our relations; as nothing mor⯑tifies us more than their vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our reaſoning is a convincing proof of the ſo⯑lidity of that hypotheſis, upon which we reaſon.

SIXTH EXPERIMENT. This evidence will be ſtill augmented, if we reverſe the experiment, and preſerving ſtill the ſame re⯑lations, begin only with a different paſ⯑ſion. [112] Suppoſe, that inſtead of the virtue or vice of a ſon or brother, which cauſes firſt love or hatred, and afterwards pride or hu⯑mility, we place theſe good or bad qualities on ourſelves, without any immediate con⯑nexion with the perſon, who is related to us: Experience ſhews us, that by this change of ſituation the whole chain is broke, and that the mind is not convey'd from one paſ⯑ſion to another, as in the preceding inſtance. We never love or hate a ſon or brother for the virtue or vice we diſcern in ourſelves; tho' 'tis evident the ſame qualities in him give us a very ſenſible pride or humility. The tranſition from pride or humility to love or hatred is not ſo natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This may at firſt ſight be eſteem'd contrary to my hy⯑potheſis; ſince the relations of impreſſions and ideas are in both caſes preciſely the ſame. Pride and humility are impreſſions related to love and hatred. Myſelf am re⯑lated to the perſon. It ſhou'd, therefore, be expected, that like cauſes muſt produce like effects, and a perfect tranſition ariſe from the double relation, as in all other caſes. This difficulty we may eaſily ſolve by the following reflections.

[113] 'TIS evident, that as we are at all times intimately conſcious of ourſelves, our ſenti⯑ments and paſſions, their ideas muſt ſtrike upon us with greater vivacity than the ideas of the ſentiments and paſſions of any other perſon. But every thing, that ſtrikes upon us with vivacity, and appears in a full and ſtrong light, forces itſelf, in a manner, into our conſideration, and becomes preſent to the mind on the ſmalleſt hint and moſt trivial relation. For the ſame reaſon, when it is once preſent, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other ob⯑jects, however ſtrong may be their relation to our firſt object. The imagination paſſes eaſily from obſcure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from lively to obſcure. In the one caſe the relation is aided by another prin⯑ciple: In the other caſe, 'tis oppos'd by it.

Now I have obſerv'd, that thoſe two faculties of the mind, the imagination and paſſions, aſſiſt each other in their operation, when their propenſities are ſimilar, and when they act upon the ſame object. The mind has always a propenſity to paſs from a paſſion to any other related to it; and this propenſity is forwarded when the object of the one paſſion is related to that of the o⯑ther. The two impulſes concur with each [114] other, and render the whole tranſition more ſmooth and eaſy. But if it ſhou'd happen, that while the relation of ideas, ſtrictly ſpeaking, continues the ſame, its influence, in cauſing a tranſition of the imagination, ſhou'd no longer take place, 'tis evident its in⯑fluence on the paſſions muſt alſo ceaſe, as be⯑ing dependent entirely on that tranſition. This is the reaſon why pride or humility is not transfus'd into love or hatred with the ſame eaſe, that the latter paſſions are chang'd into the former. If a perſon be my brother I am his likewiſe: But tho' the relations be reciprocal, they have very dif⯑ferent effects on the imagination. The paſ⯑ſage is ſmooth and open from the conſider⯑ation of any perſon related to us to that of ourſelf, of whom we are every moment conſcious. But when the affections are once directed to ourſelf, the fancy paſſes not with the ſame facility from that object to any other perſon, how cloſely ſo ever connected with us. This eaſy or difficult tranſition of the imagination operates upon the paſ⯑ſions, and facilitates or retards their tranſi⯑tion; which is a clear proof, that theſe two faculties of the paſſions and imagination are connected together, and that the rela⯑tions of ideas have an influence upon the [115] affections. Beſides innumerable experiments that prove this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any par⯑ticular circumſtance its uſual effect upon the fancy in producing an aſſociation or tran⯑ſition of ideas, is prevented; its uſual effect upon the paſſions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner prevented.

SOME may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phaenomenon and that of ſym⯑pathy, where the mind paſſes eaſily from the idea of ourſelves to that of any other ob⯑ject related to us. But this difficulty will vaniſh, if we conſider that in ſympathy our own perſon is not the object of any paſſion, nor is there any thing, that fixes our attention on ourſelves; as in the preſent caſe, where we are ſuppos'd to be actuated with pride or humility. Ourſelf, indepen⯑dent of the perception of every other object, is in reality nothing: For which reaſon we muſt turn our view to external objects; and 'tis natural for us to conſider with moſt at⯑tention ſuch as lie contiguous to us, or re⯑ſemble us. But when ſelf is the object of a paſſion, 'tis not natural to quit the con⯑ſideration of it, till the paſſion be exhauſted; in which caſe the double relations of im⯑preſſions and ideas can no longer operate.

[116] SEVENTH EXPERIMENT. To put this whole reaſoning to a farther trial, let us make a new experiment; and as we have already ſeen the effects of related paſſions and ideas, let us here ſuppoſe an identity of paſſions along with a relation of ideas; and let us conſider the effects of this new ſituation. 'Tis evident a tranſition of the paſſions from the one object to the other is here in all reaſon to be expected; ſince the relation of ideas is ſuppos'd ſtill to continue, and an identity of impreſſions muſt produce a ſtronger connexion, than the moſt perfect reſemblance, that can be imagin'd. If a double relation, therefore, of impreſſions and ideas is able to produce a tranſition from one to the other, much more an identity of impreſſions with a relation of ideas. Ac⯑cordingly we find, that when we either love or hate any perſon, the paſſions ſeldom con⯑tinue within their firſt bounds; but extend themſelves towards all the contiguous ob⯑jects, and comprehend the friends and re⯑lations of him we love or hate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindneſs to one brother on account of our friendſhip for another, without any farther examination of his character. A quarrel with one per⯑ſon gives us a hatred for the whole family, [117] tho' entirely innocent of that, which diſ⯑pleaſes us. Inſtances of this kind are every where to be met with.

THERE is only one difficulty in this ex⯑periment, which it will be neceſſary to ac⯑count for, before we proceed any farther. 'Tis evident, that tho' all paſſions paſs eaſily from one object to another related to it, yet this tranſition is made with greater fa⯑cility, where the more conſiderable object is firſt preſented, and the leſſer follows it, than where this order is revers'd, and the leſſer takes the precedence. Thus 'tis more natural for us to love the ſon upon account of the father, than the father upon account of the ſon; the ſervant for the maſter, than the maſter for the ſervant; the ſubject for the prince, than the prince for the ſubject. In like manner we more readily contract a hatred againſt a whole family, where our firſt quarrel is with the head of it, than where we are diſpleas'd with a ſon, or ſer⯑vant, or ſome inferior member. In ſhort, our paſſions, like other objects, deſcend with greater facility than they aſcend.

THAT we may comprehend, wherein conſiſts the difficulty of explaining this phae⯑nomenon, we muſt conſider, that the very ſame reaſon, which determines the imagi⯑nation [118] to paſs from remote to contiguous objects, with more facility than from con⯑tiguous to remote, cauſes it likewiſe to change with more eaſe, the leſs for the greater, than the greater for the leſs. Whatever has the greateſt influence is moſt taken notice of; and whatever is moſt taken notice of, preſents itſelf moſt readily to the ima⯑gination. We are more apt to over-look in any ſubject, what is trivial, than what appears of conſiderable moment; but eſpe⯑cially if the latter takes the precedence, and firſt engages our attention. Thus if any accident makes us conſider the Satellites of Jupiter, our fancy is naturally determin'd to form the idea of that planet; but if we firſt reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of any em⯑pire conveys our thought to the ſeat of the empire; but the fancy returns not with the ſame facility to the conſideration of the pro⯑vinces. The idea of the ſervant makes us think of the maſter; that of the ſub⯑ject carries our view to the prince. But the ſame relation has not an equal influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded that reproach of Cornelia to her ſons, that they ought to be aſham'd ſhe [119] ſhou'd be more known by the title of the daughter of Scipio, than by that of the mo⯑ther of the Gracchi. This was, in other words, exhorting them to render themſelves as illuſtrious and famous as their grand⯑father, otherwiſe the imagination of the peo⯑ple, paſſing from her who was intermediate, and plac'd in an equal relation to both, wou'd always leave them, and denominate her by what was more conſiderable and of greater moment. On the ſame principle is founded that common cuſtom of making wives bear the name of their huſbands, rather than huſbands that of their wives; as alſo the ceremony of giving the precedency to thoſe, whom we honour and reſpect. We might find many other inſtances to confirm this principle, were it not already ſufficiently evident.

NOW ſince the fancy finds the ſame fa⯑cility in paſſing from the leſſer to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not this eaſy tranſition of ideas aſſiſt the tranſition of paſſions in the former caſe, as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend or brother produce firſt love, and then pride; becauſe in that caſe the imagination paſſes from remote to contiguous, according to its propenſity. Our own virtues produce not firſt pride, and then love to a friend or [120] brother; becauſe the paſſage in that caſe wou'd be from contiguous to remote, con⯑trary to its propenſity. But the love or hatred of an inferior cauſesnot readily any paſſion to the ſuperior, tho' that be the na⯑tural propenſity of the imagination: While the love or hatred of a ſuperior, cauſes a paſſion to the inferior, contrary to its pro⯑penſity. In ſhort, the ſame facility of tran⯑ſition operates not in the ſame manner upon ſuperior and inferior as upon contiguous and remote. Theſe two phaenomena appear con⯑tradictory, and require ſome attention to be reconcil'd.

As the tranſition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural propenſity of the imagination, that faculty muſt be over⯑power'd by ſome ſtronger principle of an⯑other kind; and as there is nothing ever preſent to the mind but impreſſions and ideas, this principle muſt neceſſarily lie in the impreſſions. Now it has been obſerv'd, that impreſſions or paſſions are connected only by their reſemblance, and that where any two paſſions place the mind in the ſame or in ſimilar diſpoſitions, it very na⯑turally paſſes from the one to the other: As on the contrary, a repugnance in the diſ⯑poſitions produces a difficulty in the tranſi⯑tion [121] of the poſſions. But 'tis obſervable, that this repugnance may ariſe from a dif⯑ference of degree as well as of kind; nor do we experience a greater difficulty in paſ⯑ſing ſuddenly from a ſmall degree of love to a ſmall degree of hatred, than from a ſmall to a great degree of either of theſe affections. A man, when calm or only moderately a⯑gitated, is ſo different, in every reſpect, from himſelf, when diſturbed with a violent paſ⯑ſion, that no two perſons can be more un⯑like; nor is it eaſy to paſs from the one ex⯑treme to the other, without a conſiderable interval betwixt them.

THE difficulty is not leſs, if it be not rather greater, in paſſing from the ſtrong paſſion to the weak, than in paſſing from the weak to the ſtrong, provided the one paſſion upon its appearance deſtroys the o⯑ther, and they do not both of them exiſt at once. But the caſe is entirely alter'd, when the paſſions unite together, and actuate the mind at the ſame time. A weak paſ⯑ſion, when added to a ſtrong, makes not ſo conſiderable change in the diſpoſition, as a ſtrong when added to a weak; for which reaſon there is a cloſer connexion betwixt the great degree and the ſmall, than betwixt the ſmall degree and the great.

[122] THE degree of any paſſion depends up⯑on the nature of its object; and an affec⯑tion directed to a perſon, who is conſidera⯑ble in our eyes, fills and poſſeſſes the mind much more than one, which has for its object a perſon we eſteem of leſs conſe⯑quence. Here then the contradiction be⯑twixt the propenſities of the imagination and paſſion diſplays itſelf. When we turn our thought to a great and a ſmall object, the imagination finds more facility in paſſing from the ſmall to the great, than from the great to the ſmall; but the affections find a greater difficulty: And as the affections are a more powerful principle than the imagi⯑nation, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to their ſide. In ſpite of the difficulty of paſſing from the idea of great to that of little, a paſſion directed to the former, produces always a ſimilar paſ⯑ſion towards the latter; when the great and little are related together. The idea of the ſervant conveys our thought moſt rea⯑dily to the maſter; but the hatred or love of the maſter produces with greater facili⯑ty anger or good-will to the ſervant. The ſtrongeſt paſſion in this caſe takes the pre⯑cedence; and the addition of the weaker making no conſiderable change on the diſpo⯑ſition, [123] the paſſage is by that means ren⯑der'd more eaſy and natural betwixt them.

As in the foregoing experiment we found, that a relation of ideas, which, by any particular circumſtance, ceaſes to pro⯑duce its uſual effect of facilitating the tran⯑ſition of ideas, ceaſes likewiſe to operate on the paſſions; ſo in the preſent experiment we find the ſame property of the impreſ⯑ſions. Two different degrees of the ſame paſſion are ſurely related together; but if the ſmaller be firſt preſent, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and that becauſe the addition of the great to the little, produces a more ſenſible alteration on the temper, than the addition of the little to the great. Theſe phaenomena, when duly weigh'd, will be found convincing proofs of this hypotheſis.

AND theſe proofs will be confirm'd, if we conſider the manner in which the mind here reconciles the contradiction, I have ob⯑ſerv'd betwixt the paſſions and the imagi⯑nation. The fancy paſſes with more facili⯑ty from the leſs to the greater, than from the greater to the leſs: But on the contrary a violent paſſion produces more eaſily a feeble, than that does a violent. In this oppoſition the paſſion in the end prevails [124] over the imagination; but 'tis commonly by complying with it, and by ſeeking ano⯑ther quality, which may counter-ballance that principle, from whence the oppoſition ariſes. When we love the father or maſter of a family, we little think of his children or ſervants. But when theſe are preſent with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to ſerve them, the nearneſs and con⯑tiguity in this caſe encreaſes their magni⯑tude, or at leaſt removes that oppoſition, which the fancy makes to the tranſition of the affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in paſſing from greater to leſs, it finds an equal facility in paſſing from re⯑mote to contiguous, which brings the mat⯑ter to an equality, and leaves the way open from the one paſſion to the other.

EIGHTH EXPERIMENT. I have ob⯑ſerv'd that the tranſition from love or ha⯑tred to pride or humility, is more eaſy than from pride or humility to love or hatred; and that the difficulty, which the imagination finds in paſſing from conti⯑guous to remote, is the cauſe why we ſcarce have any inſtance of the latter tranſition of the affections. I muſt, however, make one exception, viz. when the very cauſe of the pride and humility is plac'd in ſome other [125] perſon. For in that caſe the imagination is neceſſitated to conſider the perſon, nor can it poſſibly confine its view to ourſelves. Thus nothing more readily produces kind⯑neſs and affection to any perſon, than his approbation of our conduct and character: As on the other hand, nothing inſpires us with a ſtronger hatred, than his blame or contempt. Here 'tis evident, that the ori⯑ginal paſſion is pride or humility, whoſe object is ſelf; and that this paſſion is tranſ⯑fus'd into love or hatred, whoſe object is ſome other perſon, notwithſtanding the rule I have already eſtabliſh'd, that the imagi⯑nation paſſes with difficulty from contiguous to remote. But the tranſition in this caſe is not made merely on account of the relation betwixt ourſelves and the perſon; but be⯑cauſe that very perſon is the real cauſe of our firſt paſſion, and of conſequence is in⯑timately connected with it. 'Tis his appro⯑bation that produces pride; and diſappro⯑bation, humility. No wonder, then, the ima⯑gination returns back again attended with the related paſſions of love and hatred. This is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception that ariſes from the ſame reaſon with the rule itſelf.

[126] SUCH an exception as this is, therefore, ra⯑ther a confirmation of the rule. And indeed, if we conſider all the eight experiments I have explain'd, we ſhall find that the ſame principle appears in all of them, and that 'tis by means of a tranſition ariſing from a double relation of impreſſions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred are pro⯑duc'd. An object without ^* a relation, or ^† with but one, never produces either of theſe paſſions; and 'tis^‡ found that the paſ⯑ſion always varies in conformity to the re⯑lation. Nay we may obſerve, that where the relation, by any particular circumſtance, has not its uſual effect of producing a tranſi⯑tion either of^** ideas or of impreſſions, it ceaſes to operate upon the paſſions, and gives riſe neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find ſtill to hold good^‡, even under the appearance of its contrary; and as relation is frequently ex⯑perienc'd to have no effect; which upon examination is found to proceed from ſome particular circumſtance, that prevents the tranſition; ſo even in inſtances, where that circumſtance, tho' preſent, prevents not the [127] tranſition, 'tis found to ariſe from ſome o⯑ther circumſtance, which counter-ballances it. Thus not only the variations reſolve themſelves into the general principle, but even the variations of theſe variations.

SECT. III. Difficulties ſolv'd.

AFTER ſo many and ſuch undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience and obſervation, it may ſeem ſuperfluous to enter into a particular examination of all the cauſes of love and hatred. I ſhall, therefore, employ the ſequel of this part, Firſt, In re⯑moving ſome difficulties, concerning parti⯑cular cauſes of theſe paſſions. Secondly, In examining the compound affections, which ariſe from the mixture of love and hatred with other emotions.

NOTHING is more evident, than that any perſon acquires our kindneſs, or is expos'd to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleaſure or uneaſineſs we receive from him, and that the paſſions keep pace exactly with the ſenſations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the means either by his ſervices, his beauty, or his flattery, to ren⯑der [128] himſelf uſeful or agreeable to us, is ſure of our affections: As on the other hand, whoever harms or diſpleaſes us never fails to excite our anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other, we deteſt them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjuſt and violent: But always eſteem our⯑ſelves and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. If the general of our enemies be ſucceſsful, 'tis with difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is a ſorcerer: He has a communication with daemons; as is reported of Oliver Cromwell, and the Duke of Luxembourg: He is bloody-minded, and takes a pleaſure in death and deſtruction. But if the ſucceſs be on our ſide, our commander has all the oppoſite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call policy: His cruelty is an evil inſeparable from war. In ſhort, every one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with the name of that virtue, which approaches it. 'Tis evident the ſame method of thinking runs thro' common life.

THERE are ſome, who add another con⯑dition, and require not only that the pain and pleaſure ariſe from the perſon, but like⯑wiſe [129] that it ariſe knowingly, and with a particular deſign and intention. A man, who wounds and harms us by accident, be⯑comes not our enemy upon that account, nor do we think ourſelves bound by any ties of gratitude to one, who does us any ſervice after the ſame manner. By the intention we judge of the actions, and ac⯑cording as that is good or bad, they become cauſes of love or hatred.

BUT here we muſt make a diſtinction. If that quality in another, which pleaſes or diſpleaſes, be conſtant and inherent in his perſon and character, it will cauſe love or hatred independent of the intention: But otherwiſe a knowledge and deſign is requi⯑ſite, in order to give riſe to theſe paſſions. One that is diſagreeable by his deformity or folly is the object of our averſion, tho' no⯑thing be more certain, than that he has not the leaſt intention of diſpleaſing us by theſe qualities. But if the uneaſineſs proceed not from a quality, but an action, which is produc'd and annihilated in a moment, 'tis neceſſary, in order to produce ſome re⯑lation, and connect this action ſufficiently with the perſon, that it be deriv'd from a particular fore-thought and deſign. 'Tis not enough, that the action ariſe from the [130] perſon, and have him for its immediate cauſe and author. This relation alone is too feeble and inconſtant to be a foundation for theſe paſſions. It reaches not the ſen⯑ſible and thinking part, and neither pro⯑ceeds from any thing durable in him, nor leaves any thing behind it; but paſſes in a moment, and is as if it had never been. On the other hand, an intention ſhews certain qualities, which remaining after the action is perform'd, connect it with the perſon, and facilitate the tranſition of ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him without reflecting on theſe qualities; unleſs repentance and a change of life have produc'd an alteration in that reſpect: In which caſe the paſſion is likewiſe alter'd. This therefore is one reaſon, why an inten⯑tion is requiſite to excite either love or ha⯑tred.

BUT we muſt farther conſider, that an intention, beſides its ſtrengthening the relation of ideas, is often neceſſary to pro⯑duce a relation of impreſſions, and give riſe to pleaſure and uneaſineſs. For 'tis obſerv⯑able, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt and hatred, which it ſhews in the perſon, that injures us; and without that, the mere harm gives us a leſs ſenſible [131] uneaſineſs. In like manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly becauſe it flatters our vanity, and is a proof of the kindneſs and eſteem of the perſon, who performs it. The removal of the intention, removes the mortification in the one caſe, and vanity in the other; and muſt of courſe cauſe a remarkable diminution in the paſſions of love and hatred.

I GRANT, that theſe effects of the re⯑moval of deſign, in diminiſhing the rela⯑tions of impreſſions and ideas, are not en⯑tire, nor able to remove every degree of theſe relations. But then I aſk, if the re⯑moval of deſign be able entirely to remove the paſſion of love and hatred? Experience, I am ſure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there any thing more certain, than that men often fall into a violent anger for in⯑juries, which they themſelves muſt own to be entirely involuntary and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance; but ſtill is ſufficient to ſhew, that there is a natural connexion betwixt uneaſineſs and anger, and that the relation of impreſſions will operate upon a very ſmall relation of ideas. But when the violence of the impreſſion is once a little abated, the defect of the relation begins to be better felt; [132] and as the character of a perſon is no wiſe intereſted in ſuch injuries as are caſual and involuntary, it ſeldom happens that on their account, we entertain a laſting en⯑mity.

To illuſtrate this doctrine by a parallel inſtance, we may obſerve, that not only the uneaſineſs, which proceeds from ano⯑ther by accident, has but little force to ex⯑cite our paſſion, but alſo that which ariſes from an acknowledg'd neceſſity and duty. One that has a real deſign of harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill-will, but from juſtice and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree rea⯑ſonable; notwithſtanding he is both the cauſe, and the knowing cauſe of our ſuf⯑ferings. Let us examine a little this phae⯑nomenon.

'TIS evident in the firſt place, that this circumſtance is not deciſive; and tho' it may be able to diminiſh the paſſions, 'tis ſeldom it can entirely remove them. How few criminals are there, who have no ill-will to the perſon, that accuſes them, or to the judge, that condemns them, even tho' they be conſcious of their own deſerts? In like manner our antagoniſt in a law-ſuit, and our competitor for any [133] office, are commonly regarded as our ene⯑mies; tho' we muſt acknowledge, if we wou'd but reflect a moment, that their mo⯑tive is entirely as juſtifiable as our own.

BESIDES we may conſider, that when we receive harm from any perſon, we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty we allow of his juſtice and innocence. This is a clear proof, that, independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm of uneaſineſs has a natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we ſeek for reaſons upon which we may juſti⯑fy and eſtabliſh the paſſion. Here the idea of injury produces not the paſſion, but ariſes from it.

NOR is it any wonder that paſſion ſhou'd produce the opinion of injury; ſince other⯑wiſe it muſt ſuffer a conſiderable diminu⯑tion, which all the paſſions avoid as much poſſible. The removal of injury may re⯑move the anger, without proving that the anger ariſes only from the injury. The harm and the juſtice are two contrary ob⯑jects, of which the one has a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that either [134] of the objects prevails, and excites its proper paſſion.

SECT. IV. Of the love of relations.

HAVING given a reaſon, why ſeve⯑ral actions, that cauſe a real pleaſure or uneaſineſs, excite not any degree, or but a ſmall one, of the paſſion of love or ha⯑tred towards the actors; 'twill be neceſſary to ſhew, wherein conſiſts the pleaſure or uneaſineſs of many objects, which we find by experience to produce theſe paſſions.

ACCORDING to the preceding ſyſtem there is always requir'd a double relation of impreſſions and ideas betwixt the cauſe and effect, in order to produce either love or hatred. But tho' this be univerſally true, 'tis remarkable that the paſſion of love may be excited by only one relation of a diffe⯑rent kind, viz. betwixt ourſelves and the object; or more properly ſpeaking, that this relation is always attended with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion is always ſure of a ſhare of our love, proportion'd to the connexion, with⯑out enquiring into his other qualities. Thus [135] the relation of blood produces the ſtrongeſt tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children, and a leſſer degree of the ſame affection, as the relation leſ⯑ſens. Nor has conſanguinity alone this ef⯑fect, but any other relation without excep⯑tion. We love our country-men, our neigh⯑bours, thoſe of the ſame trade, profeſſion, and even name with ourſelves. Every one of theſe relations is eſteem'd ſome tie, and gives a title to a ſhare of our affection.

THERE is another phaenomenon, which is parallel to this, viz. that acquaintance, without any kind of relation, gives riſe to love and kindneſs. When we have contrac⯑ted a habitude and intimacy with any per⯑ſon; tho' in frequenting his company we have not been able to diſcover any very va⯑luable quality, of which he is poſſeſs'd; yet we cannot forbear preferring him to ſtrang⯑ers, of whoſe ſuperior merit we are fully convinc'd. Theſe two phaenomena of the effects of relation and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both explain'd from the ſame principle.

THOSE, who take a pleaſure in declaim⯑ing againſt human nature, have obſerv'd, that man is altogether inſufficient to ſupport himſelf; and that when you looſen all the [136] holds, which he has of external objects, he immediately drops down into the deepeſt melancholy and deſpair. From this, ſay they, proceeds that continual ſearch after amuſement in gaming, in hunting, in buſi⯑neſs; by which we endeavour to forget our⯑ſelves, and excite our ſpirits from the lan⯑guide ſtate, into which they fall, when not ſuſtain'd by ſome briſk and lively emo⯑tion. To this method of thinking I ſo far agree, that I own the mind to be inſuffi⯑cient, of itſelf, to its own entertainment, and that it naturally ſeeks after foreign objects, which may produce a lively ſenſation, and agitate the ſpirits. On the appear⯑ance of ſuch an object it awakes, as it were, from a dream: The blood flows with a new tide: The heart is elevated: And the whole man acquires a vigour, which he cannot command in his ſolitary and calm moments. Hence company is naturally ſo rejoicing, as preſenting the livelieſt of all objects, viz. a rational and thinking Being like ourſelves, who communicates to us all the actions of his mind; makes us privy to his inmoſt ſen⯑timents and affections; and lets us ſee, in the very inſtant of their production, all the emotions, which are caus'd by any object. Every lively idea is agreeable, but eſpecially [137] that of a paſſion, becauſe ſuch an idea be⯑comes a kind of paſſion, and gives a more ſenſible agitation to the mind, than any o⯑ther image or conception.

THIS being once admitted, all the reſt is eaſy. For as the company of ſtrangers is agreeable to us for a ſhort time, by inli⯑vening our thought; ſo the company of our relations and acquaintance muſt be pe⯑culiarly agreeable, becauſe it has this effect in a greater degree, and is of more durable influence. Whatever is related to us is con⯑ceiv'd in a lively manner by the eaſy tran⯑ſition from ourſelves to the related object. Cuſtom alſo, or acquaintance facilitates the entrance, and ſtrengthens the conception of any object. The firſt caſe is parallel to our reaſonings from cauſe and effect; the ſecond to education. And as reaſoning and educa⯑tion concur only in producing a lively and ſtrong idea of any object; ſo is this the only particular, which is common to rela⯑tion and acquaintance. This muſt, there⯑fore, be the influencing quality, by which they produce all their common effects; and love or kindneſs being one of theſe effects, it muſt be from the force and livelineſs of conception, that the paſſion is deriv'd. Such a conception is peculiarly agreeable, and [138] makes us have an affectionate regard for every thing, that produces it, when the proper object of kindneſs and good-will.

'TIS obvious, that people aſſociate to⯑gether according to their particular tempers and diſpoſitions, and that men of gay tem⯑pers naturally love the gay; as the ſerious bear an affection to the ſerious. This not only happens, where they remark this re⯑ſemblance betwixt themſelves and others, but alſo by the natural courſe of the diſpo⯑ſition, and by a certain ſympathy, which always ariſes betwixt ſimilar characters. Where they remark the reſemblance, it ope⯑rates after the manner of a relation, by pro⯑ducing a connexion of ideas. Where they do not remark it, it operates by ſome other principle; and if this latter principle be ſimilar to the former, it muſt be receiv'd as a confirmation of the foregoing reaſoning.

THE idea of ourſelves is always inti⯑mately preſent to us, and conveys a ſen⯑ſible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object, to which we are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real impreſſion; theſe two kinds of perception being in a great meaſure the ſame, and dif⯑fering only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But this change muſt be produc'd [139] with the greater eaſe, that our natural tem⯑per gives us a propenſity to the ſame im⯑preſſion, which we obſerve in others, and makes it ariſe upon any ſlight occaſion. In that caſe reſemblance converts the idea into an impreſſion, not only by means of the relation, and by transfuſing the original vi⯑vacity into the related idea; but alſo by pre⯑ſenting ſuch materials as take fire from the leaſt ſpark. And as in both caſes a love or affection ariſes from the reſemblance, we may learn that a ſympathy with others is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the ſpirits, ſince an eaſy ſympathy and corre⯑ſpondent emotions are alone common to relation, acquaintance, and reſemblance.

THE great propenſity men have to pride may be conſider'd as another ſimilar phae⯑nomenon. It often happens, that after we have liv'd a conſiderable time in any city; however at firſt it might be diſagreeable to us; yet as we become familiar with the objects, and contract an acquaintance, tho' merely with the ſtreets and buildings, the averſion diminiſhes by degrees, and at laſt changes into the oppoſite paſſion. The mind finds a ſatisfaction and eaſe in the view of objects, to which it is accuſtom'd, and naturally prefers them to others, which, [140] tho', perhaps, in themſelves more valuable, are leſs known to it. By the ſame quality of the mind we are ſeduc'd into a good opinion of ourſelves, and of all objects, that belong to us. They appear in a ſtronger light; are more agreeable; and conſequently fitter ſubjects of pride and vanity, than any other.

IT may not be amiſs, in treating of the affection we bear our acquaintance and relations, to obſerve ſome pretty curious phaenomena, which attend it. 'Tis eaſy to remark in common life, that children eſteem their relation to their mother to be weaken'd, in a great meaſure, by her ſecond marriage, and no longer regard her with the ſame eye, as if ſhe had continu'd in her ſtate of wi⯑dow-hood. Nor does this happen only, when they have felt any inconveniencies from her ſecond marriage, or when her huſband is much her inferior; but even without any of theſe conſiderations, and merely becauſe ſhe has become part of an⯑other family. This alſo takes place with regard to the ſecond marriage of a father; but in a much leſs degree: And 'tis certain the ties of blood are not ſo much looſen'd in the latter caſe as by the marriage of a mother. Theſe two phaenomena are re⯑markable [141] in themſelves, but much more ſo when compar'd.

IN order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis requiſite, not only that the imagination be convey'd from one to the other by reſemblance, contiguity or cauſation, but alſo that it return back from the ſecond to the firſt with the ſame eaſe and facility. At firſt ſight this may ſeem a neceſſary and unavoidable conſequence. If one object reſemble another, the latter ob⯑ject muſt neceſſarily reſemble the former. If one object be the cauſe of another, the ſecond object is effect to its cauſe. 'Tis the ſame caſe with contiguity: And therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, that the return of the imagi⯑nation from the ſecond to the firſt muſt alſo, in every caſe, be equally natural as its paſſage from the firſt to the ſecond. But upon farther examination we ſhall eaſily diſ⯑cover our miſtake. For ſuppoſing the ſe⯑cond object, beſide its reciprocal relation to the firſt, to have alſo a ſtrong relation to a third object; in that caſe the thought, paſ⯑ſing from the firſt object to the ſecond, re⯑turns not back with the ſame facility, tho' the relation continues the ſame; but is rea⯑dily carry'd on to the third object, by means [142] of the new relation, which preſents itſelf, and gives a new impulſe to the imagina⯑tion. This new relation, therefore, weak⯑ens the tie betwixt the firſt and ſecond ob⯑jects. The fancy is by its very nature wavering and inconſtant; and conſiders al⯑ways two objects as more ſtrongly re⯑lated together, where it finds the paſſage equally eaſy both in going and returning, than where the tranſition is eaſy only in one of theſe motions. The double motion is a kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the cloſeſt and moſt in⯑timate manner.

THE ſecond marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and parent; and that relation ſuffices to convey my imagina⯑tion from myſelf to her with the greateſt eaſe and facility. But after the imagination is arriv'd at this point of view, it finds its object to be ſurrounded with ſo many other relations, which challenge its regard, that it knows not which to prefer, and is at a loſs what new object to pitch upon. The ties of intereſt and duty bind her to another family, and prevent that return of the fancy from her to myſelf, which is neceſſary to ſupport the union. The thought has no longer the vibration, requiſite to ſet it per⯑fectly [143] at eaſe, and indulge its inclination to change. It goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that interruption finds the relation much weaken'd from what it wou'd be were the paſſage open and eaſy on both ſides.

NOW to give a reaſon, why this effect follows not in the ſame degree upon the ſecond marriage of a father: we may reflect on what has been prov'd already, that tho' the imagination goes eaſily from the view of a leſſer object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the ſame facility from the greater to the leſs. When my imagination goes from myſelf to my father, it paſſes not ſo readily from him to his ſecond wife, nor conſiders him as entering into a different family, but as continuing the head of that family, of which I am myſelf a part. His ſuperiority prevents the eaſy tranſition of the thought from him to his ſpouſe, but keeps the paſſage ſtill open for a return to myſelf along the ſame relation of child and parent. He is not ſunk in the new relation he ac⯑quires; ſo that the double motion or vibra⯑tion of thought is ſtill eaſy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its incon⯑ſtancy, the tie of child and parent ſtill pre⯑ſerves its full force and influence.

[144] A MOTHER thinks not her tie to a ſon weaken'd, becauſe 'tis ſhar'd with her huſ⯑band: Nor a ſon his with a parent, be⯑cauſe 'tis ſhar'd with a brother. The third object is here related to the firſt, as well as to the ſecond; ſo that the imagination goes and comes along all of them with the great⯑eſt facility.

SECT. V. Of our eſteem for the rich and powerful.

NOTHING has a greater tendency to give us an eſteem for any perſon, than his power and riches; or a contempt, than his poverty and meanneſs: And as eſteem and contempt are to be conſider'd as ſpecies of love and hatred, 'twill be pro⯑per in this place to explain theſe phaeno⯑mena.

HERE it happens moſt fortunately, that the greateſt difficulty is not to diſcover a principle capable of producing ſuch an effect, but to chooſe the chief and predominant among ſeveral, that preſent themſelves. The ſatisfaction we take in the riches of others, [145] and the eſteem we have for the poſſeſſors may be aſcrib'd to three different cauſes. Firſt, To the objects they poſſeſs; ſuch as houſes, gardens, equipages; which, being agreeable in themſelves, neceſſarily produce a ſentiment of pleaſure in every one, that either conſiders or ſurveys them. Secondly, To the expectation of advantage from the rich and powerful by our ſharing their poſ⯑ſeſſions. Thirdly, To ſympathy, which makes us partake of the ſatisfaction of every one, that approaches us. All theſe princi⯑ples may concur in producing the preſent phaenomenon. The queſtion is, to which of them we ought principally to aſcribe it.

'TIS certain, that the firſt principle, viz. the reflection on agreeable objects, has a greater influence, than what, at firſt ſight, we may be apt to imagine. We ſeldom reflect on what is beautiful or ugly, agree⯑able or diſagreeable, without an emotion of pleaſure or uneaſineſs; and tho' theſe ſenſations appear not much in our common indolent way of thinking, 'tis eaſy, either in reading or converſation, to diſcover them. Men of wit always turn the diſcourſe on ſubjects that are entertaining to the ima⯑gination; and poets never preſent any objects but ſuch as are of the ſame nature. Mr. [146] Philips has choſen Cyder for the ſubject of an excellent poem. Beer wou'd not have been ſo proper, as being neither ſo agreeable to the taſte nor eye. But he wou'd cer⯑tainly have preferr'd wine to either of them, cou'd his native country have afforded him ſo ageeeable a liquor. We may learn from thence, that every thing, which is agreeable to the ſenſes, is alſo in ſome meaſure agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an image of that ſatisfaction, which it gives by its real application to the bodily organs.

BUT tho' theſe reaſons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy of the imagi⯑nation among the cauſes of the reſpect, which we pay the rich and powerful, there are many other reaſons, that may keep us from regarding it as the ſole or prin⯑cipal. For as the ideas of pleaſure can have an influence only by means of their viva⯑city, which makes them approach impreſ⯑ſions, 'tis moſt natural thoſe ideas ſhou'd have that influence, which are favour'd by moſt circumſtances, and have a natural ten⯑dency to become ſtrong and lively; ſuch as our ideas of the paſſions and ſenſations of any human creature. Every human crea⯑ture reſembles ourſelves, and by that means has an advantage above any other object, in operating on the imagination.

[147] BESIDES, if we conſider the nature of that faculty, and the great influence which all relations have upon it, we ſhall eaſily be perſwaded, that however the ideas of the pleaſant wines, muſic, or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not confine itſelf to them, but will carry its view to the related objects; and in particular, to the perſon, who poſſeſſes them. And this is the more natural, that the pleaſant idea or image produces here a paſſion towards the perſon, by means of his relation to the object; ſo that 'tis unavoidable but he muſt en⯑ter into the original conception, ſince he makes the object of the derivative paſſion. But if he enters into the original conception, and is conſider'd as enjoying theſe agreeable objects, 'tis ſympathy, which is properly the cauſe of the affection; and the third principle is more powerful and univerſal than the firſt.

ADD to this, that riches and power a⯑lone, even tho' unemploy'd, naturally cauſe eſteem and reſpect: And conſequently theſe paſſions ariſe not from the idea of any beau⯑tiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis true; money implies a kind of repreſentation of ſuch ob⯑jects, by the power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reaſon may ſtill be eſ⯑teem'd proper to convey thoſe agreeable [148] images, which may give riſe to the paſſion. But as this proſpect is very diſtant, 'tis more natural for us to take a contiguous object, viz. the ſatisfaction, which this power af⯑fords the perſon, who is poſſeſt of it. And of this we ſhall be farther ſatisfy'd, if we conſider, that riches repreſent the goods of life, only by means of the will; which em⯑ploys them; and therefore imply in their very nature an idea of the perſon, and can⯑not be conſider'd without a kind of ſym⯑pathy with his ſenſations and enjoyments.

THIS we may confirm by a reflection, which to ſome will, perhaps, appear too ſubtile and refin'd. I have already obſerv'd, that power, as diſtinguiſh'd from its exer⯑ciſe, has either no meaning at all, or is nothing but a poſſibility or probability of exiſtence; by which any object approaches to reality, and has a ſenſible influence on the mind. I have alſo obſerv'd, that this approach, by an illuſion of the fancy, ap⯑pears much greater, when we ourſelves are poſſeſt of the power, than when it is en⯑joy'd by another; and that in the former caſe the objects ſeem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey almoſt an equal ſatisfaction, as if actually in our poſſeſſion. Now I aſſert, that where we eſteem a per⯑ſon upon account of his riches, we muſt [149] enter into this ſentiment of the proprietor, and that without ſuch a ſympathy the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give him the power to produce, wou'd have but a feeble influence upon us. An avaritious man is reſpected for his money, tho' he ſcarce is poſſeſt of a power; that is, there ſcarce is a probability or even poſſibility of his em⯑ploying it in the acquiſition of the pleaſures and conveniences of life. To himſelf alone this power ſeems perfect and entire; and therefore we muſt receive his ſentiments by ſympathy, before we can have a ſtrong in⯑tenſe idea of theſe enjoyments, or eſteem him upon account of them.

THUS we have found, that the firſt principle, viz. the agreeable idea of thoſe objects, which riches afford the enjoyment of; reſolves itſelf in a great meaſure into the third, and becomes a ſympathy with the per⯑ſon we eſteem or love. Let us now ex⯑amine the ſecond principle, viz. the agree⯑able expectation of advantage, and ſee what force we may juſtly attribute to it.

'TIS obvious, that tho' riches and au⯑thority undoubtedly give their owner a power of doing us ſervice, yet this power is not to be conſider'd as on the ſame foot⯑ing with that, which they afford him, of [148] [...] [149] [...] [150] pleaſing himſelf, and ſatisfying his own ap⯑petites. Self-love approaches the power and exerciſe very near each other in the latter caſe; but in order to produce a ſimilar ef⯑fect in the former, we muſt ſuppoſe a friend⯑ſhip and good-will to be conjoin'd with the riches. Without that circumſtance 'tis dif⯑ficult to conceive on what we can found our hope of advantage from the riches of others, tho' there is nothing more certain, than that we naturally eſteem and reſpect the rich, even before we diſcover in them any ſuch favourable diſpoſition towards us.

BUT I carry this farther, and obſerve, not only that we reſpect the rich and pow⯑erful, where they ſhew no inclination to ſerve us, but alſo when we lie ſo much out of the ſphere of their activity, that they cannot even be ſuppos'd to be endow'd with that power. Priſoners of war are always treated with a reſpect ſuitable to their con⯑dition; and 'tis certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any perſon. If birth and quality enter for a ſhare, this ſtill affords us an argument of the ſame kind. For what is it we call a man of birth, but one who is deſcended from a long ſucceſ⯑ſion of rich and powerful anceſtors, and who acquires our eſteem by his relation to per⯑ſons [151] whom we eſteem? His anceſtors, there⯑fore, tho' dead, are reſpected, in ſome mea⯑ſure, on account of their riches, and con⯑ſequently without any kind of expectation.

BUT not to go ſo far as priſoners of war and the dead to find inſtances of this diſ⯑intereſted eſteem for riches, let us obſerve with a little attention thoſe phaenomena that occur to us in common life and converſation. A man, who is himſelf of a competent for⯑tune, upon coming into a company of ſtrangers, naturally treats them with different degrees of reſpect and deference, as he is inform'd of their different fortunes and con⯑ditions; tho' 'tis impoſſible he can ever pro⯑poſe, and perhaps wou'd not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is always admitted into company, and meets with civility, in proportion as his train and equi⯑page ſpeak him a man of great or mode⯑rate fortune. In ſhort, the different ranks of men are, in a great meaſure, regulated by riches, and that with regard to ſuperiors as well as inferiors, ſtrangers as well as ac⯑quaintance.

THERE is, indeed, an anſwer to theſe arguments, drawn from the influence of ge⯑neral rules. It may be pretended, that be⯑ing accuſtom'd to expect ſuccour and pro⯑tection [152] from the rich and powerful, and to eſteem them upon that account, we extend the ſame ſentiments to thoſe, who reſemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any advantage. The general rule ſtill prevails, and by giving a bent to the imagination draws along the paſſion, in the ſame manner as if its proper object were real and exiſtent.

BUT that this principle does not here take place, will eaſily appear, if we conſider, that in order to eſtabliſh a general rule, and extend it beyond its proper bounds, there is requir'd a certain uniformity in our ex⯑perience, and a great ſuperiority of thoſe inſtances, which are conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the caſe is quite otherwiſe. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, there is not, perhaps, one from whom I can expect advantage; ſo that 'tis impoſſible any cuſtom can ever prevail in the preſent caſe.

UPON THE WHOLE, there remains no⯑thing, which can give us an eſteem for power and riches, and a contempt for mean⯑neſs and poverty, except the principle of ſympathy, by which we enter into the ſen⯑timents of the rich and poor, and partake of their pleaſure and uneaſineſs. Riches [153] give ſatisfaction to their poſſeſſor; and this ſatisfaction is convey'd to the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea reſembling the original impreſſion in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or im⯑preſſion is connected with love, which is an agreeable paſſion. It proceeds from a thinking conſcious being, which is the very object of love. From this relation of im⯑preſſions, and identity of ideas, the paſſion ariſes, according to my hypotheſis.

THE beſt method of reconciling us to this opinion is to take a general ſurvey of the univerſe, and obſerve the force of ſympathy thro' the whole animal creation, and the eaſy communication of ſentiments from one thinking being to another. In all creatures, that prey not upon others, and are not agi⯑tated with violent paſſions, there appears a remarkable deſire of company, which aſ⯑ſociates them together, without any advan⯑tages they can ever propoſe to reap from their union. This is ſtill more conſpicuous in man, as being the creature of the uni⯑verſe, who has the moſt ardent deſire of ſociety, and is fitted for it by the moſt ad⯑vantages. We can form no wiſh, which has not a reference to ſociety. A perfect ſoli⯑tude is, perhaps, the greateſt puniſhment [154] we can ſuffer. Every pleaſure languiſhes when enjoy'd a-part from company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intole⯑rable. Whatever other paſſions we may be actuated by; pride, ambition, avarice, curioſity, revenge or luſt; the ſoul or ani⯑mating principle of them all is ſympathy; nor wou'd they have any force, were we to abſtract entirely from the thoughts and ſenti⯑ments of others. Let all the powers and ele⯑ments of nature conſpire to ſerve and obey one man: Let the ſun riſe and ſet at his command: The ſea and rivers roll as he pleaſ⯑es, and the earth furniſh ſpontaneouſly what⯑ever may be uſeful or agreeable to him: He will ſtill be miſerable, till you give him ſome one perſon at leaſt, with whom he may ſhare his happineſs, and whoſe eſteem and friendſhip he may enjoy.

THIS concluſion from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by par⯑ticular inſtances, wherein the force of ſym⯑pathy is very remarkable. Moſt kinds of beauty are deriv'd from this origin; and tho' our firſt object be ſome ſenſeleſs ina⯑nimate piece of matter, 'tis ſeldom we reſt there, and carry not our view to its influence on ſenſible and rational creatures. A man, who ſhews us any houſe or building, takes par⯑ticular [155] care among other things to point out the convenience of the apartments, the ad⯑vantages of their ſituation, and the little room loſt in the ſtairs, anti-chambers and paſſages; and indeed 'tis evident, the chief part of the beauty conſiſts in theſe particu⯑lars. The obſervation of convenience gives pleaſure, ſince convenience is a beauty. But after what manner does it give pleaſure? 'Tis certain our own intereſt is not in the leaſt concern'd; and as this is a beauty of intereſt, not of form, ſo to ſpeak, it muſt delight us merely by communication, and by our ſympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his intereſt by the force of imagination, and feel the ſame ſatisfaction, that the objects naturally occaſion in him.

THIS obſervation extends to tables, chairs, ſcritoires, chimneys, coaches, ſadles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an univerſal rule, that their beauty is chief⯑ly deriv'd from their utility, and from their fitneſs for that purpoſe, to which they are deſtin'd. But this is an advantage, that concerns only the owner, nor is there any thing but ſympathy, which can intereſt the ſpectator.

[156] 'TIS evident, that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its fertility, and that ſcarce any advantages of ornament or ſitua⯑tion will be able to equal this beauty. 'Tis the ſame caſe with particular trees and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itſelf, as beautiful as a hill cover'd with vines or o⯑live-trees; tho' it will never appear ſo to one, who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is a beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to the ſenſes. Fertility and value have a plain reference to uſe; and that to riches, joy, and plenty; in which tho' we have no hope of partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fan⯑cy, and ſhare them, in ſome meaſure, with the proprietor.

THERE is no rule in painting more rea⯑ſonable than that of ballancing the figures, and placing them with the greateſt exact⯑neſs on their proper center of gravity. A figure, which is not juſtly ballanc'd, is diſ⯑agreeable; and that becauſe it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain: Which ideas are painful, when by ſympa⯑thy [157] they acquire any degree of force and vivacity.

ADD to this, that the principal part of perſonal beauty is an air of health and vi⯑gour, and ſuch a conſtruction of members as promiſes ſtrength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but by ſympathy.

IN general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one another, not only becauſe they reflect each others e⯑motions, but alſo becauſe thoſe rays of paſ⯑ſions, ſentiments and opinions may be often reverberated, and may decay away by in⯑ſenſible degrees. Thus the pleaſure, which a rich man receives from his poſſeſſions, being thrown upon the beholder, cauſes a pleaſure and eſteem; which ſentiments again, being perceiv'd and ſympathiz'd with, encreaſe the pleaſure of the poſſeſſor; and being once more reflected, become a new foundation for pleaſure and eſteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original ſatisfaction in riches deriv'd from that power, which they beſtow, of enjoying all the pleaſures of life; and as this is their very nature and eſſence, it muſt be the firſt ſource of all the paſ⯑ſions, which ariſe from them. One of the moſt conſiderable of theſe paſſions is that of [158] love or eſteem in others, which therefore proceeds from a ſympathy with the pleaſure of the poſſeſſor. But the poſſeſſor has alſo a ſecondary ſatisfaction in riches ariſing from the love and eſteem he acquires by them, and this ſatisfaction is nothing but a ſecond reflexion of that original pleaſure, which proceeded from himſelf. This ſecondary ſatis⯑faction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations of riches, and is the chief reaſon, why we either deſire them for our⯑ſelves, or eſteem them in others. Here then is a third rebound of the original pleaſure; after which 'tis difficult to diſtinguiſh the images and reflexions, by reaſon of their faintneſs and confuſion.

SECT. VI. Of benevolence and anger.

IDEAS may be compar'd to the exten⯑ſion and ſolidity of matter, and impreſ⯑ſions, eſpecially reflective ones, to colours. taſtes, ſmells and other ſenſible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but are endow'd with a kind of impenetrability, by which they exclude each other, and are ca⯑pable [159] of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by their mixture. On the other hand, impreſſions and paſſions are ſuſceptible of an entire union; and like co⯑lours, may be blended ſo perfectly toge⯑ther, that each of them may loſe itſelf, and contribute only to vary that uniform im⯑preſſion, which ariſes from the whole. Some of the moſt curious phaenomena of the hu⯑man mind are deriv'd from this property of the paſſions.

IN examining thoſe ingredients, which are capable of uniting with love and hatred, I begin to be ſenſible, in ſome meaſure, of a misfortune, that has attended every ſyſtem of philoſophy, with which the world has been yet acquainted. 'Tis commonly found, that in accounting for the operations of na⯑ture by any particular hypotheſis; among a number of experiments, that quadrate exactly with the principles we wou'd en⯑deavour to eſtabliſh; there is always ſome phaenomenon, which is more ſtubborn, and will not ſo eaſily bend to our purpoſe. We need not be ſurpriz'd, that this ſhou'd hap⯑pen in natural philoſophy. The eſſence and compoſition of external bodies are ſo obſcure, that we muſt neceſſarily, in our reaſonings, or rather conjectures concerning [160] them, involve ourſelves in contradictions and abſurdities. But as the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have us'd all imaginable caution in forming conclu⯑ſions concerning them, I have always hop'd to keep clear of thoſe contradictions, which have attended every other ſyſtem. Accord⯑ingly the difficulty, which I have at pre⯑ſent in my eye, is no-wiſe contrary to my ſyſtem; but only departs a little from that ſimplicity, which has been hitherto its prin⯑cipal force and beauty.

THE paſſions of love and hatred are al⯑ways follow'd by, or rather conjoin'd with benevolence and anger. 'Tis this conjunc⯑tion, which chiefly diſtinguiſhes theſe affec⯑tions from pride and humility. For pride and humility are pure emotions in the ſoul, unattended with any deſire, and not imme⯑diately exciting us to action. But love and hatred are not compleated within them⯑ſelves, nor reſt in that emotion, which they produce, but carry the mind to ſomething farther. Love is always follow'd by a de⯑ſire of the happineſs of the perſon belov'd, and an averſion to his miſery: As hatred produces a deſire of the miſery and an a⯑verſion to the happineſs of the perſon hated. So remarkable a difference betwixt theſe two [161] ſets of paſſions of pride and humility, love and hatred, which in ſo many other parti⯑culars correſpond to each other, merits our attention.

THE conjunction of this deſire and a⯑verſion with love and hatred may be ac⯑counted for by two different hypotheſes. The firſt is, that love and hatred have not only a cauſe, which excites them, viz. pleaſure and pain; and an object, to which they are directed, viz. a perſon or thinking being; but likewiſe an end, which they endeavour to attain, viz. the happineſs or miſery of the perſon belov'd or hated; all which views, mixing together, make only one paſ⯑ſion. According to this ſyſtem, love is no⯑thing but the deſire of happineſs to another perſon, and hatred that of miſery. The deſire and averſion conſtitute the very na⯑ture of love and hatred. They are not on⯑ly inſeparable but the ſame.

BUT this is evidently contrary to expe⯑rience. For tho' 'tis certain we never love any perſon without deſiring his happineſs, nor hate any without wiſhing his miſery, yet theſe deſires ariſe only upon the ideas of the happineſs or miſery of our friend or enemy being preſented by the imagination, [162] and are not abſolutely eſſential to love and hatred. They are the moſt obvious and na⯑tural ſentiments of theſe affections, but not the only ones. The paſſions may expreſs themſelves in a hundred ways, and may ſubſiſt a conſiderable time, without our re⯑flecting on the happineſs or miſery of their objects; which clearly proves, that theſe de⯑ſires are not the ſame with love and hatred, nor make any eſſential part of them.

WE may, therefore, infer, that bene⯑volence and anger are paſſions different from love and hatred, and only conjoin'd with them, by the original conſtitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body certain appetites and inclinations, which ſhe encreaſes, diminiſhes, or changes according to the ſituation of the fluids or ſolids; ſhe has proceeded in the ſame manner with the mind. According as we are poſſeſs'd with love or hatred, the correſpondent deſire of the happineſs or miſery of the per⯑ſon, who is the object of theſe paſſions, a⯑riſes in the mind, and varies with each va⯑riation of theſe oppoſite paſſions. This or⯑der of things, abſtractedly conſider'd, is not neceſſary. Love and hatred might have been unattended with any ſuch deſires, or [163] their particular connexion might have been entirely revers'd. If nature had ſo pleas'd, love might have had the ſame effect as ha⯑tred, and hatred as love. I ſee no contra⯑diction in ſuppoſing a deſire of producing miſery annex'd to love, and of happineſs to hatred. If the ſenſation of the paſſion and deſire be oppoſite, nature cou'd have alter'd the ſenſation without altering the tendency of the deſire, and by that means made them compatible with each other.

SECT. VII. Of compaſſion.

BUT tho' the deſire of the happineſs or miſery of others, according to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbi⯑trary and original inſtinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many occaſions, and may ariſe from ſecon⯑dary principles. Pity is a concern for, and malice a joy in the miſery of others, with⯑out any friendſhip or enmity to occaſion this concern or joy. We pity even ſtrang⯑ers, and ſuch as are perfectly indifferent to us: And if our ill-will to another proceed [164] from any harm or injury, it is not, proper⯑ly ſpeaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine theſe affections of pity and malice we ſhall find them to be ſecondary ones, ariſing from original affections, which are varied by ſome particular turn of thought and imagination.

'TWILL be eaſy to explain the paſſion of pity, from the precedent reaſoning con⯑cerning ſympathy. We have a lively idea of every thing related to us. All human crea⯑tures are related to us by reſemblance. Their perſons, therefore, their intereſts, their paſſions, their pains and pleaſures muſt ſtrike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an emotion ſimilar to the original one; ſince a lively idea is eaſily converted into an impreſſion. If this be true in general, it muſt be more ſo of affliction and ſorrow. Theſe have always a ſtronger and more laſting influence than any pleaſure or enjoy⯑ment.

A SPECTATOR of a tragedy paſſes thro' a long train of grief, terror, indignation, and other affections, which the poet repre⯑ſents in the perſons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excel⯑lent one can be compos'd without ſome re⯑verſes [165] of fortune, the ſpectator muſt ſympa⯑thize with all theſe changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well as every other paſ⯑ſion. Unleſs, therefore, it be aſſerted, that every diſtinct paſſion is communicated by a diſtinct original quality, and is not deriv'd from the general principle of ſympathy a⯑bove-explain'd, it muſt be allow'd, that all of them ariſe from that principle. To ex⯑cept any one in particular muſt appear high⯑ly unreaſonable. As they are all firſt pre⯑ſent in the mind of one perſon, and after⯑wards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their appearance, firſt as an idea, then as an impreſſion, is in every caſe the ſame, the tranſition muſt ariſe from the ſame principle. I am at leaſt ſure, that this method of reaſoning wou'd be conſider'd as certain, either in natural philo⯑ſophy or common life.

ADD to this, that pity depends, in a great meaſure, on the contiguity, and even ſight of the object; which is a proof, that 'tis deriv'd from the imagination. Not to mention that women and children are moſt ſubject to pity, as being moſt guided by that faculty. The ſame infirmity, which makes them faint at the ſight of a naked [166] ſword, tho' in the hands of their beſt friend, makes them pity extremely thoſe, whom they find in any grief or affliction. Thoſe philoſophers, who derive this paſſion from I know not what ſubtile reflections on the inſtability of fortune, and our being liable to the ſame miſeries we behold, will find this obſervation contrary to them among a great many others, which it were eaſy to produce.

THERE remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phaenomenon of this paſſion; which is, that the communicated paſſion of ſympathy ſometimes acquires ſtrength from the weakneſs of its original, and even ariſes by a tranſition from affec⯑tions, which have no exiſtence. Thus when a perſon obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great fortune, we are always the more rejoic'd for his proſperity, the leſs ſenſe he ſeems to have of it, and the great⯑er equanimity and indifference he ſhews in its enjoyment. In like manner a man, who is not dejected by misfortunes, is the more lamented on account of his patience; and if that virtue extends ſo far as utterly to remove all ſenſe of uneaſineſs, it ſtill farther encreaſes our compaſſion. When a perſon of merit [167] falls into what is vulgarly eſteem'd a great misfortune, we form a notion of his con⯑dition; and carrying our fancy from the cauſe to the uſual effect, firſt conceive a lively idea of his ſorrow, and then feel an impreſſion of it, entirely over-looking that greatneſs of mind, which elevates him a⯑bove ſuch emotions, or only conſidering it ſo far as to encreaſe our admiration, love and tenderneſs for him. We find from ex⯑perience, that ſuch a degree of paſſion is uſually connected with ſuch a misfortune; and tho' there be an exception in the pre⯑ſent caſe, yet the imagination is affected by the general rule, and makes us conceive a live⯑ly idea of the paſſion, or rather feel the paſſion itſelf, in the ſame manner, as if the perſon were really actuated by it. From the ſame principles we bluſh for the con⯑duct of thoſe, who behave themſelves fool⯑iſhly before us; and that tho' they ſhew no ſenſe of ſhame, nor ſeem in the leaſt conſcious of their folly. All this proceeds from ſympathy; but 'tis of a partial kind, and views its objects only on one ſide, with⯑out conſidering the other, which has a con⯑trary effect, and wou'd entirely deſtroy that emotion, which ariſes from the firſt appearance.

[168] WE have alſo inſtances, wherein an in⯑difference and inſenſibility under misfortune encreaſes our concern for the misfortunate, even tho' the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. 'Tis an ag⯑gravation of a murder, that it was committed upon perſons aſleep and in perfect ſecurity; as hiſtorians readily obſerve of any infant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is more worthy of com⯑paſſion the leſs ſenſible he is of his miſerable condition. As we ourſelves are here ac⯑quainted with the wretched ſituation of the perſon, it gives us a lively idea and ſenſation of ſorrow, which is the paſſion that gene⯑rally attends it; and this idea becomes ſtill more lively, and the ſenſation more violent by a contraſt with that ſecurity and indif⯑ference, which we obſerve in the perſon him⯑ſelf. A contraſt of any kind never fails to affect the imagination, eſpecially when pre⯑ſented by the ſubject; and 'tis on the ima⯑gination that pity entirely depends ^*.

SECT. VIII. Of malice and envy.

WE muſt now proceed to account for the paſſion of malice, which imi⯑tates the effects of hatred, as pity does thoſe of love; and gives us a joy in the ſufferings and miſeries of others, without any offence or injury on their part.

So little are men govern'd by reaſon in their ſentiments and opinions, that they al⯑ways judge more of objects by compariſon than from their intrinſic worth and value. When the mind conſiders, or is accuſtom'd to, any degree of perfection, whatever falls ſhort of it, tho' really eſteemable, has not⯑withſtanding the ſame effect upon the paſ⯑ſions, as what is defective and ill. This is an original quality of the ſoul, and ſimilar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. Let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the ſame water will, at the ſame time, ſeem both hot and cold, ac⯑cording to the diſpoſition of the different organs. A ſmall degree of any quality, ſucceeding a greater, produces the ſame ſen⯑ſation, [170] as if leſs than it really is, and even ſometimes as the oppoſite quality. Any gentle pain, that follows a violent one, ſeems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleaſure; as on the other hand a violent pain, ſucceed⯑ing a gentle one, is doubly grievous and un⯑eaſy.

THIS no one can doubt of with regard to our paſſions and ſenſations. But there may ariſe ſome difficulty with regard to our ideas and objects. When an object augments or diminiſhes to the eye or ima⯑gination from a compariſon with others, the image and idea of the object are ſtill the ſame, and are equally extended in the retina, and in the brain or organ of per⯑ception. The eyes refract the rays of light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very ſame manner, whe⯑ther a great or ſmall object has preceded; nor does even the imagination alter the di⯑menſions of its object on account of a com⯑pariſon with others. The queſtion then is, how from the ſame impreſſion and the ſame idea we can form ſuch different judgments concerning the ſame object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at another deſpiſe its littleneſs. This variation in our judgments [171] muſt certainly proceed from a variation in ſome perception; but as the variation lies not in the immediate impreſſion or idea of the object, it muſt lie in ſome other im⯑preſſion, that accompanies it.

IN order to explain this matter, I ſhall juſt touch upon two principles, one of which ſhall be more fully explain'd in the pro⯑greſs of this treatiſe; the other has been already accounted for. I believe it may ſafely be eſtabliſh'd for a general maxim, that no object is preſented to the ſenſes, nor image form'd in the fancy, but what is accompany'd with ſome emotion or move⯑ment of ſpirits proportion'd to it; and how⯑ever cuſtom may make us inſenſible of this ſenſation, and cauſe us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be eaſy, by careful and exact experiments, to ſeparate and diſtinguiſh them. For to inſtance only in the caſes of extenſion and number; 'tis evident, that any very bulky object, ſuch as the ocean, an extended plain, a vaſt chain of mountains, a wide foreſt; or any very numerous collection of objects, ſuch as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a ſenſible emotion; and that the admiration, which ariſes on the appearance of ſuch ob⯑jects, [172] is one of the moſt lively pleaſures, which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now as this admiration encreaſes or di⯑miniſhes by the encreaſe or diminution of the objects, we may conclude, according to our foregoing ^* principles, that 'tis a com⯑pound effect, proceeding from the conjunc⯑tion of the ſeveral effects, which ariſe from each part of the cauſe. Every part, then, of extenſion, and every unite of number has a ſeparate emotion attending it, when con⯑ceiv'd by the mind; and tho' that emotion be not always agreeable, yet by its conjunc⯑tion with others, and by its agitating the ſpirits to a juſt pitch, it contributes to the production of admiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allow'd with reſpect to extenſion and number, we can make no difficulty with reſpect to virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happineſs and miſery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with an evident emotion.

THE ſecond principle I ſhall take notice of is that of our adherence to general rules; which has ſuch a mighty influence on the actions and underſtanding, and is able to [173] impoſe on the very ſenſes. When an object is found by experience to be always accom⯑pany'd with another; whenever the firſt object appears, tho' chang'd in very mate⯑rial circumſtances; we naturally fly to the conception of the ſecond, and form an idea of it in as lively and ſtrong a manner, as if we had infer'd its exiſtence by the juſteſt and moſt authentic concluſion of our un⯑derſtanding. Nothing can undeceive us, not even our ſenſes, which, inſtead of cor⯑recting this falſe judgment, are often per⯑verted by it, and ſeem to authorize its er⯑rors.

THE concluſion I draw from theſe two principles, join'd to the influence of com⯑pariſon above-mention'd, is very ſhort and deciſive. Every object is attended with ſome emotion proportion'd to it; a great object with a great emotion, a ſmall object with a ſmall emotion. A great object, therefore, ſucceeding a ſmall one makes a great emo⯑tion ſucceed a ſmall one. Now a great e⯑motion ſucceeding a ſmall one becomes ſtill greater, and riſes beyond its ordinary pro⯑portion. But as there is a certain degree of an emotion, which commonly attends every magnitude of an object; when the emotion [174] encreaſes, we naturally imagine that the ob⯑ject has likewiſe encreas'd. The effect con⯑veys our view to its uſual cauſe, a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor do we conſider, that compa⯑riſon may change the emotion without changing any thing in the object. Thoſe, who are acquainted with the metaphyſical part of optics, and know how we transfer the judgments and concluſions of the under⯑ſtanding to the ſenſes, will eaſily conceive this whole operation.

BUT leaving this new diſcovery of an impreſſion, that ſecretly attends every idea; we muſt at leaſt allow of that principle, from whence the diſcovery aroſe, that ob⯑jects appear greater or leſs by a compariſon with others. We have ſo many inſtances of this, that it is impoſſible we can diſpute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle I de⯑rive the paſſions of malice and envy.

'TIS evident we muſt receive a greater or leſs ſatisfaction or uneaſineſs from reflect⯑ing on our own condition and circumſtances, in proportion as they appear more or leſs fortunate or unhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and reputation, which we think ourſelves poſ⯑ſeſt [175] of. Now as we ſeldom judge of ob⯑jects from their intrinſic value, but form our notions of them from a compariſon with other objects; it follows, that according as we obſerve a greater or leſs ſhare of happi⯑pineſs or miſery in others, we muſt make an eſtimate of our own, and feel a conſe⯑quent pain or pleaſure. The miſery of an⯑other gives us a more lively idea of our hap⯑pineſs, and his happineſs of our miſery. The former, therefore, produces delight; and the latter uneaſineſs.

HERE then is a kind of pity reverſt, or contrary ſenſations ariſing in the beholder, from thoſe which are felt by the perſon, whom he conſiders. In general we may obſerve, that in all kinds of compariſon an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compar'd, a ſenſation contrary to what ariſes from itſelf in its direct and immediate ſurvey. A ſmall object makes a great one appear ſtill greater. A great ob⯑ject makes a little one appear leſs. Defor⯑mity of itſelf produces uneaſineſs; but makes us receive new pleaſure by its contraſt with a beautiful object, whoſe beauty is augment⯑ed by it; as on the other hand, beauty, which of itſelf produces pleaſure, makes us receive [176] a new pain by the contraſt with any thing ugly, whoſe deformity it augments. The caſe, therefore, muſt be the ſame with hap⯑pineſs and miſery. The direct ſurvey of an⯑other's pleaſure naturally gives us pleaſure, and therefore produces pain when com⯑par'd with our own. His pain, conſider'd in itſelf, is painful to us, but augments the idea of our own happineſs, and gives us pleaſure.

NOR will it appear ſtrange, that we may feel a reverſt ſenſation from the happineſs and miſery of others; ſince we find the ſame compariſon may give us a kind of malice againſt ourſelves, and make us rejoice for our pains, and grieve for our pleaſures. Thus the proſpect of paſt pain is agreeable, when we are ſatisfy'd with our preſent condition; as on the other hand our paſt pleaſures give us uneaſineſs, when we enjoy nothing at preſent equal to them. The compariſon be⯑ing the ſame, as when we reflect on the ſentiments of others, muſt be attended with the ſame effects.

NAY a perſon may extend this malice againſt himſelf, even to his preſent fortune, and carry it ſo far as deſignedly to ſeek af⯑fliction, and encreaſe his pains and ſorrows. [177] This may happen upon two occaſions. Firſt, Upon the diſtreſs and misfortune of a friend, or perſon dear to him. Secondly, Upon the feeling any remorſes for a crime, of which he has been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of compariſon that both theſe irregular appetites for evil ariſe. A perſon, who in⯑dulges himſelf in any pleaſure, while his friend lies under affliction, feels the reflected uneaſineſs from his friend more ſenſibly by a compariſon with the original pleaſure, which he himſelf enjoys. This contraſt, indeed, ought alſo to inliven the preſent pleaſure. But as grief is here ſuppos'd to be the predominant paſſion, every addition falls to that ſide, and is ſwallow'd up in it, with⯑out operating in the leaſt upon the contrary affection. 'Tis the ſame caſe with thoſe penances, which men inflict on themſelves for their paſt ſins and failings. When a criminal reflects on the puniſhment he de⯑ſerves, the idea of it is magnify'd by a com⯑pariſon with his preſent eaſe and ſatisfac⯑tion; which forces him, in a manner, to ſeek uneaſineſs, in order to avoid ſo diſagreeable a contraſt.

THIS reaſoning will account for the ori⯑gin of envy as well as of malice. The only [178] difference betwixt theſe paſſions lies in this, that envy is excited by ſome preſent enjoy⯑ment of another, which by compariſon di⯑miniſhes our idea of our own: Whereas malice is the unprovok'd deſire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a pleaſure from the compariſon. The enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly ſuperior to our own. A ſuperiority naturally ſeems to overſhade us, and preſents a diſagreeable compariſon. But even in the caſe of an inferiority, we ſtill deſire a greater diſtance, in order to augment ſtill more the idea of ourſelf. When this diſtance diminiſhes, the compariſon is leſs to our advantage; and conſequently gives us leſs pleaſure, and is even diſagreeable. Hence ariſes that ſpecies of envy, which men feel, when they per⯑ceive their inferiors approaching or overtak⯑ing them in the purſuit of glory or hap⯑pineſs. In this envy we may ſee the effects of compariſon twice repeated. A man, who compares himſelf to his inferior, receives a pleaſure from the compariſon: And when the inferiority decreaſes by the elevation of the inferior, what ſhou'd only have been a decreaſe of pleaſure, becomes a real pain, by a new compariſon with its preceding con⯑dition.

[179] 'TIS worthy of obſervation concern⯑ing that envy, which ariſes from a ſuperi⯑ority in others, that 'tis not the great diſ⯑proportion betwixt ourſelf and another, which produces it; but on the contrary, our proximity. A common ſoldier bears no ſuch envy to his general as to his ſergeant or cor⯑poral; nor does an eminent writer meet with ſo great jealouſy in common hackney ſcriblers, as in authors, that more nearly approach him. It may, indeed, be thought, that the greater the diſproportion is, the greater muſt be the uneaſineſs from the compariſon. But we may conſider on the other hand, that the great diſproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing ourſelves with what is remote from us, or diminiſhes the effects of the compariſon. Reſemblance and proximity always produce a relation of ideas; and where you deſtroy theſe ties, however other accidents may bring two ideas together; as they have no bond or connecting quality to join them in the ima⯑gination; 'tis impoſſible they can remain long united, or have any conſiderable influ⯑ence on each other.

I HAVE obſerv'd in conſidering the na⯑ture of ambition, that the great feel a double [180] pleaſure in authority from the compariſon of their own condition with that of their ſlaves; and that this compariſon has a double influence, becauſe 'tis natural, and preſented by the ſubject. When the fancy, in the compariſon of objects, paſſes not eaſily from the one object to the other, the action of the mind is, in a great meaſure, broke, and the fancy, in conſidering the ſecond object, begins, as it were, upon a new footing. The im⯑preſſion, which attends every object, ſeems not greater in that caſe by ſucceeding a leſs of the ſame kind; but theſe two impreſ⯑ſions are diſtinct, and produce their diſtinct effects, without any communication toge⯑ther. The want of relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impreſſions, and by ſuch a ſeparation prevents their mutual operation and influence.

To confirm this we may obſerve, that the proximity in the degree of merit is not alone ſufficient to give riſe to envy, but muſt be aſſiſted by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philoſopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or of a different age. All theſe differences prevent or weaken the compariſon, and conſequently the paſſion.

[181] THIS too is the reaſon, why all objects appear great or little, merely by a compa⯑riſon with thoſe of the ſame ſpecies. A mountain neither magnifies nor diminiſhes a horſe in our eyes; but when a Flemiſh and a Welſh horſe are ſeen together, the one appears greater and the other leſs, than when view'd apart.

FROM the ſame principle we may ac⯑count for that remark of hiſtorians, that any party in a civil war always chooſe to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard rather than ſubmit to their fellow-citizens. Guic⯑ciardin applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt the dif⯑ferent ſtates are, properly ſpeaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. Yet even theſe relations, when join'd with ſu⯑periority, by making the compariſon more natural, make it likewiſe more grievous, and cauſe men to ſearch for ſome other ſuperi⯑ority, which may be attended with no re⯑lation, and by that means may have a leſs ſenſible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives its ſeveral advan⯑tages and diſadvantages; and finding its ſi⯑tuation to be moſt uneaſy, where ſuperiority is conjoin'd with other relations, ſeeks its [182] repoſe as much as poſſible, by their ſepara⯑tion, and by breaking that aſſociation of ideas, which renders the compariſon ſo much more natural and efficacious. When it can⯑not break the aſſociation, it feels a ſtronger deſire to remove the ſuperiority; and this is the reaſon why travellers are commonly ſo laviſh of their praiſes to the Chineſe and Per⯑ſians, at the ſame time, that they depre⯑ciate thoſe neighbouring nations, which may ſtand upon a foot of rivalſhip with their native country.

THESE examples from hiſtory and com⯑mon experience are rich and curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no leſs remarkable. Shou'd an author compoſe a treatiſe, of which one part was ſerious and profound, another light and hu⯑morous, every one wou'd condemn ſo ſtrange a mixture, and wou'd accuſe him of the neglect of all rules of art and criticiſm. Theſe rules of art are founded on the qua⯑lities of human nature; and the quality of human nature, which requires a conſiſtency in every performance, is that which renders the mind incapable of paſſing in a mo⯑ment from one paſſion and diſpoſition to a quite different one. Yet this makes us [183] not blame Mr. Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in the ſame volume; tho' that admirable poet has ſucceeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even ſup⯑poſing the reader ſhou'd peruſe theſe two compoſitions without any interval, he wou'd feel little or no difficulty in the change of paſſions: Why, but becauſe he conſiders theſe performances as entirely different, and by this break in the ideas, breaks the pro⯑greſs of the affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other?

AN heroic and burleſque deſign, united in one picture, wou'd be monſtrous; tho' we place two pictures of ſo oppoſite a character in the ſame chamber, and even cloſe by each other, without any ſcruple or difficulty.

IN a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by compariſon, or by the paſ⯑ſions they ſeparately produce, unleſs they be united together by ſome relation, which may cauſe an eaſy tranſition of the ideas, and conſequently of the emotions or impreſſions, attending the ideas; and may preſerve the one impreſſion in the paſſage of the ima⯑gination to the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, becauſe it is [184] analogous to what we have obſerv'd both concerning the underſtanding and the paſ⯑ſions. Suppoſe two objects to be preſented to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. Suppoſe that each of theſe objects ſeparately produces a paſſion; and that theſe two paſſions are in themſelves contrary: We find from experience, that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety of the paſſi⯑ons, and that the break in the tranſition of the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their oppoſition. 'Tis the ſame caſe with compariſon; and from both theſe phaenomena we may ſafely conclude, that the relation of ideas muſt forward the tranſition of impreſſions; ſince its abſence alone is able to prevent it, and to ſeparate what naturally ſhou'd have operated upon each other. When the abſence of an object or quality removes any uſual or na⯑tural effect, we may certainly conclude that its preſence contributes to the production of the effect.

SECT. IX. Of the mixture of benevolence and anger with compaſſion and malice.

THUS we have endeavour'd to ac⯑count for pity and malice. Both theſe affections ariſe from the imagination, according to the light, in which it places its object. When our fancy conſiders directly the ſentiments of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us ſenſible of all the paſſions it ſurveys, but in a particular man⯑ner of grief or ſorrow. On the contrary, when we compare the ſentiments of others to our own, we feel a ſenſation directly op⯑poſite to the original one, viz. a joy from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But theſe are only the firſt founda⯑tions of the affections of pity and malice. Other paſſions are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture of love or tenderneſs with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. But it muſt be con⯑feſs'd, that this mixture ſeems at firſt ſight to be contradictory to my ſyſtem. For as [186] pity is an uneaſineſs, and malice a joy, ari⯑ſing from the miſery of others, pity ſhou'd naturally, as in all other caſes, produce ha⯑tred; and malice, love. This contradiction I endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner.

IN order to cauſe a tranſition of paſſions, there is requir'd a double relation of im⯑preſſions and ideas, nor is one relation ſuf⯑ficient to produce this effect. But that we may underſtand the full force of this double re⯑lation, we muſt conſider, that 'tis not the preſent ſenſation alone or momentary pain or pleaſure, which determines the character of any paſſion, but the whole bent or ten⯑dency of it from the beginning to the end. One impreſſion may be related to another, not only when their ſenſations are reſemb⯑ling, as we have all along ſuppos'd in the preceding caſes; but alſo when their im⯑pulſes or directions are ſimilar and corre⯑ſpondent. This cannot take place with re⯑gard to pride and humility; becauſe theſe are only pure ſenſations, without any direc⯑tion or tendency to action. We are, there⯑fore, to look for inſtances of this peculiar relation of impreſſions only in ſuch affec⯑tions, as are attended with a certain appe⯑tite [187] or deſire; ſuch as thoſe of love and ha⯑tred.

BENEVOLENCE or the appetite, which attends love, is a deſire of the happineſs of the perſon belov'd, and an averſion to his miſery; as anger or the appetite, which at⯑tends hatred, is a deſire of the miſery of the perſon hated, and an averſion to his happi⯑neſs. A deſire, therefore, of the happineſs of another, and averſion to his miſery, are ſimilar to benevolence; and a deſire of his miſery and averſion to his happineſs are cor⯑reſpondent to anger. Now pity is a deſire of happineſs to another, and averſion to his miſery; as malice is the contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence; and malice to anger: And as benevolence has been already found to be connected with love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred; 'tis by this chain the paſſions of pity and malice are connected with love and hatred.

THIS hypotheſis is founded on ſuffi⯑cient experience. A man, who from any motives has entertain'd a reſolution of per⯑forming an action, naturally runs into eve⯑ry other view or motive, which may forti⯑fy that reſolution, and give it authority and [188] influence on the mind. To confirm us in any deſign, we ſearch for motives drawn from intereſt, from honour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevo⯑lence, malice, and anger, being the ſame deſires ariſing from different principles, ſhou'd ſo totally mix together as to be un⯑diſtinguiſhable? As to the connexion be⯑twixt benevolence and love, anger and ha⯑tred, being original and primary, it admits of no difficulty.

WE may add to this another experi⯑ment, viz. that benevolence and anger, and conſequently love and hatred, ariſe when our happineſs or miſery have any dependance on the happineſs or miſery of another perſon, without any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will appear ſo ſingular as to excuſe us for ſtopping a moment to conſider it.

SUPPOSE, that two perſons of the ſame trade ſhou'd ſeek employment in a town, that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the ſucceſs of one is perfectly incompa⯑tible with that of the other, and that what⯑ever is for the intereſt of either is contrary to that of his rival, and ſo vice verſa. Sup⯑poſe again, that two merchants, tho' living [189] in different parts of the world, ſhou'd en⯑ter into co-partnerſhip together, the advan⯑tage or loſs of one becomes immediately the advantage or loſs of his partner, and the ſame fortune neceſſarily attends both. Now 'tis evident, that in the firſt caſe, ha⯑tred always follows upon the contrariety of intereſts; as in the ſecond, love ariſes from their union. Let us conſider to what prin⯑ciple we can aſcribe theſe paſſions.

'TIS plain they ariſe not from the dou⯑ble relations of impreſſions and ideas, if we regard only the preſent ſenſation. For take⯑ing the firſt caſe of rivalſhip; tho' the pleaſure and advantage of an antagoniſt ne⯑ceſſarily cauſes my pain and loſs, yet to counter-ballance this, his pain and loſs cauſes my pleaſure and advantage; and ſup⯑poſing him to be unſucceſsful, I may by this means receive from him a ſuperior de⯑gree of ſatisfaction. In the ſame manner the ſucceſs of a partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal proportion; and 'tis eaſy to imagine, that the latter ſentiment may in many caſes pre⯑ponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner be good or bad, I always hate the former and love the latter.

[190] THIS love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion betwixt us; in the ſame manner as I love a brother or countryman. A rival has almoſt as cloſe a relation to me as a partner. For as the pleaſure of the latter cauſes my pleaſure, and his pain my pain; ſo the pleaſure of the for⯑mer cauſes my pain, and his pain my plea⯑ſure. The connexion, then, of cauſe and ef⯑fect is the ſame in both caſes; and if in the one caſe, the cauſe and effect has a far⯑ther relation of reſemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being alſo a ſpecies of reſemblance, leaves the mat⯑ter pretty equal.

THE only explication, then, we can give of this phaenomenon is deriv'd from that principle of a parallel direction above⯑mention'd. Our concern for our own in⯑tereſt gives us a pleaſure in the pleaſure, and a pain in the pain of a partner, after the ſame manner as by ſympathy we feel a ſenſation correſpondent to thoſe, which ap⯑pear in any perſon, who is preſent with us. On the other hand, the ſame concern for our intereſt makes us feel a pain in the pleaſure, and a pleaſure in the pain of a rival; and in ſhort the ſame contrariety of [191] ſentiments as ariſes from compariſon and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel direc⯑tion of the affections, proceeding from in⯑tereſt, can give riſe to benevolence or an⯑ger, no wonder the ſame parallel direction, deriv'd from ſympathy and from compariſon, ſhou'd have the ſame effect.

IN general we may obſerve, that 'tis im⯑poſſible to do good to others, from whatever motive, without feeling ſome touches of kindneſs and good-will towards 'em; as the injuries we do, not only cauſe hatred in the perſon, who ſuffers them, but even in ourſelves. Theſe phaenomena, indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.

BUT here there occurs a conſiderable objection, which 'twill be neceſſary to exa⯑mine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavour'd to prove, that power and riches, or poverty and meanneſs; which give riſe to love or hatred, without producing any original pleaſure or uneaſineſs; operate upon us by means of a ſecondary ſenſation de⯑riv'd from a ſympathy with that pain or ſatisfaction, which they produce in the per⯑ſon, who poſſeſſes them. From a ſympa⯑thy with his pleaſure there ariſes love; from that with his uneaſineſs, hatred. But 'tis [192] a maxim, which I have juſt now eſta⯑bliſh'd, and which is abſolutely neceſſary to the explication of the phaenomena of pity and malice, ‘That 'tis not the preſent ſenſation or momentary pain or pleaſure, which determines the character of any paſſion, but the general bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end.’ For this reaſon, pity or a ſympathy with pain produces love, and that becauſe it in⯑tereſts us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a ſecondary ſenſation cor⯑reſpondent to the primary; in which it has the ſame influence with love and benevo⯑lence. Since then this rule holds good in one caſe, why does it not prevail through⯑out, and why does ſympathy in uneaſineſs ever produce any paſſion beſide good-will and kindneſs? Is it becoming a philoſopher to alter his method of reaſoning, and run from one principle to its contrary, accord⯑ing to the particular phaenomenon, which he wou'd explain?

I HAVE mention'd two different cauſes, from which a tranſition of paſſion may a⯑riſe, viz. a double relation of ideas and im⯑preſſions, and what is ſimilar to it, a con⯑formity in the tendency and direction of any [193] two deſires, which ariſe from different prin⯑ciples. Now I aſſert, that when a ſympa⯑thy with uneaſineſs is weak, it produces ha⯑tred or contempt by the former cauſe; when ſtrong, it produces love or tenderneſs by the latter. This is the ſolution of the foregoing difficulty, which ſeems ſo urgent; and this is a principle founded on ſuch e⯑vident arguments, that we ought to have eſtabliſh'd it, even tho' it were not ne⯑ceſſary to the explication of any phaenome⯑non.

'TIS certain, that ſympathy is not al⯑ways limited to the preſent moment, but that we often feel by communication the pains and pleaſures of others, which are not in being, and which we only an⯑ticipate by the force of imagination. For ſuppoſing I ſaw a perſon perfectly unknown to me, who, while aſleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under foot by horſes, I ſhou'd immediately run to his aſſiſtance; and in this I ſhou'd be actuated by the ſame principle of ſympathy, which makes me concern'd for the preſent ſorrows of a ſtranger. The bare mention of this is ſufficient. Sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an impreſſion, 'tis [194] evident, that, in conſidering the future poſ⯑ſible or probable condition of any perſon, we may enter into it with ſo vivid a con⯑ception as to make it our own concern; and by that means be ſenſible of pains and pleaſures, which neither belong to ourſelves, nor at the preſent inſtant have any real ex⯑iſtence.

BUT however we may look forward to the future in ſympathizing with any per⯑ſon, the extending of our ſympathy de⯑pends in a great meaſure upon our ſenſe of his preſent condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination, to form ſuch lively ideas even of the preſent ſentiments of others as to feel theſe very ſentiments; but 'tis impoſſible we cou'd extend this ſympathy to the future, without being aided by ſome circumſtance in the preſent, which ſtrikes upon us in a live⯑ly manner. When the preſent miſery of another has any ſtrong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is not con⯑fin'd merely to its immediate object, but dif⯑fuſes its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of all the cir⯑cumſtances of that perſon, whether paſt, preſent, or future; poſſible, probable or certain. By means of this lively notion I [195] am intereſted in them; take part with them; and feel a ſympathetic motion in my breaſt, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I diminiſh the vivacity of the firſt concep⯑tion, I diminiſh that of the related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what ariſes at the fountain. By this diminution I deſtroy the future proſpect, which is ne⯑ceſſary to intereſt me perfectly in the for⯑tune of another. I may feel the preſent impreſſion, but carry my ſympathy no far⯑ther, and never transfuſe the force of the firſt conception into my ideas of the related objects. If it be another's miſery, which is preſented in this feeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all the paſſions related to it: But as I am not ſo much intereſted as to concern my⯑ſelf in his good fortune, as well as his bad, I never feel the extenſive ſympathy, nor the paſſions related to it.

NOW in order to know what paſſions are related to theſe different kinds of ſympathy, we muſt conſider, that benevolence is an original pleaſure ariſing from the pleaſure of the perſon belov'd, and a pain proceeding from his pain: From which correſpondence of impreſſions there ariſes a ſubſequent de⯑ſire [196] of his pleaſure, and averſion to his pain. In order, then, to make, a paſſion run parallel with benevolence, 'tis requiſite we ſhou'd feel theſe double impreſſions, correſpondent to thoſe of the perſon, whom we conſider; nor is any one of them alone ſufficient for that purpoſe. When we ſym⯑pathize only with one impreſſion, and that a painful one, this ſympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon account of the uneaſineſs it conveys to us. But as the ex⯑tenſive or limited ſympathy depends upon the force of the firſt ſympathy; it follows, that the paſſion of love or hatred depends upon the ſame principle. A ſtrong impreſ⯑ſion, when communicated, gives a double tendency of the paſſions; which is related to benevolence and love by a ſimilarity of direction; however painful the firſt impreſ⯑ſion might have been. A weak impreſſion, that is painful, is related to anger and hatred by the reſemblance of ſenſations. Benevo⯑lence, therefore, ariſes from a great degree of miſery, or any degree ſtrongly ſympa⯑thiz'd with: Hatred or contempt from a ſmall degree, or one weakly ſympathiz'd with; which is the principle I intended to prove and explain.

[197] NOR have we only our reaſon to truſt to for this principle, but alſo experience. A certain degree of poverty produces con⯑tempt; but a degree beyond cauſes compaſ⯑ſion and good-will. We may under-value a peaſant or ſervant; but when the miſery of a beggar appears very great, or is painted in very lively colours, we ſympathize with him in his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and benevolence. The ſame object cauſes contrary paſſions according to its different degrees. The paſ⯑ſions, therefore, muſt depend upon princi⯑ples, that operate in ſuch certain degrees, according to my hypotheſis. The encreaſe of the ſympathy has evidently the ſame ef⯑fect as the encreaſe of the miſery.

A BARREN or deſolate country always ſeems ugly and diſagreeable, and common⯑ly inſpires us with contempt for the inha⯑bitants. This deformity, however, pro⯑ceeds in a great meaſure from a ſympathy with the inhabitants, as has been already ob⯑ſerv'd; but it is only a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate ſenſation, which is diſagreeable. The view of a city in aſhes conveys benevolent ſentiments; be⯑cauſe we there enter ſo deep into the inte⯑reſts [198] of the miſerable inhabitants, as to wiſh for their proſperity, as well as feel their ad⯑verſity.

BUT tho' the force of the impreſſion ge⯑nerally produces pity and benevolence, 'tis certain, that by being carry'd too far it ceaſes to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the uneaſineſs is either ſmall in itſelf, or remote from us, it engages not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the future and contingent good, as for the preſent and real evil. Upon its acquiring greater force, we become ſo intereſted in the concerns of the perſon, as to be ſenſible both of his good and bad fortune; and from that com⯑pleat ſympathy there ariſes pity and bene⯑volence. But 'twill eaſily be imagin'd, that where the preſent evil ſtrikes with more than ordinary force, it may entirely en⯑gage our attention, and prevent that double ſympathy, above-mention'd. Thus we find, that tho' every one, but eſpecially women, are apt to contract a kindneſs for criminals, who go to the ſcaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handſome and well-ſhap'd; yet one, who is preſent at the cruel execution of the [199] rack, feels no ſuch tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with horror, and has no leiſure to temper this uneaſy ſenſa⯑tion by any oppoſite ſympathy.

BUT the inſtance, which makes the moſt clearly for my hypotheſis, is that wherein by a change of the objects we ſe⯑parate the double ſympathy even from a midling degree of the paſſion; in which caſe we find, that pity, inſtead of producing love and tenderneſs as uſual, always gives riſe to the contrary affection. When we obſerve a perſon in misfortunes, we are affected with pity and love; but the au⯑thor of that misfortune becomes the ob⯑ject of our ſtrongeſt hatred, and is the more deteſted in proportion to the de⯑gree of our compaſſion. Now for what reaſon ſhou'd the ſame paſſion of pity pro⯑duce love to the perſon, who ſuffers the misfortune, and hatred to the perſon, who cauſes it; unleſs it be becauſe in the latter caſe the author bears a relation only to the mis⯑fortune; whereas in conſidering the ſuffer⯑er we carry our view on every ſide, and wiſh for his proſperity, as well as are ſenſi⯑ble of his affliction?

[200] I SHALL juſt obſerve, before I leave the preſent ſubject, that this phaenomenon of the double ſympathy, and its tendency to cauſe love, may contribute to the produc⯑tion of the kindneſs, which we naturally bear our relations and acquaintance. Cuſtom and relation make us enter deeply into the ſentiments of others; and whatever fortune we ſuppoſe to attend them, is render'd preſent to us by the imagination, and ope⯑rates as if originally our own. We re⯑joice in their pleaſures, and grieve for their ſorrows, merely from the force of ſympathy. Nothing that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correſpon⯑dence of ſentiments is the natural atten⯑dant of love, it readily produces that af⯑fection.

SECT. X. Of reſpect and contempt.

THERE now remains only to explain the paſſions of reſpect and contempt, along with the amorous affection, in order to underſtand all the paſſions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us be⯑gin with reſpect and contempt.

IN conſidering the qualities and circum⯑ſtances of others, we may either regard them as they really are in themſelves; or may make a compariſon betwixt them and our own qualities and circumſtances; or may join theſe two methods of conſideration. The good qualities of others, from the firſt point of view, produce love; from the ſe⯑cond, humility; and from the third, reſpect; which is a mixture of theſe two paſſions. Their bad qualities, after the ſame manner, cauſe either hatred, or pride, or contempt, according to the light in which we ſurvey them.

THAT there is a mixture of pride in con⯑tempt, and of humility in reſpect, is, I think, [202] too evident, from their very feeling or ap⯑pearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture ariſes from a tacit com⯑pariſon of the perſon contemn'd or reſpected with ourſelves is no leſs evident. The ſame man may cauſe either reſpect, love, or con⯑tempt by his condition and talents, accord⯑ing as the perſon, who conſiders him, from his inferior becomes his equal or ſuperior. In changing the point of view, tho' the ob⯑ject may remain the ſame, its proportion to ourſelves entirely alters; which is the cauſe of an alteration in the paſſions. Theſe paſ⯑ſions, therefore, ariſe from our obſerving the proportion; that is, from a compariſon.

I HAVE already obſerv'd, that the mind has a much ſtronger propenſity to pride than to humility, and have endeavour'd, from the principles of human nature, to aſſign a cauſe for this phaenomenon. Whe⯑ther my reaſoning be receiv'd or not, the phaenomenon is undiſputed, and appears in many inſtances. Among the reſt, 'tis the reaſon why there is a much greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in reſpect, and why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortify'd with the preſence of one above us. Con⯑tempt [203] or ſcorn has ſo ſtrong a tincture of pride, that there ſcarce is any other paſſion diſcernable: Whereas in eſteem or reſpect, love makes a more conſiderable ingredient than humility. The paſſion of vanity is ſo prompt, that it rouzes at the leaſt call; while humility requires a ſtronger impulſe to make it exert itſelf.

BUT here it may reaſonably be aſk'd, why this mixture takes place only in ſome caſes, and appears not on every occaſion. All thoſe objects, which cauſe love, when plac'd on another perſon, are the cauſes of pride, when transfer'd to ourſelves; and conſe⯑quently ought to be cauſes of humility, as well as love, while they belong to others, and are only compar'd to thoſe, which we ourſelves poſſeſs. In like manner every qua⯑lity, which, by being directly conſider'd, produces hatred, ought always to give riſe to pride by compariſon, and by a mixture of theſe paſſions of hatred and pride ought to excite contempt or ſcorn. The difficulty then is, why any objects ever cauſe pure love or hatred, and produce not always the mixt paſſions of reſpect and contempt.

I HAVE ſuppos'd all along, that the paſ⯑ſions of love and pride, and thoſe of hu⯑mility [204] and hatred are ſimilar in their ſen⯑ſations, and that the two former are always agreeable, and the two latter painful. But tho' this be univerſally true, 'tis obſervable, that the two agreeable, as well as the two painful paſſions, have ſome differences, and even contrarieties, which diſtinguiſh them. No⯑thing invigorates and exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; tho' at the ſame time love or tenderneſs is rather found to weaken and infeeble it. The ſame diffe⯑rence is obſervable betwixt the uneaſy paſ⯑ſions. Anger and hatred beſtow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and ſhame deject and diſ⯑courage us. Of theſe qualities of the paſ⯑ſions, 'twill be neceſſary to form a diſtinct idea. Let us remember, that pride and hatred invigorate the ſoul; and love and humility infeeble it.

FROM this it follows, that tho' the con⯑formity betwixt love and hatred in the a⯑greeableneſs of their ſenſation makes them always be excited by the ſame objects, yet this other contrariety is the reaſon, why they are excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are pleaſant and mag⯑nificent objects, and by both theſe circum⯑ſtances [205] are adapted to pride and vanity; but have a relation to love by their pleaſure on⯑ly. Ignorance and ſimplicity are diſagree⯑able and mean, which in the ſame manner gives them a double connexion with hu⯑mility, and a ſingle one with hatred. We may, therefore, conſider it as certain, that tho' the ſame object always produces love and pride, humility and hatred, ac⯑cording to its different ſituations, yet it ſel⯑dom produces either the two former or the two latter paſſions in the ſame proportion.

'TIS here we muſt ſeek for a ſolution of the difficulty above-mention'd, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and does not always produce reſpect or contempt, by a mixture of humility or pride. No quality in another gives riſe to humility by compariſon, unleſs it wou'd have produc'd pride by being plac'd in ourſelves; and vice verſa no object excites pride by com⯑pariſon, unleſs it wou'd have produc'd humility by the direct ſurvey. This is evi⯑dent, objects always produce by compariſon a ſenſation directly contrary to their origi⯑nal one. Suppoſe, therefore, an object to be preſented, which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite pride; [206] this object, belonging to another, gives riſe directly to a great degree of love, but to a ſmall one of humility by compariſon; and conſequently that latter paſſion is ſcarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert the love into reſpect. This is the caſe with good nature, good humour, facility, gene⯑roſity, beauty, and many other qualities. Theſe have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others; but not ſo great a tendency to excite pride in ourſelves: For which reaſon the view of them, as belonging to another perſon, produces pure love, with but a ſmall mixture of humility and reſpect. 'Tis eaſy to extend the ſame reaſoning to the oppoſite paſſions.

BEFORE we leave this ſubject, it may not be amiſs to account for a pretty curious phaenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a diſtance ſuch as we contemn, and al⯑low not our inferiors to approach too near even in place and ſituation. It has al⯑ready been obſerv'd, that almoſt every kind of idea is attended with ſome emotion, even the ideas of number and extenſion, much more thoſe of ſuch objects as are eſteem'd of conſequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with entire indifference we can ſur⯑vey [207] either a rich man or a poor one, but muſt feel ſome faint touches, at leaſt, of reſpect in the former caſe, and of contempt in the latter. Theſe two paſſions are contrary to each other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects muſt be ſome⯑way related; otherwiſe the affections are to⯑tally ſeparate and diſtinct, and never en⯑counter. The relation takes place wherever the perſons become contiguous; which is a general reaſon why we are uneaſy at ſee⯑ing ſuch diſproportion'd objects, as a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and a porter, in that ſituation.

THIS uneaſineſs, which is common to every ſpectator, muſt be more ſenſible to the ſuperior; and that becauſe the near approach of the inferior is regarded as a piece of ill⯑breeding, and ſhews that he is not ſenſible of the diſproportion, and is no way affected by it. A ſenſe of ſuperiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep themſelves at a diſtance from him, and de⯑termines them to redouble the marks of re⯑ſpect and reverence, when they are oblig'd to approach him; and where they do not obſerve that conduct, 'tis a proof they are not ſenſible of his ſuperiority. From hence [208] too it proceeds, that any great difference in the degrees of any quality is call'd a diſtance by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded on natural principles of the imagination. A great dif⯑ference inclines us to produce a diſtance. The ideas of diſtance and difference are, therefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for each other; and this is in general the ſource of the metaphor, as we ſhall have occaſion to obſerve after⯑wards.

SECT. XI. Of the amorous paſſion, or love be⯑twixt the ſexes.

OF all the compound paſſions, which proceed from a mixture of love and hatred with other affections, no one better de⯑ſerves our attention, than that love, which ariſes betwixt the ſexes, as well on account of its force and violence, as thoſe curious principles of philoſophy, for which it af⯑fords us an unconteſtable argument. 'Tis plain, that this affection, in its moſt natu⯑ral [209] ſtate, is deriv'd from the conjunction of three different impreſſions or paſſions, viz. The pleaſing ſenſation ariſing from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous kindneſs or good-will. The origin of kindneſs from beauty may be explain'd from the foregoing reaſoning. The queſtion is how the bodily appetite is excited by it.

THE appetite of generation, when con⯑fin'd to a certain degree, is evidently of the pleaſant kind, and has a ſtrong connexion with all the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindneſs are all incentives to this deſire; as well as muſic, dancing, wine, and good cheer. On the other hand, ſorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are deſtruc⯑tive of it. From this quality 'tis eaſily con⯑ceiv'd why it ſhou'd be connected with the ſenſe of beauty.

BUT there is another principle that con⯑tributes to the ſame effect. I have obſerv'd that the parallel direction of the deſires is a real relation, and no leſs than a reſemblance in their ſenſation, produces a connexion among them. That we may fully com⯑prehend the extent of this relation, we muſt conſider, that any principal deſire may be [210] attended with ſubordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to which if other deſires are parallel, they are by that means related to the principal one. Thus hunger may oft be conſider'd as the primary incli⯑nation of the ſoul, and the deſire of ap⯑proaching the meat as the ſecondary one; ſince 'tis abſolutely neceſſary to the ſatisfying that appetite. If an object, therefore, by any ſeparate qualities, inclines us to approach the meat, it naturally encreaſes our appetite; as on the contrary, whatever inclines us to ſet our victuals at a diſtance, is contradic⯑tory to hunger, and diminiſhes our inclina⯑tion to them. Now 'tis plain that beauty has the firſt effect, and deformity the ſe⯑cond: Which is the reaſon why the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals, and the latter is ſufficient to diſguſt us at the moſt ſavoury diſh, that cookery has invented. All this is eaſily applicable to the appetite for generation.

FROM theſe two relations, viz. reſemb⯑lance and a parallel deſire, there ariſes ſuch a connexion betwixt the ſenſe of beauty, the bodily appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inſeparable: And we find from experience, that 'tis in⯑different [211] which of them advances firſt; ſince any of them is almoſt ſure to be attended with the related affections. One, who is inflam'd with luſt, feels at leaſt a momen⯑tary kindneſs towards the object of it, and at the ſame time fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who be⯑gin with kindneſs and eſteem for the wit and merit of the perſon, and advance from that to the other paſſions. But the moſt common ſpecies of love is that which firſt ariſes from beauty, and afterwards diffuſes itſelf into kindneſs and into the bodily ap⯑petite. Kindneſs or eſteem, and the ap⯑petite to generation, are too remote to unite eaſily together. The one is, per⯑haps, the moſt refin'd paſſion of the ſoul; the other the moſt groſs and vulgar. The love of beauty is plac'd in a juſt medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures: From whence it proceeds, that 'tis ſo ſingularly fitted to produce both.

THIS account of love is not peculiar to my ſyſtem, but is unavoidable on any hy⯑potheſis. The three affections, which com⯑poſe this paſſion, are evidently diſtinct, and has each of them its diſtinct object. 'Tis certain, therefore, that 'tis only by their re⯑lation [212] they produce each other. But the relation of paſſions is not alone ſufficient. 'Tis likewiſe neceſſary, there ſhou'd be a relation of ideas. The beauty of one per⯑ſon never inſpires us with love for another. This then is a ſenſible proof of the double relation of impreſſions and ideas. From one inſtance ſo evident as this we may form a judgment of the reſt.

THIS may alſo ſerve in another view to illuſtrate what I have inſiſted on concern⯑ing the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have obſerv'd, that tho' ſelf be the object of the firſt ſet of paſſions, and ſome other perſon of the ſecond, yet theſe objects cannot alone be the cauſes of the paſſions; as having each of them a relation to two contrary affections, which muſt from the very firſt moment deſtroy each other. Here then is the ſituation of the mind, as I have already deſcrib'd it. It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a paſſion; that paſſion, when produc'd, naturally turns the view to a certain object. But this not being ſufficient to produce the paſſion, there is requir'd ſome other emotion, which by a double relation of impreſſions and ideas may ſet theſe principles in action, and be⯑ſtow [213] on them their firſt impulſe. This ſi⯑tuation is ſtill more remarkable with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object, but alſo the cauſe of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it, when actuated by that appetite; but the re⯑flecting on it ſuffices to excite the appetite. But as this cauſe loſes its force by too great frequency, 'tis neceſſary it ſhou'd be quick⯑en'd by ſome new impulſe; and that im⯑pulſe we find to ariſe from the beauty of the perſon; that is, from a double relation of impreſſions and ideas. Since this double relation is neceſſary where an affection has both a diſtinct cauſe, and object, how much more ſo, where it has only a diſtinct ob⯑ject, without any determinate cauſe?

SECT. XII. Of the love and hatred of ani⯑mals.

BUT to paſs from the paſſions of love and hatred, and from their mixtures and compoſitions, as they appear in man, to the ſame affections, as they diſplay them⯑ſelves [214] in brutes; we may obſerve, not on⯑ly that love and hatred are common to the whole ſenſitive creation, but likewiſe that their cauſes, as above-explain'd, are of ſo ſimple a nature, that they may eaſily be ſuppos'd to operate on mere animals. There is no force of reflection or penetration re⯑quir'd. Every thing is conducted by ſprings and principles, which are not peculiar to man, or any one ſpecies of animals. The concluſion from this is obvious in favour of the foregoing ſyſtem.

LOVE in animals, has not for its only object animals of the ſame ſpecies, but ex⯑tends itſelf farther, and comprehends almoſt every ſenſible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own ſpe⯑cies, and very commonly meets with a re⯑turn of affection.

AS animals are but little ſuſceptible either of the pleaſures or pains of the imagina⯑tion, they can judge of objects only by the ſenſible good or evil, which they produce, and from that muſt regulate their affections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that by feeding and cheriſhing any animal, we quickly acquire [215] his affections; as by beating and abuſing him we never fail to draw on us his en⯑mity and ill-will.

LOVE in beaſts is not caus'd ſo much by relation, as in our ſpecies; and that be⯑cauſe their thoughts are not ſo active as to trace relations, except in very obvious in⯑ſtances. Yet 'tis eaſy to remark, that on ſome occaſions it has a conſiderable influ⯑ence upon them. Thus acquaintance, which has the ſame effect as relation, always pro⯑duces love in animals either to men or to each other. For the ſame reaſon any like⯑neſs among them is the ſource of affection. An ox confin'd to a park with horſes, will naturally join their company, if I may ſo ſpeak, but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own ſpecies, where he has the choice of both.

THE affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar inſtinct in ani⯑mals, as well as in our ſpecies.

'TIS evident, that ſympathy, or the com⯑munication of paſſions, takes place among animals, no leſs than among men. Fear, an⯑ger, courage and other affections are fre⯑quently communicated from one animal to another, without their knowledge of that [216] cauſe, which produc'd the original paſ⯑ſion. Grief likewiſe is receiv'd by ſym⯑pathy; and produces almoſt all the ſame conſequences, and excites the ſame emo⯑tions as in our ſpecies. The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a ſenſible concern in his fellows. And 'tis remark⯑able, that tho' almoſt all animals uſe in play the ſame member, and nearly the ſame action as in fighting; a lion, a tyger, a cat their paws; an ox his horns; a dog his teeth; a horſe his heels: Yet they moſt carefully avoid harming their companion, even tho' they have nothing to fear from his reſentment; which is an evident proof of the ſenſe brutes have of each other's pain and pleaſure.

EVERY one has obſerv'd how much more dogs are animated when they hunt in a pack, than when they purſue their game apart; and 'tis evident this can pro⯑ceed from nothing but from ſympathy. 'Tis alſo well known to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in too great a degree, where two packs, that are ſtrangers to each other, are join'd together. We might, perhaps, be at a loſs to explain this phaenomenon, if we [217] had not experience of a ſimilar in our⯑ſelves.

ENVY and malice are paſſions very re⯑markable in animals. They are perhaps more common than pity; as requiring leſs effort of thought and imagination.

SECT. I. Of liberty and neceſſity.

WE come now to explain the direct paſſions, or the impreſſions, which ariſe immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleaſure. Of this kind are, deſire and averſion, grief and joy, hope and fear.

OF all the immediate effects of pain and pleaſure, there is none more remarkable than the WILL; and tho', properly ſpeak⯑ing, it be not comprehended among the paſſions, yet as the full underſtanding of [220] its nature and properties, is neceſſary to the explanation of them, we ſhall here make it the ſubject of our enquiry. I de⯑ſire it may be obſerv'd, that by the will, I mean nothing but the internal impreſſion we feel and are conſcious of, when we knowing⯑ly give riſe to any new motion of our body, or new preception of our mind. This impreſ⯑ſion, like the preceding ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, 'tis impoſſible to define, and needleſs to deſcribe any farther; for which reaſon we ſhall cut off all thoſe definitions and diſtinctions, with which phi⯑loſophers are wont to perplex rather than clear up this queſtion; and entering at firſt upon the ſubject, ſhall examine that long diſputed queſtion concerning liberty and ne⯑ceſſity; which occurs ſo naturally in treating of the will.

'TIS univerſally acknowledg'd, that the operations of external bodies are neceſſary, and that in the communication of their mo⯑tion, in their attraction, and mutual cohe⯑ſion, there are not the leaſt traces of indif⯑ference or liberty. Every object is deter⯑min'd by an abſolute fate to a certain de⯑gree and direction of its motion, and can no more depart from that preciſe line, in which [221] it moves, than it can convert itſelf into an angel, or ſpirit, or any ſuperior ſubſtance. The actions, therefore, of matter are to be re⯑garded as inſtances of neceſſary actions; and whatever is in this reſpect on the ſame footing with matter, muſt be acknowledg'd to be ne⯑ceſſary. That we may know whether this be the caſe with the actions of the mind, we ſhall begin with examining matter, and conſidering on what the idea of a neceſſity in its operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to be the in⯑fallible cauſe of another.

IT has been obſerv'd already, that in no ſingle inſtance the ultimate connexion of any objects is diſcoverable, either by our ſenſes or reaſon, and that we can never penetrate ſo far into the eſſence and con⯑ſtruction of bodies, as to perceive the prin⯑ciple, on which their mutual influence de⯑pends. 'Tis their conſtant union alone, with which we are acquainted; and 'tis from the conſtant union the neceſſity ariſes. If objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with each other, we ſhou'd never arrive at any idea of cauſe and effect; and even after all, the neceſſity, which en⯑ters into that idea, is nothing but a determi⯑nation [222] of the mind to paſs from one object to its uſual attendant, and infer the exiſ⯑tence of one from that of the other. Here then are two particulars, which we are to conſider as eſſential to neceſſity, viz. the conſtant union and the inference of the mind; and wherever we diſcover theſe we muſt acknowledge a neceſſity. As the actions of matter have no neceſſity, but what is deriv'd from theſe circumſtances, and it is not by any inſight into the eſſence of bodies we diſcover their connexion, the abſence of this inſight, while the union and inference remain, will never, in any caſe, remove the neceſſity. 'Tis the obſervation of the union, which produces the infe⯑rence; for which reaſon it might be thought ſufficient, if we prove a conſtant union in the actions of the mind, in order to eſtabliſh the inference, along with the neceſſity of theſe actions. But that I may beſtow a greater force on my reaſoning, I ſhall examine theſe particulars apart, and ſhall firſt prove from experience, that our actions have a conſtant union with our mo⯑tives, tempers, and circumſtances, before I conſider the inferences we draw from it.

[223] To this end a very ſlight and gene⯑ral view of the common courſe of human affairs will be ſufficient. There is no light, in which we can take them, that does not confirm this principle. Whether we conſi⯑der mankind according to the difference of ſexes, ages, governments, conditions, or methods of education; the ſame uniformi⯑ty and regular operation of natural princi⯑ples are diſcernible. Like cauſes ſtill pro⯑duce like effects; in the ſame manner as in the mutual action of the elements and powers of nature.

THERE are different trees, which regu⯑larly produce fruit, whoſe reliſh is different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as an inſtance of neceſſity and cauſes in external bodies. But are the pro⯑ducts of Guienne and of Champagne more regularly different than the ſentiments, ac⯑tions, and paſſions of the two ſexes, of which the one are diſtinguiſh'd by their force and maturity, the other by their delicacy and ſoftneſs?

ARE the changes of our body from in⯑fancy to old age more regular and certain than thoſe of our mind and conduct? And wou'd a man be more ridiculous, who [224] wou'd expect that an infant of four years old will raiſe a weight of three hundred pound, than one, who from a perſon of the ſame age, wou'd look for a philoſo⯑phical reaſoning, or a prudent and well⯑concerted action?

WE muſt certainly allow, that the co⯑heſion of the parts of matter ariſes from na⯑tural and neceſſary principles, whatever dif⯑ficulty we may find in explaining them: And for a like reaſon we muſt allow, that human ſociety is founded on like principles; and our reaſon in the latter caſe, is better than even that in the former; becauſe we not only obſerve, that men always ſeek ſo⯑ciety, but can alſo explain the principles, on which this univerſal propenſity is founded. For is it more certain, that two flat pieces of marble will unite together, than that two young ſavages of different ſexes will copu⯑late? Do the children ariſe from this copu⯑lation more uniformly, than does the pa⯑rents care for their ſafety and preſervation? And after they have arriv'd at years of diſ⯑cretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniencies attending their ſeparation more certain than their foreſight of theſe [225] inconveniencies, and their care of avoiding them by a cloſe union and confederacy?

THE ſkin, pores, muſcles, and nerves of a day-labourer are different from thoſe of a man of quality: So are his ſentiments, ac⯑tions and manners. The different ſtations of life influence the whole fabric, external and internal; and theſe different ſtations a⯑riſe neceſſarily, becauſe uniformly, from the neceſſary and uniform principles of hu⯑man nature. Men cannot live without ſo⯑ciety, and cannot be aſſociated without go⯑vernment. Government makes a diſtinction of property, and eſtabliſhes the different ranks of men. This produces induſtry, traffic, manufactures, law-ſuits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages, travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all thoſe other actions and ob⯑jects, which cauſe ſuch a diverſity, and at the ſame time maintain ſuch an uniformity in human life.

SHOU'D a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had ſeen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all the fruits ripen and come to per⯑fection in the winter, and decay in the ſummer, after the ſame manner as in Eng⯑land they are produc'd and decay in the [226] contrary ſeaſons, he wou'd find few ſo credulous as to believe him. I am apt to think a travellar wou'd meet with as little credit, who ſhou'd inform us of people ex⯑actly of the ſame character with thoſe in Plato's republic on the one hand, or thoſe in Hobbes's Leviathan on the other. There is a general courſe of nature in human ac⯑tions, as well as in the operations of the ſun and the climate. There are alſo characters peculiar to different nations and particular perſons, as well as common to mankind. The knowledge of theſe cha⯑racters is founded on the obſervation of an uniformity in the actions, that flow from them; and this uniformity forms the very eſſence of neceſſity.

I CAN imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by denying that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. As long as actions have a con⯑ſtant union and connexion with the ſitua⯑tion and temper of the agent, however we may in words refuſe to acknowledge the neceſſity, we really allow the thing. Now ſome may, perhaps, find a pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. For what is more capricious than human ac⯑tions? [227] What more inconſtant than the deſires of man? And what creature departs more widely, not only from right reaſon, but from his own character and diſpoſition? An hour, a moment is ſufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and overturn what coſt the greateſt pain and labour to eſtabliſh. Neceſſity is regular and certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The one, therefore, pro⯑ceeds not from the other.

TO this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we muſt proceed upon the ſame maxims, as when we reaſon concerning ex⯑ternal objects. When any phaenomena are conſtantly and invariably conjoin'd together, they acquire ſuch a connexion in the ima⯑gination, that it paſſes from one to the o⯑ther, without any doubt or heſitation. But below this there are many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one ſingle contrariety of experiment entirely deſtroy all our reaſoning. The mind ballances the contrary experiments, and deducting the inferior from the ſuperior, proceeds with that degree of aſſurance or evidence, which remains. Even when theſe contrary expe⯑riments are entirely equal, we remove not [228] the notion of cauſes and neceſſity; but ſup⯑poſing that the uſual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and con⯑ceal'd cauſes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies only in our judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the things themſelves, which are in eve⯑ry caſe equally neceſſary, tho' to appear⯑ance not equally conſtant or certain. No union can be more conſtant and certain, than that of ſome actions with ſome motives and characters; and if in other caſes the union is uncertain, 'tis no more than what happens in the operations of body, nor can we conclude any thing from the one irre⯑gularity, which will not follow equally from the other.

'TIS commonly allow'd that mad-men have no liberty. But were we to judge by their actions, theſe have leſs regularity and conſtancy than the actions of wiſe⯑men, and conſequently are farther remov'd from neceſſity. One way of thinking in this particular is, therefore, abſolutely in⯑conſiſtent; but is a natural conſequence of theſe confus'd ideas and undefin'd terms, which we ſo commonly make uſe of in [229] our reaſonings, eſpecially on the preſent ſubject.

WE muſt now ſhew, that as the union betwixt motives and actions has the ſame conſtancy, as that in any natural operations, ſo its influence on the underſtanding is alſo the ſame, in determining us to infer the ex⯑iſtence of one from that of another. If this ſhall appear, there is no known circum⯑ſtance, that enters into the connexion and production of the actions of matter, that is not to be found in all the operations of the mind; and conſequently we cannot, with⯑out a manifeſt abſurdity, attribute neceſſity to the one, and refuſe it to the other.

THERE is no philoſopher, whoſe judg⯑ment is ſo riveted to this fantaſtical ſyſtem of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of moral evidence, and both in ſpeculation and proceed upon it, as upon a reaſonable foun⯑dation. Now moral evidence is nothing but a concluſion concerning the actions of men, deriv'd from the conſideration of their motives, temper and ſituation. Thus when we ſee certain characters or figures deſcrib'd upon paper, we infer that the perſon, who produc'd them, wou'd affirm ſuch facts, the death of Caeſar, the ſucceſs of Auguſtus, [230] the cruelty of Nero; and remembring ma⯑ny other concurrent teſtimonies we con⯑clude, that thoſe facts were once really exiſtent, and that ſo many men, without any intereſt, wou'd never conſpire to de⯑ceive us; eſpecially ſince they muſt, in the attempt, expoſe themſelves to the deri⯑ſion of all their contemporaries, when theſe facts were aſſerted to be recent and univer⯑ſally known. The ſame kind of reaſoning runs thro' politics, war, commerce, oeco⯑nomy, and indeed mixes itſelf ſo entirely in human life, that 'tis impoſſible to act or ſubſiſt a moment without having recourſe to it. A prince, who impoſes a tax upon his ſubjects, expects their compliance. A general, who conducts an army, makes ac⯑count of a certain degree of courage. A merchant looks for fidelity and ſkill in his factor or ſuper-cargo. A man, who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the o⯑bedience of his ſervants. In ſhort, as no⯑thing more nearly intereſts us than our own actions and thoſe of others, the greateſt part of our reaſonings is employ'd in judgments concerning them. Now I aſſert, that whoever reaſons after this manner, does ipſo facto be⯑lieve the actions of the will to ariſe from [231] neceſſity, and that he knows not what he means, when he denies it.

ALL thoſe objects, of which we call the one cauſe and the other effect, conſider'd in themſelves, are as diſtinct and ſeparate from each other, as any two things in nature, nor can we ever, by the moſt accurate ſurvey of them, infer the exiſtence of the one from that of the other. 'Tis only from experi⯑ence and the obſervation of their conſtant union, that we are able to form this infe⯑rence; and even after all, the inference is nothing but the effects of cuſtom on the imagination. We muſt not here be content with ſaying, that the idea of cauſe and ef⯑fect ariſes from objects conſtantly united; but muſt affirm, that 'tis the very ſame with the idea of theſe objects, and that the neceſſary connexion is not diſcover'd by a concluſion of the underſtanding, but is mere⯑ly a perception of the mind. Wherever, therefore, we obſerve the ſame union, and wherever the union operates in the ſame manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of cauſes and neceſſity, tho' perhaps we may avoid thoſe expreſſions. Motion in one body in all paſt inſtances, that have fallen under our obſervation, is [232] follow'd upon impulſe by motion in ano⯑ther. 'Tis impoſſible for the mind to pene⯑trate farther. From this conſtant union it forms the idea of cauſe and effect, and by its influence feels the neceſſity. As there is the ſame conſtancy, and the ſame influence in what we call moral evidence, I aſk no more. What remains can only be a diſ⯑pute of words.

AND indeed, when we conſider how aptly natural and moral evidence cement together, and form only one chain of ar⯑gument betwixt them, we ſhall make no ſcruple to allow, that they are of the ſame nature, and deriv'd from the ſame principles. A priſoner, who has neither money nor in⯑tereſt, diſcovers the impoſſibility of his eſ⯑cape, as well from the obſtinacy of the goaler, as from the walls and bars with which he is ſurrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom chuſes rather to work up⯑on the ſtone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other. The ſame priſoner, when conducted to the ſcaffold, foreſees his death as certainly from the conſtancy and fidelity of his guards as from the operation of the ax or wheel. His mind runs along a certain train of [233] ideas: The refuſal of the ſoldiers to con⯑ſent to his eſcape, the action of the exe⯑cutioner; the ſeparation of the head and body; bleeding, convulſive motions, and death. Here is a connected chain of natural cauſes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference betwixt them in paſſing from one link to another; nor is leſs certain of the future event than if it were connected with the preſent impreſſions of the memo⯑ry and ſenſes by a train of cauſes cemented together by what we are pleas'd to call a phyſical neceſſity. The ſame experienc'd union has the ſame effect on the mind, whether the united objects be motives, vo⯑litions and actions; or figure and motion. We may change the names of things; but their nature and their operation on the un⯑derſtanding never change.

I DARE be poſitive no one will ever en⯑deavour to refute theſe reaſouings otherwiſe than by altering my definitions, and aſſign⯑ing a different meaning to the terms of cauſe, and effect, and neceſſity, and liberty, and chance. According to my definitions, neceſſity makes an eſſential part of cauſation; and conſe⯑quently liberty, by removing neceſſity, re⯑moves alſo cauſes, and is the very ſame [234] thing with chance. As chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at leaſt directly contrary to experience, there are always the ſame arguments againſt li⯑berty or free-will. If any one alters the definitions, I cannot pretend to argue with him, 'till I know the meaning he aſſigns to theſe terms.

SECT. II. The ſame ſubject continu'd.

I BELIEVE we may aſſign the three following reaſons for the prevalence of the doctrine of liberty, however abſurd it may be in one ſenſe, and unintelligible in any other. Firſt, After we have perform'd any action; tho' we confeſs we were in⯑fluenc'd by particular views and motives; 'tis difficult for us to perſwade ourſelves we were govern'd by neceſſity, and that 'twas utterly impoſſible for us to have acted other⯑wiſe; the idea of neceſſity ſeeming to im⯑ply ſomething of force, and violence, and conſtraint, of which we are not ſenſible. Few are capable of diſtinguiſhing betwixt the liberty of ſpontaniety, as it is call'd in [235] the ſchools, and the liberty of indifference; betwixt that which is oppos'd to violence, and that which means a negation of neceſ⯑ſity and cauſes. The firſt is even the moſt common ſenſe of the word; and as 'tis only that ſpecies of liberty, which it con⯑cerns us to preſerve, our thoughts have been principally turn'd towards it, and have almoſt univerſally confounded it with the other.

SECONDLY, There is a falſe ſenſation or experience even of the liberty of indif⯑ference; which is regarded as an argument for its real exiſtence. The neceſſity of any action, whether of matter or of the mind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who may conſider the action, and conſiſts in the determination of his thought to infer its exiſtence from ſome preceding objects: As liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the want of that determination, and a certain looſeneſs, which we feel in paſſing or not paſſing from the idea of one to that of the other. Now we may obſerve, that tho' in reflecting on human actions we ſeldom feel ſuch a looſeneſs or indifference, yet it very commonly happens, that in per⯑forming the actions themſelves we are ſen⯑ſible [236] of ſomething like it: And as all re⯑lated or reſembling objects are readily taken for each other, this has been employ'd as a demonſtrative or even an intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel that our actions are ſubject to our will on moſt occaſions, and imagine we feel that the will itſelf is ſubject to nothing; becauſe when by a de⯑nial of it we are provok'd to try, we feel that it moves eaſily every way, and pro⯑duces an image of itſelf even on that ſide, on which it did not ſettle. This image or faint motion, we perſwade ourſelves, cou'd have been compleated into the thing itſelf; becauſe, ſhou'd that be deny'd, we find, upon a ſecond trial, that it can. But theſe efforts are all in vain; and whatever capri⯑cious and irregular actions we may perform; as the deſire of ſhowing our liberty is the ſole motive of our actions; we can never free ourſelves from the bonds of neceſſity. We may imagine we feel a liberty within ourſelves; but a ſpectator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and cha⯑racter; and even where he cannot, he con⯑cludes in general, that he might, were he perfectly acquainted with every circumſtance of our ſituation and temper, and the moſt [237] ſecret ſprings of our complexion and diſpo⯑ſition. Now this is the very eſſence of ne⯑ceſſity, according to the foregoing doc⯑trine.

A THIRD reaſon why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better receiv'd in the world, than its antagoniſt, proceeds from religion, which has been very unneceſſarily intereſted in this queſtion. There is no method of reaſoning more common, and yet none more blameable, than in philoſo⯑phical debates to endeavour to refute any hypotheſis by a pretext of its dangerous conſequences to religion and morality. When any opinion leads us into abſurdities, 'tis certainly falſe; but 'tis not certain an opi⯑nion is falſe, becauſe 'tis of dangerous con⯑ſequence. Such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn, as ſerving nothing to the diſcovery of truth, but only to make the perſon of an antagoniſt odious. This I obſerve in general, without pretending to draw any advantage from it. I ſubmit my⯑ſelf frankly to an examination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doc⯑trine of neceſſity, according to my expli⯑cation of it, is not only innocent, but even advantageous to religion and morality.

[238] I DEFINE neceſſity two ways, conform⯑able to the two definitions of cauſe, of which it makes an eſſential part. I place it either in the conſtant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference of the mind from the one to the other. Now neceſſity, in both theſe ſenſes, has univerſally, tho' tacitely, in the ſchools, in the pulpit, and in common life, been allow'd to belong to the will of man, and no one has ever pre⯑tended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning human actions, and that thoſe inferences are founded on the experienc'd union of like actions with like motives and circumſtances. The only particular in which any one can differ from me, is either, that perhaps he will refuſe to call this neceſſity. But as long as the meaning is underſtood, I hope the word can do no harm. Or that he will maintain there is ſomething elſe in the operations of matter. Now whether it be ſo or not is of no conſequence to re⯑ligion, whatever it may be to natural phi⯑loſophy. I may be miſtaken in aſſerting, that we have no idea of any other con⯑nexion in the actions of body, and ſhall be glad to be farther inſtructed on that head: But ſure I am, I aſcribe nothing to the ac⯑tions [239] of the mind, but what muſt readily be allow'd of. Let no one, therefore, put an invidous conſtruction on my words, by ſaying ſimply, that I aſſert the neceſſity of human actions, and place them on the ſame footing with the operations of ſenſeleſs mat⯑ter. I do not aſcribe to the will that un⯑intelligible neceſſity, which is ſuppos'd to lie in matter. But I aſcribe to matter, that intelligible quality, call it neceſſity or not, which the moſt rigorous orthodoxy does or muſt allow to belong to the will. I change, therefore, nothing in the receiv'd ſyſtems, with regard to the will, but only with re⯑gard to material objects.

NAY I ſhall go farther, and aſſert, that this kind of neceſſity is ſo eſſential to reli⯑gion and morality, that without it there muſt enſue an abſolute ſubverſion of both, and that every other ſuppoſition is entirely deſtructive to all laws both divine and hu⯑man. 'Tis indeed certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and puniſh⯑ments, 'tis ſuppos'd as a fundamental prin⯑ciple, that theſe motives have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and prevent the evil actions. We may give to this influence what name we pleaſe; but [240] as 'tis uſually conjoin'd with the action, common ſenſe requires it ſhou'd be eſteem'd a cauſe, and be look'd upon as an inſtance of that neceſſity, which I wou'd eſtabliſh.

THIS reaſoning is equally ſolid, when ap⯑ply'd to divine laws, ſo far as the deity is conſider'd as a legiſlator, and is ſuppos'd to inflict puniſhment and beſtow rewards with a deſign to produce obedience. But I alſo maintain, that even where he acts not in his magiſterial capacity, but is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on account of their odiouſneſs and deformity, not on⯑ly 'tis impoſſible, without the neceſſary con⯑nexion of cauſe and effect in human actions, that puniſhments cou'd be inflicted compa⯑tible with juſtice and moral equity; but alſo that it cou'd ever enter into the thoughts of any reaſonable being to inflict them. The conſtant and univerſal object of hatred or anger is a perſon or creature endow'd with thought and conſciouſneſs; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that paſ⯑ſion, 'tis only by their relation to the per⯑ſon or connexion with him. But accord⯑ing to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion is reduc'd to nothing, nor are men more accountable for thoſe actions, [241] which are deſign'd and premeditated, than for ſuch as are the moſt caſual and acci⯑dental. Actions are by their very nature temporary and periſhing; and where they proceed not from ſome cauſe in the cha⯑racters and diſpoſition of the perſon, who perform'd them, they infix not themſelves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil. The action itſelf may be blameable; it may be contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: But the perſon is not reſponſible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him, that is durable or conſtant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, 'tis impoſſible he can, upon its account, be⯑come the object of puniſhment or venge⯑ance. According to the hypotheſis of li⯑berty, therefore, a man is as pure and un⯑tainted, after having committed the moſt horrid crimes, as at the firſt moment of his birth, nor is his character any way con⯑cern'd in his actions; ſince they are not deriv'd from it, and the wickedneſs of the one can never be us'd as a proof of the de⯑pravity of the other. 'Tis only upon the principles of neceſſity, that a perſon acquires any merit or demerit from his actions, how⯑ever [242] the common opinion may incline to the contrary.

BUT ſo inconſiſtent are men with them⯑ſelves, that tho' they often aſſert, that ne⯑ceſſity utterly deſtroys all merit and demerit either towards mankind or ſuperior powers, yet they continue ſtill to reaſon upon theſe very principles of neceſſity in all their judg⯑ments concerning this matter. Men are not blam'd for ſuch evil actions as they perform ignorantly and caſually, whatever may be their conſequences. Why? but becauſe the cauſes of theſe actions are only momentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are leſs blam'd for ſuch evil actions, as they perform haſtily and unpremeditately, than for ſuch as proceed from thought and de⯑liberation. For what reaſon? but becauſe a haſty temper, tho' a conſtant cauſe in the mind, operates only by intervals, and in⯑fects not the whole character. Again, re⯑pentance wipes off every crime, eſpecially if attended with an evident reformation of life and manners. How is this to be accounted for? But by aſſerting that ac⯑tions render a perſon criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal paſſions or prin⯑ciples in the mind; and when by any al⯑teration [243] of theſe principles they ceaſe to be juſt proofs, they likewiſe ceaſe to be cri⯑minal. But according to the doctrine of liberty or chance they never were juſt proofs, and conſequently never were criminal.

HERE then I turn to my adverſary, and deſire him to free his own ſyſtem from theſe odious conſequences before he charge them upon others. Or if he rather chuſes, that this queſtion ſhou'd be decided by fair ar⯑guments before philoſophers, than by decla⯑mations before the people, let him return to what I have advanc'd to prove that li⯑berty and chance are ſynonimous; and con⯑cerning the nature of moral evidence and the regularity of human actions. Upon a review of theſe reaſonings, I cannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore having prov'd, that all actions of the will have par⯑ticular cauſes, I proceed to explain what theſe cauſes are, and how they operate.

SECT. III. Of the influencing motives of the will.

NOTHING is more uſual in philo⯑ſophy, and even in common life, than to talk of the combat of paſſion and reaſon, to give the preference to reaſon, and aſſert that men are only ſo far vir⯑tuous as they conform themſelves to its dic⯑tates. Every rational creature, 'tis ſaid, is oblig'd to regulate his actions by reaſon; and if any other motive or principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppoſe it, 'till it be entirely ſubdu'd, or at leaſt brought to a conformity with that ſu⯑perior principle. On this method of think⯑ing the greateſt part of moral philoſophy, antient and modern, ſeems to be founded; nor is their an ampler field, as well for metaphyſical arguments, as popular decla⯑mations, than this ſuppos'd pre-eminence of reaſon above paſſion. The eternity, inva⯑riableneſs, and divine origin of the former have been diſplay'd to the beſt advantage: The blindneſs, unconſtancy, and deceitful⯑neſs [245] of the latter have been as ſtrongly in⯑ſiſted on. In order to ſhew the fallacy of all this philoſophy, I ſhall endeavour to prove firſt, that reaſon alone can never be a motive to any action of the will; and ſe⯑condly, that it can never oppoſe paſſion in the direction of the will.

THE underſtanding exerts itſelf after two different ways, as it judges from de⯑monſtration or probability; as it regards the abſtract relations of our ideas, or thoſe re⯑lations of objects, of which experience on⯑ly gives us information. I believe it ſcarce will be aſſerted, that the firſt ſpecies of rea⯑ſoning alone is ever the cauſe of any action. As it's proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always places us in that of realities, demonſtration and volition ſeem, upon that account, to be totally remov'd, from each other. Mathematics, indeed, are uſeful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in almoſt every art and profeſ⯑ſion: But 'tis not of themſelves they have any influence. Mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of bodies to ſome de⯑ſign'd end or purpoſe; and the reaſon why we employ arithmetic in fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may diſcover [246] the proportions of their influence and ope⯑ration. A merchant is deſirous of know⯑ing the ſum total of his accounts with any perſon: Why? but that he may learn what ſum will have the ſame effects in paying his debt, and going to market, as all the parti⯑cular articles taken together. Abſtract or demonſtrative reaſoning, therefore, never influences any of our actions, but only as it directs our judgment concerning cauſes and effects; which leads us to the ſecond operation of the underſtanding.

'TIS obvious, that when we have the proſpect of pain or pleaſure from any ob⯑ject, we feel a conſequent emotion of aver⯑ſion or propenſity, and are carry'd to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneaſineſs or ſatisfaction. 'Tis alſo obvious, that this emotion reſts not here, but making us caſt our view on every ſide, comprehends what⯑ever objects are connected with its original one by the relation of cauſe and effect. Here then reaſoning takes place to diſcover this relation; and according as our reaſoning varies, our actions receive a ſubſequent va⯑riation. But 'tis evident in this caſe, that the impulſe ariſes not from reaſon, but is only directed by it. 'Tis from the proſpect [247] of pain or pleaſure that the averſion or pro⯑penſity ariſes towards any object: And theſe emotions extend themſelves to the cauſes and effects of that object, as they are pointed out to us by reaſon and experience. It can never in the leaſt concern us to know, that ſuch objects are cauſes, and ſuch others ef⯑fects, if both the cauſes and effects be in⯑different to us. Where the objects them⯑ſelves do not affect us, their connexion can never give them any influence; and 'tis plain, that as reaſon is nothing but the diſ⯑covery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means that the objects are able to affect us.

SINCE reaſon alone can never produce any action, or give riſe to volition, I infer, that the ſame faculty is as incapable of preventing volition, or of diſputing the pre⯑ference with any paſſion or emotion. This conſequence is neceſſary. 'Tis impoſſible reaſon cou'd have the latter effect of pre⯑venting volition, but by giving an impulſe in a contrary direction to our paſſion; and that impulſe, had it operated alone, wou'd have been able to produce volition. Nothing can oppoſe or retard the impulſe of paſſion, but a contrary impulſe; and if this con⯑trary impulſe ever ariſes from reaſon, that [248] latter faculty muſt have an original influ⯑ence on the will, and muſt be able to cauſe, as well as hinder any act of volition. But if reaſon has no original influence, 'tis im⯑poſſible it can withſtand any principle, which has ſuch an efficacy, or ever keep the mind in ſuſpence a moment. Thus it appears, that the principle, which oppoſes our paſſion, cannot be the ſame with reaſon, and is only call'd ſo in an improper ſenſe. We ſpeak not ſtrictly and philoſophically when we talk of the combat of paſſion and of reaſon. Rea⯑ſon is, and ought only to be the ſlave of the paſſions, and can never pretend to any other office than to ſerve and obey them. As this opinion may appear ſomewhat extraordinary, it may not be improper to confirm it by ſome other conſiderations.

A PASSION is an original exiſtence, or, if you will, modification of exiſtence, and contains not any repreſentative quality, which renders it a copy of any other exiſtence or modification. When I am angry, I am actually poſſeſt with the paſſion, and in that emotion have no more a reference to any other object, than when I am thirſ⯑ty, or ſick, or more than five foot high. 'Tis impoſſible, therefore, that this paſſion can be oppos'd by, or be contradictory to [249] truth and reaſon; ſince this contradiction conſiſts in the diſagreement of ideas, con⯑ſider'd as copies, with thoſe objects, which they repreſent.

WHAT may at firſt occur on this head, is, that as nothing can be contrary to truth or reaſon, except what has a reference to it, and as the judgments of our underſtanding only have this reference, it muſt follow, that paſſions can be contrary to reaſon only ſo far as they are accompany'd with ſome judgment or opinion. According to this principle, which is ſo obvious and natural, 'tis only in two ſenſes, that any affection can be call'd unreaſonable. Firſt, When a paſſion, ſuch as hope or fear, grief or joy, deſpair or ſecurity, is founded on the ſup⯑poſition of the exiſtence of objects, which really do not exiſt. Secondly, When in exerting any paſſion in action, we chuſe means inſufficient for the deſign'd end, and deceive ourſelves in our judgment of cauſes and effects. Where a paſſion is nei⯑ther founded on falſe ſuppoſitions, nor chuſes means inſufficient for the end, the under⯑ſtanding can neither juſtify nor condemn it. 'Tis not contrary to reaſon to prefer the de⯑ſtruction of the whole world to the ſcratch⯑ing [250] of my finger. 'Tis not contrary to rea⯑ſon for me to chuſe my total ruin, to pre⯑vent the leaſt uneaſineſs of an Indian or perſon wholly unknown to me. 'Tis as little contrary to reaſon to prefer even my own acknowledg'd leſſer good to my greater, and have a more ardent affection for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from certain circumſtances, produce a deſire ſuperior to what ariſes from the greateſt and moſt valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to ſee one pound weight raiſe up a hundred by the advantage of its ſituation. In ſhort, a paſſion muſt be accompany'd with ſome falſe judgment, in order to its being unreaſonable; and even then 'tis not the paſſion, properly ſpeaking, which is unrea⯑ſonable, but the judgment.

THE conſequences are evident. Since a paſſion can never, in any ſenſe, be call'd unreaſonable, but when founded on a falſe ſuppoſition, or when it chuſes means in⯑ſufficient for the deſign'd end, 'tis impoſſible, that reaſon and paſſion can ever oppoſe each other, or diſpute for the government of the will and actions. The moment we perceive the falſhood of any ſuppoſition, or the in⯑ſufficiency [251] of any means our paſſions yield to our reaſon without any oppoſition. I may deſire any fruit as of an excellent reliſh; but whenever you convince me of my miſ⯑take, my longing ceaſes. I may will the performance of certain actions as means of obtaining any deſir'd good; but as my will⯑ing of theſe actions is only ſecondary, and founded on the ſuppoſition, that they are cauſes of the propos'd effect; as ſoon as I diſcover the falſhood of that ſuppoſition, they muſt become indifferent to me.

'TIS natural for one, that does not ex⯑amine objects with a ſtrict philoſophic eye, to imagine, that thoſe actions of the mind are entirely the ſame, which produce not a different ſenſation, and are not immediately diſtinguiſhable to the feeling and percep⯑tion. Reaſon, for inſtance, exerts itſelf with⯑out producing any ſenſible emotion; and except in the more ſublime diſquiſitions of philoſophy, or in the frivolous ſubtilties of the ſchools, ſcarce ever conveys any plea⯑ſure or uneaſineſs. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind, which operates with the ſame calmneſs and tranquillity, is confounded with reaſon by all thoſe, who judge of things from the firſt view and ap⯑pearance. [252] Now 'tis certain, there are cer⯑tain calm deſires and tendencies, which, tho' they be real paſſions, produce little emotion in the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate feel⯑ing or ſenſation. Theſe deſires are of two kinds; either certain inſtincts originally im⯑planted in our natures, ſuch as benevolence and reſentment, the love of life, and kind⯑neſs to children; or the general appetite to good, and averſion to evil, conſider'd mere⯑ly as ſuch. When any of theſe paſſions are calm, and cauſe no diſorder in the ſoul, they are very readily taken for the deter⯑minations of reaſon, and are ſuppos'd to proceed from the ſame faculty, with that, which judges of truth and falſhood. Their nature and principles have been ſuppos'd the ſame, becauſe their ſenſations are not evidently different.

BESIDE theſe calm paſſions, which of⯑ten determine the will, there are certain violent emotions of the ſame kind, which have likewiſe a great influence on that fa⯑culty. When I receive any injury from an⯑other, I often feel a violent paſſion of re⯑ſentment, which makes me deſire his evil and puniſhment, independent of all conſi⯑derations [253] of pleaſure and advantage to my⯑ſelf, When I am immediately threaten'd with any grievous ill, my fears, apprehen⯑ſions, and averſions riſe to a great height, and produce a ſenſible emotion.

THE common error of metaphyſicians has lain in aſcribing the direction of the will entirely to one of theſe principles, and ſuppoſing the other to have no influence. Men often act knowingly againſt their in⯑tereſt: For which reaſon the view of the greateſt poſſible good does not always influ⯑ence them. Men often counter-act a violent paſſion in proſecution of their intereſts and deſigns: 'Tis not therefore the preſent un⯑eaſineſs alone, which determines them. In general we may obſerve, that both theſe principles operate on the will; and where they are contrary, that either of them pre⯑vails, according to the general character or preſent diſpoſition of the perſon. What we call ſtrength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm paſſions above the violent; tho' we may eaſily obſerve, there is no man ſo conſtantly poſſeſs'd of this virtue, as never on any occaſion to yield to the ſollicitations of paſſion and deſire. From theſe varia⯑tions of temper proceeds the great difficulty [254] of deciding concerning the actions and reſo⯑lutions of men, where there is any contra⯑riety of motives and paſſions.

SECT. IV. Of the cauſes of the violent paſſions.

THERE is not in philoſophy a ſub⯑ject of more nice ſpeculation than this of the different cauſes and effects of the calm and violent paſſions. 'Tis evident paſſions influence not the will in proportion to their violence, or the diſorder they occa⯑ſion in the temper; but on the contrary, that when a paſſion has once become a ſet⯑tled principle of action, and is the predo⯑minant inclination of the ſoul, it common⯑ly produces no longer any ſenſible agitation. As repeated cuſtom and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs the actions and conduct without that oppoſi⯑tion and emotion, which ſo naturally at⯑tend every momentary guſt of paſſion. We muſt, therefore, diſtinguiſh betwixt a calm and a weak paſſion; betwixt a violent and a ſtrong one. But notwithſtanding this, [255] 'tis certain, that when we wou'd govern a man, and puſh him to any action, 'twill commonly be better policy to work upon the violent than the calm paſſions, and ra⯑ther take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly call'd his reaſon. We ought to place the object in ſuch particular ſituations as are proper to encreaſe the violence of the paſſion. For we may obſerve, that all de⯑pends upon the ſituation of the object, and that a variation in this particular will be a⯑ble to change the calm and the violent paſſions into each other. Both theſe kinds of paſſions purſue good, and avoid evil; and both of them are encreas'd or diminiſh'd by the en⯑creaſe or diminution of the good or evil. But herein lies the difference betwixt them: The ſame good, when near, will cauſe a violent paſſion, which, when remote, pro⯑duces only a calm one. As this ſubject be⯑longs very properly to the preſent queſtion concerning the will, we ſhall here examine it to the bottom, and ſhall conſider ſome of thoſe circumſtances and ſituations of objects, which render a paſſion either calm or violent.

'TIS a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion, which attends a [256] paſſion, is eaſily converted into it, tho' in their natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to each other. 'Tis true; in order to make a perfect union a⯑mong paſſions, there is always requir'd a double relation of impreſſions and ideas; nor is one relation ſufficient for that pur⯑poſe. But tho' this be confirm'd by un⯑doubted experience, we muſt underſtand it with its proper limitations, and muſt regard the double relation, as requiſite only to make one paſſion produce another. When two paſſions are already produc'd by their ſeparate cauſes, and are both preſent in the mind, they readily mingle and unite, tho' they have but one relation, and ſometimes without any. The predominant paſſion ſwallows up the inferior, and converts it into itſelf. The ſpirits, when once excited, eaſily receive a change in their direction; and 'tis natural to imagine this change will come from the prevailing affection. The connexion is in many reſpects cloſer betwixt any two paſſions, than betwixt any paſſion and indifference.

WHEN a perſon is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprice of his miſtreſs, the jealouſies and quarrels, to which that [257] commerce is ſo ſubject; however unpleaſant and related to anger and hatred; are yet found to give additional force to the prevail⯑ing paſſion. 'Tis a common artifice of po⯑liticians, when they wou'd affect any per⯑ſon very much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, firſt to excite his curioſity; delay as long as poſſible the ſatisfying it; and by that means raiſe his anxiety and impatience to the utmoſt, before they give him a full inſight into the buſineſs. They know that his curioſity will precipitate him into the paſſion they deſign to raiſe, and aſſiſt the object in its influence on the mind. A ſoldier ad⯑vancing to the battle, is naturally in⯑ſpir'd with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his friends and fellow-ſoldiers; and is ſtruck with fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new e⯑motion, therefore, proceeds from the for⯑mer naturally encreaſes the courage; as the ſame emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear; by the relation of ideas, and the converſion of the inferior emotion into the predominant. Hence it is that in martial diſcipline, the uniformity and luſtre of our habit, the regularity of our figures [258] and motions, with all the pomp and maje⯑ſty of war, encourage ourſelves and allies; while the ſame objects in the enemy ſtrike terror into us, tho' agreeable and beautiful in themſelves.

SINCE paſſions, however independent, are naturally transfus'd into each other, if they are both preſent at the ſame time; it follows, that when good or evil is plac'd in ſuch a ſituation, as to cauſe any particular emotion, beſide its direct paſſion of deſire or averſion, that latter paſſion muſt acquire new force and violence.

THIS happens, among other caſes, when⯑ever any object excites contrary paſſions. For 'tis obſervable that an oppoſition of paſ⯑ſions commonly cauſes a new emotion in the ſpirits, and produces more diſorder, than the concurrence of any two affections of e⯑qual force. This new emotion is eaſily converted into the predominant paſſion, and encreaſes its violence, beyond the pitch it wou'd have arriv'd at had it met with no oppoſition. Hence we naturally deſire what is forbid, and take a pleaſure in perform⯑ing actions, merely becauſe they are unlaw⯑ful. The notion of duty, when oppoſite to the paſſions, is ſeldom able to overcome [259] them; and when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to encreaſe them, by producing an oppoſition in our motives and principles.

THE ſame effect follows whether the oppoſition ariſes from internal motives or external obſtacles. The paſſion commonly acquires new force and violence in both caſes. The efforts, which the mind makes to ſurmount the obſtacle, excite the ſpirits and inliven the paſſion.

UNCERTAINTY has the ſame influence as oppoſition. The agitation of the thought; the quick turns it makes from one view to another; the variety of paſſions, which ſuc⯑ceed each other, according to the different views: All theſe produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuſe themſelves into the pre⯑dominant paſſion.

THERE is not in my opinion any other natural cauſe, why ſecurity diminiſhes the paſſions, than becauſe it removes that un⯑certainty, which encreaſes them. The mind, when left to itſelf, immediately languiſhes; and in order to preſerve its ardour, muſt be every moment ſupported by a new flow of paſſion. For the ſame reaſon, deſpair, tho' contrary to ſecurity, has a like influence.

'TIS certain nothing more powerfully animates any affection, than to conceal ſome part of its objects by throwing it into a kind of ſhade, which at the ſame time that it ſhews enough to pre-poſſeſs us in favour of the object, leaves ſtill ſome work for the imagination. Beſides that obſcurity is al⯑ways attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort, which the fancy makes to com⯑pleat the idea, rouzes the ſpirits, and gives an additional force to the paſſion.

As deſpair and ſecurity, tho' contrary to each other, produce the ſame effects; ſo abſence is obſerv'd to have contrary effects, and in different circumſtances either encreaſes or diminiſhes our affections. The Duc de la Rochefoucault has very well obſerv'd, that abſence deſtroys weak paſſions, but encreaſes ſtrong; as the wind extinguiſhes a candle, but blows up a fire. Long abſence naturally weakens our idea, and diminiſhes the paſſion: But where the idea is ſo ſtrong and lively as to ſupport itſelf, the uneaſi⯑neſs, ariſing from abſence, encreaſes the paſ⯑ſion, and gives it new force and violence.

SECT. V. Of the effects of cuſtom.

BUT nothing has a greater effect both to encreaſe and diminiſh our paſſions, to convert pleaſure into pain, and pain into pleaſure, than cuſtom and repetition. Cuſ⯑tom has two original effects upon the mind, in beſtowing a facility in the performance of any action or the conception of any ob⯑ject; and afterwards a tendency or inclina⯑tion towards it; and from theſe we may account for all its other effects, however extraordinary.

WHEN the ſoul applies itſelf to the per⯑formance of any action, or the conception of any object, to which it is not accuſ⯑tom'd, there is a certain unpliableneſs in the faculties, and a difficulty of the ſpirit's moving in their new direction. As this diffi⯑culty excites the ſpirits, 'tis the ſource of wonder, ſurprize, and of all the emotions, which ariſe from novelty; and is in itſelf very agreeable, like every thing, which in⯑livens the mind to a moderate degree. But [262] tho' ſurprize be agreeable in itſelf, yet as it puts the ſpirits in agitation, it not only aug⯑ments our agreeable affections, but alſo our painful, according to the foregoing princi⯑ple, that every emotion, which precedes or attends a paſſion, is eaſily converted into it. Hence every thing, that is new, is moſt affecting, and gives us either more pleaſure or pain, than what, ſtrictly ſpeaking, na⯑turally belongs to it. When it often re⯑turns upon us, the novelty wears off; the paſſions ſubſide; the hurry of the ſpirits is over; and we ſurvey the objects with great⯑er tranquillity.

BY degrees the repetition produces a fa⯑cility, which is another very powerful prin⯑ciple of the human mind, and an infallible ſource of pleaſure, where the facility goes not beyond a certain degree. And here 'tis remarkable that the pleaſure, which ariſes from a moderate facility, has not the ſame tendency with that which ariſes from novel⯑ty, to augment the painful, as well as the agreeable affections. The pleaſure of facili⯑ty does not ſo much conſiſt in any ferment of the ſpirits, as in their orderly motion; which will ſometimes be ſo powerful as even to convert pain into pleaſure, and give [263] us a reliſh in time for what at firſt was moſt harſh and diſagreeable.

BUT again, as facility converts pain into pleaſure, ſo it often converts pleaſure into pain, when it is too great, and renders the actions of the mind ſo faint and languid, that they are no longer able to intereſt and ſup⯑port it. And indeed, ſcarce any other objects become diſagreeable thro' cuſtom; but ſuch as are naturally attended with ſome emotion or affection, which is deſtroy'd by the too frequent repetition. One can conſider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, and ſtones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling any averſion. But when the fair ſex, or muſic, or good cheer, or any thing, that naturally ought to be agreeable, be⯑comes indifferent, it eaſily produces the op⯑poſite affection.

BUT cuſtom not only gives a facility to per⯑form any action, but likewiſe an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not entire⯑ly diſagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination. And this is the reaſon why cuſtom encreaſes all active habits, but diminiſhes paſſive, according to the obſervation of a late eminent philoſopher. The facility takes off from the force of the paſſive habits by [264] rendering the motion of the ſpirits faint and languid. But as in the active, the ſpi⯑rits are ſufficiently ſupported of themſelves, the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends them more ſtrongly to the action.

SECT. VI. Of the influence of the imagination on the paſſions.

TIS remarkable, that the imagination and affections have a cloſe union to⯑gether, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely indifferent to the lat⯑ter. Wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire a new vivacity, the paſſions become more violent; and keep pace with the ima⯑gination in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from the principle above-mention'd, that any attendant emotion is eaſily converted into the predominant, I ſhall not determine. 'Tis ſufficient for my preſent purpoſe, that we have many inſtances to confirm this in⯑fluence of the imagination upon the paſ⯑ſions.

[265] ANY pleaſure, with which we are ac⯑quainted, affects us more than any other, which we own to be ſuperior, but of whoſe nature we are wholly ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: The other we conceive under the ge⯑neral notion of pleaſure; and 'tis certain, that the more general and univerſal any of our ideas are, the leſs influence they have upon the imagination. A general idea, tho' it be nothing but a particular one conſider'd in a certain view, is commonly more ob⯑ſcure; and that becauſe no particular idea, by which we repreſent a general one, is ever fix'd or determinate, but may eaſily be chang'd for other particular ones, which will ſerve equally in the repreſentation.

THERE is a noted paſſage in the hiſtory of Greece, which may ſerve for our preſent purpoſe. Themiſtocles told the Athenians, that he had form'd a deſign, which wou'd be highly uſeful to the public, but which 'twas impoſſible for him to communicate to them without ruining the execution, ſince its ſucceſs depended entirely on the ſecrecy with which it ſhou'd be conducted. The Athenians, inſtead of granting him full power to act as he thought fitting, order'd [266] him to communicate his deſign to Ariſtides, in whoſe prudence they had an entire con⯑fidence, and whoſe opinion they were re⯑ſolv'd blindly to ſubmit to. The deſign of Themiſtocles was ſecretly to ſet fire to the fleet of all the Grecian commonwealths, which was aſſembled in a neighbouring port, and which being once deſtroy'd, wou'd give the Athenians the empire of the ſea with⯑out any rival. Ariſtides return'd to the aſ⯑ſembly, and told them, that nothing cou'd be more advantageous than the deſign of Themiſtocles; but at the ſame time that nothing cou'd be more unjuſt: Upon which the people unanimouſly rejected the project.

A LATE celebrated ^* hiſtorian admires this paſſage of antient hiſtory, as one of the moſt ſingular that is any where to be met with. Here, ſays he, they are not philoſophers, to whom 'tis eaſy in their ſchools to eſtabliſh the fineſt maxims and moſt ſublime rules of mo⯑rality, who decide that intereſt ought never to prevail above juſtice. 'Tis a whole people intereſted in the propoſal, which is made to them, who conſider it as of importance to the public good, and who notwithſtanding reject it unanimouſly, and without heſitation, mere⯑ly [267] becauſe it is contrary to juſtice. For my part I ſee nothing ſo extraordinary in this proceeding of the Athenians. The ſame rea⯑ſons, whieh render it ſo eaſy for philoſo⯑phers to eſtabliſh theſe ſublime maxims, tend, in part, to diminiſh the merit of ſuch a conduct in that people. Philoſophers ne⯑ver ballance betwixt profit and honeſty, be⯑cauſe their deciſions are general, and neither their paſſions nor imaginations are intereſted in the objects. And tho' in the preſent caſe the advantage was immediate to the Athe⯑nians, yet as it was known only under the general notion of advantage, without be⯑ing conceiv'd by any particular idea, it muſt have had a leſs conſiderable influence on their imaginations, and have been a leſs violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted with all its circumſtances: Other⯑wiſe 'tis difficult to conceive, that a whole people, unjuſt and violent as men com⯑monly are, ſhou'd ſo unanimouſly have ad⯑her'd to juſtice, and rejected any conſider⯑able advantage.

ANY ſatisfaction, which we lately en⯑joy'd, and of which the memory is freſh and recent, operates on the will with more violence, than another of which the traces [268] are decay'd, and almoſt obliterated. From whence does this proceed, but that the me⯑mory in the firſt caſe aſſiſts the fancy, and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions? The image of the paſt plea⯑ſure being ſtrong and violent, beſtows theſe qualities on the idea of the future pleaſure, which is connected with it by the relation of reſemblance.

A PLEASURE, which is ſuitable to the way of life, in which we are engag'd, ex⯑cites more our deſires and appetites than another, which is foreign to it. This phae⯑nomenon may be explain'd from the ſame principle.

NOTHING is more capable of infuſing any paſſion into the mind, than eloquence, by which objects are repreſented in their ſtrongeſt and moſt lively colours. We may of ourſelves acknowledge, that ſuch an object is valuable, and ſuch another odi⯑ous; but 'till an orator excites the imagina⯑tion, and gives force to theſe ideas, they may have but a feeble influence either on the will or the affections.

BUT eloquence is not always neceſſary. The bare opinion of another, eſpecially when inforc'd with paſſion, will cauſe an idea of [269] good or evil to have an influence upon us, which wou'd otherwiſe have been entirely neglected. This proceeds from the princi⯑ple of ſympathy or communication; and ſympathy, as I have already obſerv'd, is no⯑thing but the converſion of an idea into an impreſſion by the force of imagination.

'TIS remarkable, that lively paſſions commonly attend a lively imagination. In this reſpect, as well as others, the force of the paſſion depends as much on the tem⯑per of the perſon, as the nature or ſituation of the object.

I HAVE already obſerv'd, that belief is nothing but a lively idea related to a pre⯑ſent impreſſion. This vivacity is a requi⯑ſite circumſtance to the exciting all our paſ⯑ſions, the calm as well as the violent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any conſiderable influence upon either of them. 'Tis too weak to take any hold of the mind, or be attended with emotion.

SECT. VII. Of contiguity and diſtance in ſpace and time.

THERE is an eaſy reaſon, why e⯑very thing contiguous to us, either in ſpace or time, ſhou'd be conceiv'd with a peculiar force and vivacity, and excel e⯑very other object, in its influence on the imagination. Ourſelf is intimately preſent to us, and whatever is related to ſelf muſt partake of that quality. But where an ob⯑ject is ſo far remov'd as to have loſt the ad⯑vantage of this relation, why, as it is far⯑ther remov'd, its idea becomes ſtill fainter and more obſcure, wou'd, perhaps, require a more particular examination.

'TIS obvious, that the imagination can never totally forget the points of ſpace and time, in which we are exiſtent; but receives ſuch frequent advertiſements of them from the paſſions and ſenſes, that however it may turn its attention to foreign and remote ob⯑jects, it is neceſſitated every moment to re⯑flect [271] on the preſent. 'Tis alſo remarkable, that in the conception of thoſe objects, which we regard as real and exiſtent, we take them in their proper order and ſitua⯑tion, and never leap from one object to a⯑nother, which is diſtant from it, without running over, at leaſt in a curſory manner, all thoſe objects, which are interpos'd be⯑twixt them. When we reflect, therefore, on any object diſtant from ourſelves, we are oblig'd not only to reach it at firſt by paſſing thro' all the intermediate ſpace be⯑twixt ourſelves and the object, but alſo to renew our progreſs every moment; being every moment recall'd to the conſideration of ourſelves and our preſent ſituation. 'Tis eaſily conceiv'd, that this interruption muſt weaken the idea by breaking the action of the mind, and hindering the conception from be⯑ing ſo intenſe and continu'd, as when we reflect on a nearer object. The fewer ſteps we make to arrive at the object, and the ſmooth⯑er the road is, this diminution of vivacity is leſs conſiderably felt, but ſtill may be obſerv'd more or leſs in proportion to the degrees of diſtance and difficulty.

HERE then we are to conſider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and remote; of [272] which the former, by means of their rela⯑tion to ourſelves, approach an impreſſion in force and vivacity; the latter by reaſon of the interruption in our manner of con⯑ceiving them, appear in a weaker and more imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagination. If my reaſoning be juſt, they muſt have a proportionable ef⯑fect on the will and paſſions. Contiguous objects muſt have an influence much ſupe⯑rior to the diſtant and remote. Accordingly we find in common life, that men are prin⯑cipally concern'd about thoſe objects, which are not much remov'd either in ſpace or time, enjoying the preſent, and leaving what is afar off to the care of chance and for⯑tune. Talk to a man of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not regard you. Speak of what is to happen to-mor⯑row, and he will lend you attention. The breaking of a mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the burning of a houſe, when abroad, and ſome hundred leagues diſtant.

BUT farther; tho' diſtance both in ſpace and time has a conſiderable effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will and paſſions, yet the conſequence of a re⯑moval [273] in ſpace are much inferior to thoſe of a removal in time. Twenty years are certainly but a ſmall diſtance of time in compariſon of what hiſtory and even the memory of ſome may inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thouſand leagues, or even the greateſt diſtance of place this globe can admit of, will ſo remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminiſh our paſſions. A Weſt⯑India merchant will tell you, that he is not without concern about what paſſes in Ja⯑maica; tho' few extend their views ſo far into futurity, as to dread very remote acci⯑dents.

THE cauſe of this phaenomenon muſt e⯑vidently lie in the different properties of ſpace and time. Without having recourſe to metaphyſics, any one may eaſily obſerve, that ſpace or extenſion conſiſts of a number of co-exiſtent parts diſpos'd in a certain order, and capable of being at once pre⯑ſent to the ſight or feeling. On the contrary, time or ſucceſſion, tho' it conſiſts likewiſe of parts, never preſents to us more than one at once; nor is it poſſible for any two of them ever to be co-exiſtent. Theſe qualities of the objects have a ſuitable effect on the imagination. The parts of extenſion [274] being ſuſceptible of an union to the ſenſes, acquire an union in the fancy; and as the ap⯑pearance of one part excludes not another, the tranſition or paſſage of the thought thro' the contiguous parts is by that means render'd more ſmooth and eaſy. On the other hand, the incompatibility of the parts of time in their real exiſtence ſeparates them in the i⯑magination, and makes it more difficult for that faculty to trace any long ſucceſſion or ſeries of events. Every part muſt appear ſingle and alone, nor can regularly have en⯑trance into the fancy without baniſhing what is ſuppos'd to have been immediately prece⯑dent. By this means any diſtance in time cauſes a greater interruption in the thought than an equal diſtance in ſpace, and conſe⯑quently weakens more conſiderably the idea, and conſequently the paſſions; which depend in a great meaſure, on the imagination, ac⯑cording to my ſyſtem.

THERE is another phaenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz. the ſu⯑perior effects of the ſame diſtance in futurity above that in the paſt. This difference with reſpect to the will is eaſily accounted for. As none of our actions can alter the paſt, 'tis not ſtrange it ſhou'd never determine [275] the will. But with reſpect to the paſſions the queſtion is yet entire, and well worth the examining.

BESIDES the propenſity to a gradual pro⯑greſſion thro' the points of ſpace and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking, which concurs in producing this phaenomenon. We always follow the ſucceſſion of time in placing our ideas, and from the conſideration of any object paſs more eaſily to that, which follows immedi⯑ately after it, than to that which went be⯑fore it. We may learn this, among other in⯑ſtances, from the order, which is always obſerv'd in hiſtorical narrations. Nothing but an abſolute neceſſity can oblige an hiſ⯑torian to break the order of time, and in his narration give the precedence to an e⯑vent, which was in reality poſterior to an⯑other.

THIS will eaſily be apply'd to the queſ⯑tion in hand, if we reflect on what I have before obſerv'd, that the preſent ſituation of the perſon is always that of the imagina⯑tion, and that 'tis from thence we proceed to the conception of any diſtant object. When the object is paſt, the progreſſion of the thought in paſſing to it from the pre⯑ſent [276] is contrary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time to that which is preced⯑ing, and from that to another preceding, in oppoſition to the natural courſe of the ſuc⯑ceſſion. On the other hand, when we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the ſtream of time, and arrives at the object by an order, which ſeems moſt natural, paſ⯑ſing always from one point of time to that which is immediately poſterior to it. This eaſy progreſſion of ideas favours the ima⯑gination, and makes it conceive its object in a ſtronger and fuller light, than when we are continually oppos'd in our paſſage, and are oblig'd to overcome the difficulties ari⯑ſing from the natural propenſity of the fan⯑cy. A ſmall degree of diſtance in the paſt has, therefore, a greater effect, in interupt⯑ing and weakening the conception, than a much greater in the future. From this effect of it on the imagination is deriv'd its influ⯑ence on the will and paſſions.

THERE is another cauſe, which both contributes to the ſame effect, and proceeds from the ſame quality of the fancy, by which we are determin'd to trace the ſuc⯑ceſſion of time by a ſimilar ſucceſſion of ideas. When from the preſent inſtant we [277] conſider two points of time equally diſ⯑tant in the future and in the paſt, 'tis evident, that, abſtractedly conſider'd, their relation to the preſent is almoſt equal. For as the future will ſometime be preſent, ſo the paſt was once preſent. If we cou'd, therefore, remove this quality of the imagi⯑nation, an equal diſtance in the paſt and in the future, wou'd have a ſimilar influ⯑ence. Nor is this only true, when the fan⯑cy remains fix'd, and from the preſent in⯑ſtant ſurveys the future and the paſt; but alſo when it changes its ſituation, and places us in different periods of time. For as on the one hand, in ſuppoſing ourſelves ex⯑iſtent in a point of time interpos'd betwixt the preſent inſtant and the future object, we find the future object approach to us, and the paſt retire, and become more diſ⯑tant: So on the other hand, in ſuppoſing ourſelves exiſtent in a point of time inter⯑pos'd betwixt the preſent and the paſt, the paſt approaches to us, and the future be⯑comes more diſtant. But from the pro⯑perty of the fancy above-mention'd we ra⯑ther chuſe to fix our thought on the point of time interpos'd betwixt the preſent and [278] the future, than on that betwixt the preſent and the paſt. We advance, rather than re⯑tard our exiſtence; and following what ſeems the natural ſucceſſion of time, pro⯑ceeed from paſt to preſent, and from pre⯑ſent to future By which means we con⯑ceive the future as flowing every moment nearer us, and the paſt as retiring. An equal diſtance, therefore, in the paſt and in the future, has not the ſame effect on the imagination; and that becauſe we con⯑ſider the one as continually encreaſing, and the other as continually diminiſhing. The fancy anticipates the courſe of things, and ſurveys the object in that condition, to which it tends, as well as in that, which is regarded as the preſent.

SECT. VIII. The ſame ſubject continu'd.

THUS we have accounted for three phaenomena, which ſeem pretty re⯑markable. Why diſtance weakens the con⯑ception and paſſion: Why diſtance in time has a greater effect than that in ſpace: And why diſtance in paſt time has ſtill a great⯑er effect than that in future. We muſt now conſider three phaenomena, which ſeem to be, in a manner, the reverſe of theſe: Why a very great diſtance encreaſes our eſ⯑teem and admiration for an object: Why ſuch a diſtance in time encreaſes it more than that in ſpace: And a diſtance in paſt time more than that in future. The curi⯑ouſneſs of the ſubject will, I hope, excuſe my dwelling on it for ſome time.

To begin with the firſt phaenomenon, why a great diſtance encreaſes our eſteem and admiration for an object; 'tis evident that the mere view and contemplation of any greatneſs, whether ſucceſſive or extend⯑ed, enlarges the ſoul, and give it a ſenſi⯑ble delight and pleaſure. A wide plain, the [280] ocean, eternity, a ſucceſſion of ſeveral ages; all theſe are entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful, which ac⯑companies not its beauty with a ſuitable greatneſs. Now when any very diſtant ob⯑ject is preſented to the imagination, we na⯑turally reflect on the interpos'd diſtance, and by that means, conceiving ſomething great and magnificent, receive the uſual ſatisfac⯑tion. But as the fancy paſſes eaſily from one idea to another related to it, and tranſ⯑ports to the ſecond all the paſſions excited by the firſt, the admiration, which is di⯑rected to the diſtance, naturally diffuſes it⯑ſelf over the diſtant object. Accordingly we find, that 'tis not neceſſary the object ſhou'd be actually diſtant from us, in order to cauſe our admiration; but that 'tis ſuf⯑ficient, if, by the natural aſſociation of ideas, it conveys our view to any conſiderable di⯑ſtance. A great traveller, tho' in the ſame chamber, will paſs for a very extraordinary perſon; as a Greek medal, even in our ca⯑binet, is always eſteem'd a valuable curio⯑ſity. Here the object, by a natural tranſi⯑tion, conveys our view to the diſtance; and the admiration, which ariſes from that di⯑ſtance, by another natural tranſition, re⯑turns back to the object.

[281] BUT tho' every great diſtance produces an admiration for the diſtant object, a diſtance in time has a more conſiderable effect than that in ſpace. Antient buſts and inſcriptions are more valu'd than Japan tables: And not to mention the Greeks and Romans, 'tis cer⯑tain we regard with more veneration the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the mo⯑dern Chineſe and Perſians, and beſtow more fruitleſs pains to clear up the hiſtory and chronology of the former, than it wou'd coſt us to make a voyage, and be certain⯑ly inform'd of the character, learning and government of the latter. I ſhall be oblig'd to make a digreſſion in order to explain this phaenomenon.

'TIS a quality very obſervable in hu⯑man nature, that any oppoſition, which does not entirely diſcourage and intimidate us, has rather a contrary effect, and inſpires us with a more than ordinary grandeur and magnanimity. In collecting our force to overcome the oppoſition, we invigorate the ſoul, and give it an elevation with which otherwiſe it wou'd never have been acquaint⯑ed. Compliance, by rendering our ſtrength uſeleſs, makes us inſenſible of it; but op⯑poſition awakens and employs it.

[282] THIS is alſo true in the inverſe. Op⯑poſition not only enlarges the ſoul; but the ſoul, when full of courage and magnanimi⯑ty, in a manner ſeeks oppoſition.

WHATEVER ſupports and fills the paſ⯑ſions is agreeable to us; as on the contrary, what weakens and infeebles them is uneaſy. As oppoſition has the firſt effect, and facili⯑ty the ſecond, no wonder the mind, in certain diſpoſitions, deſires the former, and is averſe to the latter.

THESE principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the paſſions. To be convinc'd of this we need only conſider the influence of heights and depths on that faculty. Any great elevation of place com⯑municates a kind of pride or ſublimity of imagination, and gives a fancy'd ſuperiori⯑ty over thoſe that lie below; and, vice verſa, a ſublime and ſtrong imagination con⯑veys the idea of aſcent and elevation. Hence it proceeds, that we aſſociate, in a manner, [283] the idea of whatever is good with that of height, and evil with lowneſs. Heaven is ſuppos'd to be above, and hell below. A noble genius is call'd an elevate and ſub⯑lime one. Atque udam ſpernit humum fugi⯑ente penna. On the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is ſtil'd indifferently low or mean. Proſperity is denominated aſ⯑cent, and adverſity deſcent. Kings and princes are ſuppos'd to be plac'd at the top of human affairs; as peaſants and day-la⯑bourers are ſaid to be in the loweſt ſtations. Theſe methods of thinking, and of expreſ⯑ſing ourſelves, are not of ſo little conſe⯑quence as they may appear at firſt ſight.

'TIS evident to common ſenſe, as well as philoſophy, that there is no natural nor eſſential difference betwixt high and low, and that this diſtinction ariſes only from the gravitation of matter, which produces a motion from the one to the other. The very ſame direction, which in this part of the globe is call'd aſcent, is denominated deſcent in our antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency of bodies. Now 'tis certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually operating upon our ſenſes, muſt produce, from cuſtom, a like [284] tendency in the fancy, and that when we conſider any object ſituated in an aſcent, the idea of its weight gives us a propenſity to tranſport it from the place, in which it is ſituated, to the place immediately below it, and ſo on, 'till we come to the ground, which equally ſtops the body and our ima⯑gination. For a like reaſon we feel a diffi⯑culty in mounting, and paſs not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior to that which is ſituated above it; as if our ideas acquir'd a kind of gravity from their objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that the facility, which is ſo much ſtudy'd in muſic and poetry, is call'd the fall or ca⯑dency of the harmony or period; the idea of facility communicating to us that of de⯑ſcent, in the ſame manner as deſcent pro⯑duces a facility?

SINCE the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds an oppo⯑ſition in its internal qualities and principles, and ſince the ſoul, when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner ſeeks oppoſition, and throws itſelf with alacrity into any ſcene of thought or action, where its cou⯑rage meets with matter to nouriſh and em⯑ploy it; it follows, that every thing, which [285] invigorates and inlivens the ſoul, whether by touching the paſſions or imagination, naturally conveys to the fancy this inclina⯑tion for aſcent, and determines it to run againſt the natural ſtream of its thoughts and conceptions. This aſpiring progreſs of the imagination ſuits the preſent diſpoſition of the mind; and the difficulty, inſtead of ex⯑tinguiſhing its vigour and alacrity, has the contrary effect, of ſuſtaining and encreaſing it. Virtue, genius, power, and riches are for this reaſon aſſociated with height and ſublimity; as poverty, ſlavery, and folly are conjoin'd with deſcent and lowneſs. Were the caſe the ſame with us as Milton repre⯑ſents it to be with the angels, to whom de⯑ſcent is adverſe, and who cannot ſink with⯑out labour and compulſion, this order of things wou'd be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very nature of aſcent and deſcent is deriv'd from the difficulty and propenſity, and conſequently every one of their effects proceeds from that origin.

ALL this is eaſily apply'd to the preſent queſtion, why a conſiderable diſtance in time produces a greater veneration for the diſ⯑tant objects than a like removal in ſpace. The imagination moves with more difficul⯑ty [286] in paſſing from one portion of time to another, than in a tranſition thro' the parts of ſpace; and that becauſe ſpace or exten⯑ſion appears united to our ſenſes, while time or ſucceſſion is always broken and divided. This difficulty, when join'd with a ſmall diſtance, interrupts and weakens the fancy: But has a contrary effect in a great remo⯑val. The mind, elevated by the vaſtneſs of its object, is ſtill farther elevated by the dif⯑ficulty of the conception; and being oblig'd every moment to renew its efforts in the tranſition from one part of time to another, feels a more vigorous and ſublime diſpoſi⯑tion, than in a tranſition thro' the parts of ſpace, where the ideas flow along with eaſi⯑neſs and facility. In this diſpoſition, the imagination, paſſing, as is uſual, from the conſideration of the diſtance to the view of the diſtant objects, gives us a proportionable veneration for it; and this is the reaſon why all the relicts of antiquity are ſo pre⯑cious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than what is brought even from the remoteſt parts of the world.

THE third phaenomenon I have remark'd will be a full confirmation of this. 'Tis not every removal in time, which has the [287] effect of producing veneration and eſteem. We are not apt to imagine our poſterity will excel us, or equal our anceſtors. This phae⯑nomenon is the more remarkable, becauſe any diſtance in futurity weakens not our ideas ſo much as an equal removal in the paſt. Tho' a removal in the paſt, when very great, encreaſes our paſſions beyond a like removal in the future, yet a ſmall re⯑moval has a greater influence in diminiſhing them.

IN our common way of thinking we are plac'd in a kind of middle ſtation be⯑twixt the paſt and future; and as our ima⯑gination finds a kind of difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in follow⯑ing the courſe of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of aſcent, and the faci⯑lity of the contrary. Hence we imagine our anceſtors to be, in a manner, mounted above us, and our poſterity to lie below us. Our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but eaſily reaches the other: Which effort weakens the conception, where the diſtance is ſmall; but enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a ſuit⯑able object. As on the other hand, the fa⯑cility aſſiſts the fancy in a ſmall removal, [288] but takes off from its force when it con⯑templates any conſiderable diſtance.

IT may not be improper, before we leave this ſubject of the will, to reſume, in a few words, all that has been ſaid concerning it, in order to ſet the whole more diſtinctly before the eyes of the reader. What we commonly underſtand by paſſion is a violent and ſenſible emotion of mind, when any good or evil is preſented, or any object, which, by the original formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite. By reaſon we mean affections of the very ſame kind with the former; but ſuch as operate more calmly, and cauſe no diſorder in the temper: Which tranquillity leads us into a miſtake concerning them, and cauſes us to regard them as concluſions only of our in⯑tellectual faculties. Both the cauſes and ef⯑fects of theſe violent and calm paſſions are pretty variable, and depend, in a great mea⯑ſure, on the peculiar temper and diſpoſition of every individual. Generally ſpeaking, the violent paſſions have a more powerful in⯑fluence on the will; tho' 'tis often found, that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and ſeconded by reſolution, are able to controul them in their moſt fu⯑rious [289] movements. What makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm paſ⯑ſion may eaſily be chang'd into a violent one, either by a change of temper, or of the circumſtances and ſituation of the ob⯑ject, as by the borrowing of force from any attendant paſſion, by cuſtom, or by excit⯑ing the imagination. Upon the whole, this ſtruggle of paſſion and of reaſon, as it is call'd, diverſifies human life, and makes men ſo different not only from each other, but alſo from themſelves in different times. Phi⯑loſophy can only account for a few of the greater and more ſenſible events of this war; but muſt leave all the ſmaller and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and minute for her com⯑prehenſion.

SECT. IX. Of the direct paſſions.

TIS eaſy to obſerve, that the paſſions, both direct and indirect, are founded on pain and pleaſure, and that in order to produce an affection of any kind, 'tis only requiſite to preſent ſome good or evil. Upon the removal of pain and pleaſure there im⯑mediately follows a removal of love and ha⯑tred, pride and humility, deſire and aver⯑ſion, and of moſt of our reflective or ſe⯑condary impreſſions.

THE impreſſions, which ariſe from good and evil moſt naturally, and with the leaſt preparation are the direct paſſions of deſire and averſion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. The mind by an ori⯑ginal inſtinct tends to unite itſelf with the good, and to avoid the evil, tho' they be conceiv'd merely in idea, and be conſider'd as to exiſt in any future period of time.

BUT ſuppoſing that there is an immediate impreſſion of pain or pleaſure, and that ariſing from an object related to ourſelves or others, [291] this does not prevent the propenſity or aver⯑ſion, with the conſequent emotions, but by concurring with certain dormant principles of the human mind, excites the new im⯑preſſions of pride or humility, love or ha⯑tred. That propenſity, which unites us to the object, or ſeperates us from it, ſtill con⯑tinues to operate, but in conjunction with the indirect paſſions, which ariſe from a double relation of impreſſions and ideas.

THESE indirect paſſions, being always agreeable or uneaſy, give in their turn ad⯑ditional force to the direct paſſions, and en⯑creaſe our deſire and averſion to the object. Thus a ſuit of fine cloaths produces plea⯑ſure from their beauty; and this pleaſure produces the direct paſſions, or the impreſ⯑ſions of volition and deſire. Again, when theſe cloaths are conſider'd as belonging to ourſelf, the double relation conveys to us the ſentiment of pride, which is an indirect paſſion; and the pleaſure, which attends that paſſion, returns back to the direct af⯑fections, and gives new force to our deſire or volition, joy or hope.

WHEN good is certain or probable, it produces JOY. When evil is in the ſame ſituation there ariſes GRIEF or SORROW.

[292] WHEN either good or evil is uncertain, it gives riſe to FEAR or HOPE, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one ſide or the other.

DESIRE ariſes from good conſider'd ſim⯑ply, and AVERSION is deriv'd from evil. The WILL exerts itſelf, when either the good or the abſence of the evil may be at⯑tain'd by any action of the mind or body.

BESIDE good and evil, or in other words, pain and pleaſure, the direct paſſions frequently ariſe from a natural impulſe or inſtinct, which is perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the deſire of puniſhment to our enemies, and of happineſs to our friends; hunger, luſt, and a few other bo⯑dily appetites. Theſe paſſions, properly ſpeaking, produce good and evil, and pro⯑ceed not from them, like the other affec⯑tions.

NONE of the direct affections ſeem to merit our particular attention, except hope and fear, which we ſhall here endeavour to account for. 'Tis evident that the very ſame event, which by its certainty wou'd produce grief or joy, gives always riſe to fear or hope, when only probable and un⯑certain. In order, therefore, to underſtand [293] the reaſon why this circumſtance makes ſuch a conſiderable difference, we muſt re⯑flect on what I have already advanc'd in the preceding book concerning the nature of probability.

PROBABILITY ariſes from an oppoſition of contrary chances or cauſes, by which the mind is not allow'd to fix on either ſide, but is inceſſantly toſt from one to another, and at one moment is determin'd to con⯑ſider an object as exiſtent, and at another moment as the contrary. The imagination or underſtanding, call it which you pleaſe, fluctuates betwixt the oppoſite views; and tho' perhaps it may be oftner turn'd to the one ſide than the other, 'tis impoſſible for it, by reaſon of the oppoſition of cauſes or chances, to reſt on either. The pro and con of the queſtion alternately prevail; and the mind, ſurveying the object in its oppo⯑ſite principles, finds ſuch a contrariety as utterly deſtroys all certainty and eſtabliſh'd opinion.

SUPPOSE, then, that the object, concern⯑ing whoſe reality we are doubtful, is an object either of deſire or averſion, 'tis evi⯑dent, that, according as the mind turns it⯑ſelf either to the one ſide or the other, it [294] muſt feel a momentary impreſſion of joy or ſorrow. An object, whoſe exiſtence we de⯑ſire, gives ſatisfaction, when we reflect on thoſe cauſes, which produce it; and for the ſame reaſon excites grief or uneaſineſs from the oppoſite conſideration: So that as the underſtanding, in all probable queſtions, is di⯑vided betwixt the contrary points of view, the affections muſt in the ſame manner be divided betwixt oppoſite emotions.

NOW if we conſider the human mind, we ſhall find, that with regard to the paſ⯑ſions, 'tis not of the nature of a wind⯑inſtrument of muſic, which in running o⯑ver all the notes immediately loſes the ſound after the breath ceaſes; but rather reſembles a ſtring-inſtrument, where after each ſtroke the vibrations ſtill retain ſome ſound, which gradually and inſenſibly decays. The ima⯑gination is extreme quick and agile; but the paſſions are ſlow and reſtive: For which reaſon, when any object is preſented, that affords a variety of views to the one, and emotions to the other; tho' the fancy may change its views with great celerity; each ſtroke will not produce a clear and diſtinct note of paſſion, but the one paſſion will always be mixt and confounded with the [295] other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil, the paſſion of joy or ſorrow predominates in the compoſition: Becauſe the nature of probability is to caſt a ſupe⯑rior number of views or chances on one ſide; or, which is the ſame thing, a ſuperior number of returns of one paſſion; or ſince the diſpers'd paſſions are collected into one, a ſuperior degree of that paſſion. That is, in other words, the grief and joy being in⯑termingled with each other, by means of the contrary views of the imagination, pro⯑duce by their union the paſſions of hope and fear.

UPON this head there may be ſtarted a very curious queſtion concerning that con⯑trariety of paſſions, which is our preſent ſubject. 'Tis obſervable, that where the ob⯑jects of contrary paſſions are preſented at once, beſide the encreaſe of the predomi⯑nant paſſion (which has been already ex⯑plain'd, and commonly ariſes at their firſt ſhock or rencounter) it ſometimes happens, that both the paſſions exiſt ſucceſſively, and by ſhort intervals; ſometimes, that they deſtroy each other, and neither of them takes place; and ſometimes that both of them remain united in the mind. It may, [296] therefore, be aſk'd, by what theory we can explain theſe variations, and to what general principle we can reduce them.

WHEN the contrary paſſions ariſe from objects entirely different, they take place al⯑ternately, the want of relation in the ideas ſeperating the impreſſions from each other, and preventing their oppoſition. Thus when a man is afflicted for the loſs of a law-ſuit, and joyful for the birth of a ſon, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous object, with whatever celerity it may per⯑form this motion, can ſcarcely temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a ſtate of indifference.

IT more eaſily attains that calm ſitu⯑ation, when the ſame event is of a mixt nature, and contains ſomething adverſe and ſomething proſperous in its different cir⯑cumſtances. For in that caſe, both the paſſions, mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually deſtruc⯑tive, and leave the mind in perfect tran⯑quility.

BUT ſuppoſe, in the third place, that the object is not a compound of good or evil, but is conſider'd as probable or impro⯑bable in any degree; in that caſe I aſſert, [297] that the contrary paſſions will both of them be preſent at once in the ſoul, and inſtead of deſtroying and tempering each other, will ſubſiſt together, and produce a third impreſſion or affection by their union. Contrary paſſions are not capable of deſtroy⯑ing each other, except when their contrary movements exactly rencounter, and are op⯑poſite in their direction, as well as in the ſenſation they produce. This exact ren⯑counter depends upon the relations of thoſe ideas, from which they are deriv'd, and is more or leſs perfect, according to the de⯑grees of the relation. In the caſe of proba⯑bility the contrary chances are ſo far relat⯑ed, that they determine concerning the ex⯑iſtence or non-exiſtence of the ſame object. But this relation is far from being perfect; ſince ſome of the chances lie on the ſide of exiſtence, and others on that of non-exiſ⯑tence; which are objects altogether incom⯑patible. 'Tis impoſſible by one ſteady view to ſurvey the oppoſite chances, and the e⯑vents dependent on them; but 'tis neceſſary, that the imagination ſhou'd run alternately from the one to the other. Each view of the imagination produces its peculiar paſ⯑ſion, which decays away by degrees, and is [298] follow'd by a ſenſible vibration after the ſtroke. The incompatibility of the views keeps the paſſions from ſhocking in a di⯑rect line, if that expreſſion may be allow'd; and yet their relation is ſufficient to mingle their fainter emotions. 'Tis after this man⯑ner that hope and fear ariſe from the diffe⯑rent mixture of theſe oppoſite paſſions of grief and joy, and from their imperfect u⯑nion and conjunction.

UPON the whole, contrary paſſions ſuc⯑ceed each other alternately, when they a⯑riſe from different objects: They mutually deſtroy each other, when they proceed from different parts of the ſame: And they ſub⯑ſiſt both of them, and mingle together, when they are deriv'd from the contrary and in⯑compatible chances or poſſibilities, on which any one object depends. The influence of the relations of ideas is plainly ſeen in this whole affair. If the objects of the contrary paſſions be totally different, the paſſions are like two oppoſite liquors in different bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the objects be intimately connected, the paſ⯑ſions are like an alcali and an acid, which, being mingled, deſtroy each other. If the relation be more imperfect, and conſiſts in [299] the contradictory views of the ſame object, the paſſions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, never perfectly unite and incorporate.

AS the hypotheſis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence along with it, we ſhall be the more conciſe in our proofs. A few ſtrong arguments are better than many weak ones.

THE paſſions of fear and hope may a⯑riſe when the chances are equal on both ſides, and no ſuperiority can be diſcover'd in the one above the other. Nay, in this ſituation the paſſions are rather the ſtrong⯑eſt, as the mind has then the leaſt founda⯑tion to reſt upon, and is toſs'd with the greateſt uncertainty. Throw in a ſuperior degree of probability to the ſide of grief, you immediately ſee that paſſion diffuſe it⯑ſelf over the compoſition, and tincture it into fear. Encreaſe the probability, and by that means the grief, the fear prevails ſtill more and more, till at laſt it runs in⯑ſenſibly, as the joy continually diminiſhes, into pure grief. After you have brought it to this ſituation, diminiſh the grief, after the ſame manner that you encreas'd it; by diminiſhing the probability on that ſide, and [300] you'll ſee the paſſion clear every moment, 'till it changes inſenſibly into hope; which again runs, after the ſame manner, by ſlow degrees, into joy, as you encreaſe that part of the compoſition by the encreaſe of the probability. Are not theſe as plain proofs, that the paſſions of fear and hope are mix⯑tures of grief and joy, as in optics 'tis a proof, that a colour'd ray of the ſun paſ⯑ſing thro' a priſm, is a compoſition of two others, when, as you diminiſh or encreaſe the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably more or leſs in the compoſi⯑tion? I am ſure neither natural nor moral philoſophy admits of ſtronger proofs.

PROBABILITY is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itſelf uncertain, and to be determin'd by chance; or when, tho' the object be already certain, yet 'tis uncertain to our judgment, which finds a number of proofs on each ſide of the queſ⯑tion. Both theſe kinds of probabilities cauſe fear and hope; which can only proceed from that property, in which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluctuation they beſtow on the imagination by that contra⯑riety of views, which is common to both.

[301] 'TIS a probable good or evil, that com⯑monly produces hope or fear; becauſe pro⯑bability, being a wavering and unconſtant method of ſurveying an object, cauſes na⯑turally a like mixture and uncertainty of paſſion. But we may obſerve, that where⯑ever from other cauſes this mixture can be produc'd, the paſſions of fear and hope will ariſe, even tho' there be no probability; which muſt be allow'd to be a convincing proof of the preſent hypotheſis.

WE find that an evil, barely conceiv'd as poſſible, does ſometimes produce fear; eſ⯑pecially if the evil be very great. A man cannot think of exceſſive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be in the leaſt danger of ſuffering them. The ſmallneſs of the probability is compenſated by the great⯑neſs of the evil; and the ſenſation is equal⯑ly lively, as if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpſe of the former, has the ſame effect as ſeveral of the latter.

BUT they are not only poſſible evils, that cauſe fear, but even ſome allow'd to be impoſſible; as when we tremble on the brink of a precipice, tho' we know ourſelves to be in perfect ſecurity, and have it in our choice whether we will advance a ſtep far⯑ther. [302] This proceeds from the immediate preſence of the evil, which influences the imagination in the ſame manner as the cer⯑tainty of it wou'd do; but being encoun⯑ter'd by the reflection on our ſecurity, is immediately retracted, and cauſes the ſame kind of paſſion, as when from a contrariety of chances contrary paſſions are produc'd.

EVILS, that are certain, have ſometimes the ſame effect in producing fear, as the poſ⯑ſible or impoſſible. Thus a man in a ſtrong priſon well-guarded, without the leaſt means of eſcape, trembles at the thought of the rack, to which he is ſentenc'd. This hap⯑pens only when the certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which caſe the mind continually rejects it with horror, while it continually preſſes in upon the thought. The evil is there fix'd and eſtabliſh'd, but the mind cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty there a⯑riſes a paſſion of much the ſame appearance with fear.

BUT 'tis not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its exiſtence, but alſo as to its kind, that fear or hope ariſes. Let one be told by a perſon, whoſe veracity he cannot doubt of, that one of his ſons is ſuddenly [303] kill'd, 'tis evident the paſſion this event wou'd occaſion, wou'd not ſettle into pure grief, till he got certain information, which of his ſons he had loſt. Here there is an evil certain, but the kind of it uncertain: Conſequently the fear we feel on this occa⯑ſion is without the leaſt mixture of joy, and ariſes merely from the fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its objects. And tho' each ſide of the queſtion produces here the ſame paſſion, yet that paſſion cannot ſettle, but receives from the imagination a tremulous and unſteady motion, reſembling in its cauſe, as well as in its ſenſation, the mix⯑ture and contention of grief and joy.

FROM theſe principles we may account for a phaenomenon in the paſſions, which at firſt ſight ſeems very extraordinary, viz. that ſurprize is apt to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights us. The moſt obvious concluſion from this is, that human nature is in general puſilani⯑mous; ſince upon the ſudden appearance of any object we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and without waiting till we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at firſt affected with fear. This I ſay is the moſt obvious concluſion; but up⯑on [304] farther examination we ſhall find that the phaenomenon is otherwiſe to be ac⯑counted for. The ſuddenneſs and ſtrange⯑neſs of an appearance naturally excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing for which we are not prepar'd, and to which we are not accuſtom'd. This commotion, again, naturally produces a curioſity or in⯑quiſitiveneſs, which being very violent, from the ſtrong and ſudden impulſe of the ob⯑ject, becomes uneaſy, and reſembles in its fluctuation and uncertainty, the ſenſation of fear or the mix'd paſſions of grief and joy. This image of fear naturally converts into the thing itſelf, and gives us a real appre⯑henſion of evil, as the mind always forms its judgments more from its preſent diſpoſition than from the nature of its objects.

THUS all kinds of uncertainty have a ſtrong connexion with fear, even tho' they do not cauſe any oppoſition of paſſions by the oppoſite views and conſiderations they preſent to us. A perſon, who has left his friend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if he were preſent, tho' perhaps he is not only incapa⯑ble of giving him aſſiſtance, but likewiſe of judging of the event of his ſickneſs. In [305] this caſe, tho' the principal object of the paſſion, viz. the life or death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when preſent as when abſent; yet there are a thouſand lit⯑tle circumſtances of his friend's ſituation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and prevents that fluctuation and uncertainty ſo near ally'd to fear. Uncer⯑tainty is, indeed, in one reſpect as near al⯑ly'd to hope as to fear, ſince it makes an eſſential part in the compoſition of the for⯑mer paſſion; but the reaſon, why it in⯑clines not to that ſide, is, that uncertainty alone is uneaſy, and has a relation of im⯑preſſions to the uneaſy paſſions.

'TIS thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumſtance relating to a per⯑ſon encreaſes our apprehenſions of his death or misfortune. Horace has remark'd this phaenomenon.

BUT this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty I carry farther, and [306] obſerve that any doubt produces that paſ⯑ſion, even tho' it preſents nothing to us on any ſide but what is good and deſireable. A virgin, on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and apprehenſions, tho' ſhe expects nothing but pleaſure of the higheſt kind, and what ſhe has long wiſh'd for. The newneſs and greatneſs of the event, the confuſion of wiſhes and joys, ſo embarraſs the mind, that it knows not on what paſ⯑ſion to fix itſelf; from whence ariſes a fluttering or unſettledneſs of the ſpirits, which being, in ſome degree, uneaſy, very naturally degenerates into fear.

THUS we ſtill find, that whatever cauſes any fluctuation or mixture of paſſions, with any degree of uneaſineſs, always produces fear, or at leaſt a paſſion ſo like it, that they are ſcarcely to be diſtinguiſh'd.

I HAVE here confin'd myſelf to the examination of hope and fear in their moſt ſimple and natural ſituation, without con⯑ſidering all the variations they may receive from the mixture of different views and re⯑flections. Terror, conſternation, aſtoniſh⯑ment, anxiety, and other paſſions of that kind, are nothing but different ſpecies and [307] degrees of fear. 'Tis eaſy to imagine how a different ſituation of the object, or a diffe⯑rent turn of thought, may change even the ſenſation of a paſſion; and this may in ge⯑neral account for all the particular ſub-di⯑viſions of the other affections, as well as of fear. Love may ſhew itſelf in the ſhape of tenderneſs, friendſhip, intimacy, eſteem, good-will, and in many other appearances; which at the bottom are the ſame affections, and ariſe from the ſame cauſes, tho' with a ſmall variation, which it is not neceſſary to give any particular account of. 'Tis for this reaſon I have all along confin'd my⯑ſelf to the principal paſſion.

THE ſame care of avoiding prolixity is the reaſon why I wave the examination of the will and direct paſſions, as they appear in animals; ſince nothing is more evident, than that they are of the ſame nature, and excited by the ſame cauſes as in human crea⯑tures. I leave this to the reader's own obſer⯑vation; deſiring him at the ſame time to conſider the additional force this beſtows on the preſent ſyſtem.

SECT. X. Of curioſity, or the love of truth.

BUT methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over ſo many different parts of the human mind, and examine ſo many paſſions, without tak⯑ing once into the conſideration that love of truth, which was the firſt ſource of all our enquiries. 'Twill therefore be proper, be⯑fore we leave this ſubject, to beſtow a few reflections on that paſſion, and ſhew its ori⯑gin in human nature. 'Tis an affection of ſo peculiar a kind, that 'twoud have been impoſſible to have treated of it under any of thoſe heads, which we have examin'd, without danger of obſcurity and confu⯑ſion.

TRUTH is of two kinds, conſiſting either in the diſcovery of the proportions of ideas, con⯑ſider'd as ſuch, or in the conformity of our ideas of objects to their real exiſtence. 'Tis certain, that the former ſpecies of truth, is not deſir'd merely as truth, and that 'tis not the [309] juſtneſs of our concluſions, which alone gives the pleaſure. For theſe concluſions are equally juſt, when we diſcover the equa⯑lity of two bodies by a pair of compaſſes, as when we learn it by a mathematical de⯑monſtration; and tho' in the one caſe the proofs be demonſtrative, and in the other only ſenſible, yet generally ſpeaking, the mind acquieſces with equal aſſurance in the one as in the other. And in an arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the aſ⯑ſurance are of the ſame nature, as in the moſt profound algebraical problem, the pleaſure is very inconſiderable, if rather it does not degenerate into pain: Which is an evident proof, that the ſatisfaction, which we ſometimes receive from the diſcovery of truth, proceeds not from it, merely as ſuch, but only as endow'd with certain quali⯑ties.

THE firſt and moſt conſiderable cir⯑cumſtance requiſite to render truth agree⯑able, is the genius and capacity, which is employ'd in its invention and diſcovery. What is eaſy and obvious is never valu'd; and even what is in itſelf difficult, if we come to the knowledge of it without diffi⯑culty, [310] and without any ſtretch of thought or judgment, is but little regarded. We love to trace the demonſtrations of mathe⯑maticians; but ſhou'd receive ſmall enter⯑tainment from a perſon, who ſhou'd bare⯑ly inform us of the proportions of lines and angles, tho' we repos'd the utmoſt confi⯑dence both in his judgment and veracity. In this caſe 'tis ſufficient to have ears to learn the truth. We never are oblig'd to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of all other exerciſes of the mind is the moſt plea⯑ſant and agreeable.

BUT tho' the exerciſe of genius be the principal ſource of that ſatisfaction we re⯑ceive from the ſciences, yet I doubt, if it be alone ſufficient to give us any conſi⯑derable enjoyment. The truth we diſcover muſt alſo be of ſome importance. 'Tis eaſy to multiply algebraical problems to in⯑finity, nor is there any end in the diſco⯑very of the proportions of conic ſections; tho' few mathematicians take any pleaſure in theſe reſearches, but turn their thoughts to what is more uſeful and important. Now the queſtion is, after what manner this utility and importance operate upon [311] us? The difficulty on this head ariſes from hence, that many philoſophers have con⯑ſurn'd their time, have deſtroy'd their health, and neglected their fortune, in the ſearch of ſuch truths, as they eſteem'd im⯑portant and uſeful to the world, tho' it ap⯑pear'd from their whole conduct and beha⯑viour, that they were not endow'd with any ſhare of public ſpirit, nor had any con⯑cern for the intereſts of mankind. Were they convinc'd, that their diſcoveries were of no conſequence, they wou'd entirely loſe all reliſh for their ſtudies, and that tho' the conſequences be entirely indifferent to them; which ſeems to be a contradiction.

TO remove this contradiction, we muſt conſider, that there are certain deſires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination, and are rather the faint ſha⯑dows and images of paſſions, than any real affections. Thus, ſuppoſe a man, who takes a ſurvey of the fortifications of any city; conſiders their ſtrength and advantages, na⯑tural or acquir'd; obſerves the diſpoſition and contrivance of the baſtions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; 'tis plain, that in proportion as all theſe are fitted to attain their ends, he will receive a ſuitable [312] pleaſure and ſatisfaction. This pleaſure, as it ariſes from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other than a ſym⯑pathy with the inhabitants, for whoſe ſe⯑curity all this art is employ'd; tho' 'tis poſ⯑ſible, that this perſon, as a ſtranger or an enemy, may in his heart have no kindneſs for them, or may even entertain a hatred againſt them.

IT may indeed be objected, that ſuch a remote ſympathy is a very ſlight foundation for a paſſion, and that ſo much induſtry and application, as we frequently obſerve in philoſophers, can never be deriv'd from ſo inconſiderable an original. But here I re⯑turn to what I have already remark'd, that the pleaſure of ſtudy conſiſts chiefly in the action of the mind, and the exerciſe of the genius and underſtanding in the diſcovery or comprehenſion of any truth. If the im⯑portance of the truth be requiſite to com⯑pleat the pleaſure, 'tis not on account of any conſiderable addition, which of itſelf it brings to our enjoyment, but only becauſe 'tis, in ſome meaſure, requiſite to fix our attention. When we are careleſs and in⯑attentive, the ſame action of the underſtand⯑ing has no effect upon us, nor is able to [313] convey any of that ſatisfaction, which a⯑riſes from it, when we are in another diſ⯑poſition.

BUT beſide the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation of the pleaſure, there is likewiſe requir'd a degree of ſucceſs in the attainment of the end, or the diſcovery of that truth we examine. Upon this head I ſhall make a general re⯑mark, which may be uſeful on many oc⯑caſions, viz. that where the mind purſues any end with paſſion; tho' that paſſion be not deriv'd originally from the end, but merely from the action and purſuit; yet by the natural courſe of the affections, we ac⯑quire a concern for the end itſelf, and are uneaſy under any diſappointment we meet with in the purſuit of it. This pro⯑ceeds from the relation and parallel direction of the paſſions above-mention'd.

TO illuſtrate all this by a ſimilar inſtance, I ſhall obſerve, that there cannot be two paſſions more nearly reſembling each other, than thoſe of hunting and philoſophy, what⯑ever diſproportion may at firſt ſight appear betwixt them. 'Tis evident, that the plea⯑ſure of hunting conſiſts in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention, [314] the difficulty, and the uncertainty. 'Tis evident likewiſe, that theſe actions muſt be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their having any effect upon us. A man of the greateſt fortune, and the fartheſt re⯑mov'd from avarice, tho' he takes a plea⯑ſure in hunting after patridges and pheaſants, feels no ſatisfaction in ſhooting crows and magpies; and that becauſe he conſiders the firſt as fit for the table, and the other as entirely uſeleſs. Here 'tis certain, that the utility or importance of itſelf cauſes no real paſſion, but is only requiſite to ſupport the imagination; and the ſame perſon, who over-looks a ten times greater profit in any other ſubject, is pleas'd to bring home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employ'd ſeveral hours in hunting after them. To make the parallel betwixt hunting and philoſophy more compleat, we may obſerve, that tho' in both caſes the end of our ac⯑tion may in itſelf be deſpis'd, yet in the heat of the action we acquire ſuch an at⯑tention to this end, that we are very uneaſy under any diſappointments, and are ſorry when we either miſs our game, or fall into any error in our reaſoning.

[315] IF we want another parallel to theſe af⯑fections, we may conſider the paſſion of gaming, which affords a pleaſure from the ſame principles as hunting and philoſophy. It has been remark'd, that the pleaſure of gaming ariſes not from intereſt alone; ſince many leave a ſure gain for this entertain⯑ment: Neither is it deriv'd from the game alone; ſince the ſame perſons have no ſa⯑tisfaction, when they play for nothing: But proceeds from both theſe cauſes united, tho' ſeparately they have no effect. 'Tis here, as in certain chymical preparations, where the mixture of two clear and tranſparent liquids produces a third, which is opaque and colour'd.

THE intereſt, which we have in any game, engages our attention, without which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action. Our attention be⯑ing once engag'd, the difficulty, variety, and ſudden reverſes of fortune, ſtill farther intereſt us; and 'tis from that concern our ſatisfac⯑tion ariſes. Human life is ſo tireſome a ſcene, and men generally are of ſuch indo⯑lent diſpoſitions, that whatever amuſes them, tho' by a paſſion mixt with pain, does in the main give them a ſenſible pleaſure. And [316] this pleaſure is here encreas'd by the nature of the objects, which being ſenſible, and of a narrow compaſs, are enter'd into with fa⯑cility; and are agreeable to the imagina⯑tion.

THE ſame theory, that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics and algebra, may be extended to morals, politics, na⯑tural philoſophy, and other ſtudies, where we conſider not the abſtract relations of ideas, but their real connexions and exiſtence. But beſide the love of knowledge, which diſplays itſelf in the ſciences, there is a certain curioſity implanted in human nature, which is a paſſion deriv'd from a quite dif⯑ferent principle. Some people have an in⯑ſatiable deſire of knowing the actions and circumſtances of their neighbours, tho' their intereſt be no way concern'd in them, and they muſt entirely depend on others for their information; in which caſe there is no room for ſtudy or application. Let us ſearch for the reaſon of this phaenomenon.

IT has been prov'd at large, that the influence of belief is at once to inliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and pre⯑vent all kind of heſitation and uncertainty about it. Both theſe circumſtances are ad⯑vantageous. [317] By the vivacity of the idea we intereſt the fancy, and produce, tho' in a leſſer degree, the ſame pleaſure, which ariſes from a moderate paſſion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleaſure, ſo its certainty prevents uneaſineſs, by fixing one particular idea in the mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its ob⯑jects. 'Tis a quality of human nature, which is conſpicuous on many occaſions, and is common both to the mind and body, that too ſudden and violent a change is unpleaſant to us, and that however any objects may in themſelves be indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneaſineſs. As 'tis the nature of doubt to cauſe a variation in the thought, and tranſport us ſuddenly from one idea to another, it muſt of conſequence be the occaſion of pain. This pain chiefly takes place, where intereſt, relation, or the greatneſs and novelty of any event intereſts us in it. 'Tis not every matter of fact, of which we have a curioſity to be inform'd; neither are they ſuch only as we have an intereſt to know. 'Tis ſufficient if the idea ſtrikes on us with ſuch force, and concerns us ſo nearly, as to give us an uneaſineſs in its inſtability and inconſtancy. A ſtranger, [318] when he arrives firſt at any town, may be entirely indifferent about knowing the hiſ⯑tory and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he becomes farther acquainted with them, and has liv'd any conſiderable time among them, he acquires the ſame curioſity as the natives. When we are reading the hiſtory of a nation, we may have an ardent deſire of clearing up any doubt or difficulty, that occurs in it; but become careleſs in ſuch reſearches, when the ideas of theſe events are, in a great meaſure, obliterated.