Why Usefulness Pleases

It seems so natural a thought to ascribe to their utility the praise, which we bestow on the social virtues, that one would expect to meet with this principle everywhere in moral writers, as the chief foundation of their reasoning and enquiry. In common life, we may observe, that the circumstance of utility is always appealed to; nor is it supposed, that a greater eulogy can be given to any man, than to display his usefulness to the public, and enumerate the services, which he has performed to mankind and society. What praise, even of an inanimate form, if the regularity and elegance of its parts destroy not its fitness for any useful purpose! And how satisfactory an apology for any disproportion or seeming deformity, if we can show the necessity of that particular construction for the use intended! A ship appears more beautiful to an artist, or one moderately skilled in navigation, where its prow is wide and swelling beyond its poop, than if it were framed with a precise geometrical regularity, in contradiction to all the laws of mechanics. A building, whose doors and windows were exact squares, would hurt the eye by that very proportion; as ill adapted to the figure of a human creature, for whose service the fabric was intended.

It seems so natural to credit the usefulness of social virtues for the praise we give them. One would expect moral writers to use this principle everywhere as the main foundation of their arguments and inquiries. In everyday life, we can see that usefulness is always appealed to. No greater praise can be given to a person than to show their usefulness to the public and list their services to humanity and society. Even the shape of an inanimate object is praised if the regularity and elegance of its parts do not spoil its usefulness. And if we can show that its particular construction is necessary for its intended use, that is a satisfying defense of any unevenness or apparent ugliness. A ship looks more beautiful to a skilled designer or someone moderately knowledgeable about navigation when its bow is wider and fuller than its stern. It looks better that way than if it were built with precise geometric regularity, contrary to all the laws of mechanics. A building with perfectly square doors and windows would offend the eye precisely because of those proportions. They would be poorly suited to the shape of a human being, whom the building was meant to serve.

What wonder then, that a man, whose habits and conduct are hurtful to society, and dangerous or pernicious to every one who has an intercourse with him, should, on that account, be an object of disapprobation, and communicate to every spectator the strongest sentiment of disgust and hatred.¹²

So is it any wonder that we disapprove of a man whose habits and conduct harm society? He is dangerous or harmful to everyone who deals with him. For that reason, he also inspires the strongest feelings of disgust and hatred in everyone who observes him.¹²

But perhaps the difficulty of accounting for these effects of usefulness, or its contrary, has kept philosophers from admitting them into their systems of ethics, and has induced them rather to employ any other principle, in explaining the origin of moral good and evil. But it is no just reason for rejecting any principle, confirmed by experience, that we cannot give a satisfactory account of its origin, nor are able to resolve it into other more general principles. And if we would employ a little thought on the present subject, we need be at no loss to account for the influence of utility, and to deduce it from principles, the most known and avowed in human nature.

But perhaps philosophers have found it difficult to explain these effects of usefulness and uselessness. This difficulty may have kept them from including usefulness in their ethical systems. Perhaps it has led them to use any other principle to explain the origin of moral good and evil. But a principle confirmed by experience cannot justly be rejected because we cannot satisfactorily explain its origin. Nor can it be rejected because we cannot trace it back to more general principles. If we give the present subject a little thought, we can readily explain the influence of usefulness. We can trace it back to the best known and most widely acknowledged principles of human nature.

From the apparent usefulness of the social virtues, it has readily been inferred by sceptics, both ancient and modern, that all moral distinctions arise from education, and were, at first, invented, and afterwards encouraged, by the art of politicians, in order to render men tractable, and subdue their natural ferocity and selfishness, which incapacitated them for society. This principle, indeed, of precept and education, must so far be owned to have a powerful influence, that it may frequently increase or diminish, beyond their natural standard, the sentiments of approbation or dislike; and may even, in particular instances, create, without any natural principle, a new sentiment of this kind; as is evident in all superstitious practices and observances: But that ALL moral affection or dislike arises from this origin, will never surely be allowed by any judicious enquirer. Had nature made no such distinction, founded on the original constitution of the mind, the words, HONOURABLE and SHAMEFUL, LOVELY and ODIOUS, NOBLE and DESPICABLE, had never had place in any language; nor could politicians, had they invented these terms, ever have been able to render them intelligible, or make them convey any idea to the audience. So that nothing can be more superficial than this paradox of the sceptics; and it were well, if, in the abstruser studies of logic and metaphysics, we could as easily obviate the cavils of that sect, as in the practical and more intelligible sciences of politics and morals.

The social virtues are clearly useful. From this, ancient and modern skeptics have readily concluded that all moral distinctions come from education. They claim that politicians first invented these distinctions and later encouraged them. Their aim was to make people easier to control and tame their natural ferocity and selfishness. These traits made people incapable of living in society. We must admit that instruction and education have a powerful influence. They can often increase or diminish feelings of approval or dislike beyond their natural level. In particular cases, they may even create a new feeling of this kind without any natural basis. This is clear in all superstitious practices and observances. But surely no careful inquirer will accept that ALL moral approval or dislike comes from this source. Suppose nature had made no such distinction based on the original makeup of the mind. Then the words HONOURABLE and SHAMEFUL, LOVELY and ODIOUS, NOBLE and DESPICABLE would never have appeared in any language. Even if politicians had invented these terms, they could never have made them intelligible or conveyed any idea to their listeners. Nothing, then, could be more superficial than this paradox of the skeptics. It would be good if we could answer that group’s objections as easily in the more difficult studies of logic and metaphysics as we can in the practical and more intelligible sciences of politics and morals.

The social virtues must, therefore, be allowed to have a natural beauty and amiableness, which, at first, antecedent to all precept or education, recommends them to the esteem of uninstructed mankind, and engages their affections. And as the public utility of these virtues is the chief circumstance, whence they derive their merit, it follows, that the end, which they have a tendency to promote, must be some way agreeable to us, and take hold of some natural affection. It must please, either from considerations of self-interest, or from more generous motives and regards.

We must therefore admit that social virtues have a natural beauty and appeal. Even before any teaching or education, they win the respect and affection of people who have received no instruction. The chief source of their merit is their usefulness to society. It follows that the end these virtues tend to promote must be agreeable to us in some way. It must also appeal to some natural feeling. This end must please us either because of self-interest or because of more generous motives and concerns.

It has often been asserted, that, as every man has a strong connexion with society, and perceives the impossibility of his solitary subsistence, he becomes, on that account, favourable to all those habits or principles, which promote order in society, and insure to him the quiet possession of so inestimable a blessing, As much as we value our own happiness and welfare, as much must we applaud the practice of justice and humanity, by which alone the social confederacy can be maintained, and every man reap the fruits of mutual protection and assistance.

It has often been argued that everyone has a strong connection to society and realizes that they cannot survive alone. For this reason, people favor all habits and principles that promote social order and ensure their continued enjoyment of this priceless blessing. As much as we value our own happiness and welfare, we must also praise the practice of justice and humanity. Only through these can society be maintained and everyone enjoy the benefits of mutual protection and assistance.

This deduction of morals from self-love, or a regard to private interest, is an obvious thought, and has not arisen wholly from the wanton sallies and sportive assaults of the sceptics. To mention no others, Polybius, one of the gravest and most judicious, as well as most moral writers of antiquity, has assigned this selfish origin to all our sentiments of virtue.¹³ But though the solid practical sense of that author, and his aversion to all vain subtilties, render his authority on the present subject very considerable; yet is not this an affair to be decided by authority, and the voice of nature and experience seems plainly to oppose the selfish theory.

The idea that morality comes from self-love, or concern for private interests, is an obvious one. It did not arise solely from the playful and reckless attacks of skeptics. To mention just one example, Polybius attributed all our feelings about virtue to this selfish origin.¹³ He was one of the most serious and discerning writers of antiquity, as well as one of the most moral. His sound practical judgment and dislike of pointless subtleties give his views on this subject considerable weight. But the question cannot be decided by authority, and nature and experience seem clearly to oppose the selfish theory.

We frequently bestow praise on virtuous actions, performed in very distant ages and remote countries; where the utmost subtilty of imagination would not discover any appearance of self-interest, or find any connexion of our present happiness and security with events so widely separated from us.

We often praise virtuous actions performed in distant ages and faraway countries. Even the most subtle imagination could find no appearance of self-interest in such praise. Nor could it find any connection between our present happiness and security and events so far removed from us.

A generous, a brave, a noble deed, performed by an adversary, commands our approbation; while in its consequences it may be acknowledged prejudicial to our particular interest.

A generous, brave, or noble deed earns our approval, even when an opponent performs it. This is true even if we recognize that the deed’s consequences may harm our own interests.

Where private advantage concurs with general affection for virtue, we readily perceive and avow the mixture of these distinct sentiments, which have a very different feeling and influence on the mind. We praise, perhaps, with more alacrity, where the generous humane action contributes to our particular interest: But the topics of praise, which we insist on, are very wide of this circumstance. And we may attempt to bring over others to our sentiments, without endeavouring to convince them, that they reap any advantage from the actions which we recommend to their approbation and applause.

When personal advantage coincides with a general love of virtue, we readily recognize and acknowledge the mixture of these distinct feelings. They feel very different and influence our minds differently. Perhaps we praise a generous, humane action more readily when it benefits us personally. But the reasons we give for our praise are quite separate from that benefit. And we may try to bring others around to our view without trying to convince them that they benefit from the actions we urge them to approve and applaud.

Frame the model of a praiseworthy character, consisting of all the most amiable moral virtues: Give instances, in which these display themselves after an eminent and extraordinary manner: You readily engage the esteem and approbation of all your audience, who never so much as enquire in what age and country the person lived, who possessed these noble qualities: A circumstance, however, of all others, the most material to self-love, or a concern for our own individual happiness. Once on a time, a statesman, in the shock and contest of parties, prevailed so far as to procure, by his eloquence, the banishment of an able adversary; whom he secretly followed, offering him money for his support during his exile, and soothing him with topics of consolation in his misfortunes. ALAS! cries the banished statesman, WITH WHAT REGRET MUST I LEAVE MY FRIENDS IN THIS CITY, WHERE EVEN ENEMIES ARE SO GENEROUS! Virtue, though in an enemy, here pleased him: And we also give it the just tribute of praise and approbation; nor do we retract these sentiments, when we hear, that the action passed at Athens, about two thousand years ago, and that the persons' names were Eschines and Demosthenes.

Imagine a praiseworthy character who possesses all the most appealing moral virtues. Give examples of these virtues displayed in outstanding and extraordinary ways. You will readily win the esteem and approval of your entire audience. They will not even ask when or where the person with these noble qualities lived. Yet that circumstance matters more than any other to self-interest, or concern for our own individual happiness. Once, during a struggle between political parties, a statesman used his eloquence to secure the banishment of a capable opponent. He secretly followed the opponent and offered him money to support him in exile. He also offered comforting thoughts to ease his misfortune. ALAS! cried the banished statesman, HOW SORRY I MUST BE TO LEAVE MY FRIENDS IN THIS CITY, WHERE EVEN ENEMIES ARE SO GENEROUS! Virtue pleased him, even in an enemy. We too give this virtue the praise and approval it deserves. Nor do we withdraw our praise and approval when we learn that this happened in Athens about two thousand years ago, and that the men were named Eschines and Demosthenes.

WHAT IS THAT TO ME? There are few occasions, when this question is not pertinent: And had it that universal, infallible influence supposed, it would turn into ridicule every composition, and almost every conversation, which contain any praise or censure of men and manners.

WHAT DOES THAT MATTER TO ME? There are few occasions when this question is not relevant. But suppose it had the universal, infallible influence attributed to it. Then it would make a mockery of every written work and almost every conversation that praises or criticizes people and their conduct.

It is but a weak subterfuge, when pressed by these facts and arguments, to say, that we transport ourselves, by the force of imagination, into distant ages and countries, and consider the advantage, which we should have reaped from these characters, had we been contemporaries, and had any commerce with the persons. It is not conceivable, how a REAL sentiment or passion can ever arise from a known IMAGINARY interest; especially when our REAL interest is still kept in view, and is often acknowledged to be entirely distinct from the imaginary, and even sometimes opposite to it.

When faced with these facts and arguments, it is a weak excuse to say that we imagine ourselves in distant times and countries. On this account, we imagine how we would have benefited from these people's characters if we had lived at the same time and interacted with them. It is impossible to see how a REAL feeling or passion could arise from an interest we know is IMAGINARY. This is especially true when we still keep our REAL interest in view. We often recognize that our real interest is entirely distinct from the imaginary one, and sometimes even opposed to it.

A man, brought to the brink of a precipice, cannot look down without trembling; and the sentiment of IMAGINARY danger actuates him, in opposition to the opinion and belief of REAL safety. But the imagination is here assisted by the presence of a striking object; and yet prevails not, except it be also aided by novelty, and the unusual appearance of the object. Custom soon reconciles us to heights and precipices, and wears off these false and delusive terrors. The reverse is observable in the estimates which we form of characters and manners; and the more we habituate ourselves to an accurate scrutiny of morals, the more delicate feeling do we acquire of the most minute distinctions between vice and virtue. Such frequent occasion, indeed, have we, in common life, to pronounce all kinds of moral determinations, that no object of this kind can be new or unusual to us; nor could any FALSE views or prepossessions maintain their ground against an experience, so common and familiar. Experience being chiefly what forms the associations of ideas, it is impossible that any association could establish and support itself, in direct opposition to that principle.

A man brought to the edge of a cliff cannot look down without trembling. A feeling of IMAGINARY danger moves him, even though he believes he is REALLY safe. But the imagination is helped here by the presence of a striking sight. Even so, it prevails only when the sight is also new and unusual. We soon grow accustomed to heights and cliffs, and these false and misleading fears fade. The opposite happens when we judge character and conduct. The more we practice examining morals carefully, the more sensitive we become to the smallest distinctions between vice and virtue. Indeed, in everyday life, we have so many occasions to make all kinds of moral judgments that no moral question can be new or unusual to us. Nor could any FALSE views or preconceptions stand against such common and familiar experience. Experience is the chief source of our associations of ideas. So no association could establish or sustain itself in direct opposition to experience.

Usefulness is agreeable, and engages our approbation. This is a matter of fact, confirmed by daily observation. But, USEFUL? For what? For somebody's interest, surely. Whose interest then? Not our own only: For our approbation frequently extends farther. It must, therefore, be the interest of those, who are served by the character or action approved of; and these we may conclude, however remote, are not totally indifferent to us. By opening up this principle, we shall discover one great source of moral distinctions.

Usefulness is pleasing and wins our approval. This is a fact confirmed by everyday experience. But USEFUL? For what? Surely, for someone’s interests. Whose interests, then? Not just our own, because our approval often extends further. It must therefore be the interests of those who benefit from the character or action we approve of. We can conclude that, however distant those people may be, we are not completely indifferent to them. By examining this principle, we will discover one major source of moral distinctions.

Self-love is a principle in human nature of such extensive energy, and the interest of each individual is, in general, so closely connected with that of the community, that those philosophers were excusable, who fancied that all our concern for the public might be resolved into a concern for our own happiness and preservation. They saw every moment, instances of approbation or blame, satisfaction or displeasure towards characters and actions; they denominated the objects of these sentiments, VIRTUES, or VICES; they observed, that the former had a tendency to increase the happiness, and the latter the misery of mankind; they asked, whether it were possible that we could have any general concern for society, or any disinterested resentment of the welfare or injury of others; they found it simpler to consider all these sentiments as modifications of self-love; and they discovered a pretence, at least, for this unity of principle, in that close union of interest, which is so observable between the public and each individual.

Self-interest is a powerful force in human nature, and each person's interests are generally closely connected with the community's interests. It was therefore understandable that some philosophers thought all our concern for the public could be explained by concern for our own happiness and survival. They constantly saw people approving or disapproving of characters and actions, and feeling pleased or displeased by them. They called the objects of these feelings VIRTUES or VICES. They observed that virtues tended to increase human happiness, while vices tended to increase human misery. They asked whether we could have any general concern for society, or any unselfish response to the welfare or harm of others. They found it simpler to regard all these feelings as forms of self-interest. The close connection between public and individual interests gave them at least some grounds for explaining everything through this single principle.

But notwithstanding this frequent confusion of interests, it is easy to attain what natural philosophers, after Lord Bacon, have affected to call the experimentum crucis, or that experiment which points out the right way in any doubt or ambiguity. We have found instances, in which private interest was separate from public; in which it was even contrary: And yet we observed the moral sentiment to continue, notwithstanding this disjunction of interests. And wherever these distinct interests sensibly concurred, we always found a sensible increase of the sentiment, and a more warm affection to virtue, and detestation of vice, or what we properly call, GRATITUDE and REVENGE. Compelled by these instances, we must renounce the theory, which accounts for every moral sentiment by the principle of self-love. We must adopt a more public affection, and allow, that the interests of society are not, even on their own account, entirely indifferent to us. Usefulness is only a tendency to a certain end; and it is a contradiction in terms, that anything pleases as means to an end, where the end itself no wise affects us. If usefulness, therefore, be a source of moral sentiment, and if this usefulness be not always considered with a reference to self; it follows, that everything, which contributes to the happiness of society, recommends itself directly to our approbation and good-will. Here is a principle, which accounts, in great part, for the origin of morality: And what need we seek for abstruse and remote systems, when there occurs one so obvious and natural?

But despite this frequent overlap of interests, it is easy to find what natural philosophers, following Lord Bacon, liked to call an experimentum crucis. This is an experiment that points to the right answer in cases of doubt or uncertainty. We have found cases where private interest was separate from public interest, and even opposed to it. Yet we observed that moral sentiment remained, despite this separation of interests. And wherever these distinct interests clearly coincided, we always found a clear increase in that sentiment. We also found a warmer love of virtue and hatred of vice, or what we properly call GRATITUDE and REVENGE. These examples compel us to reject the theory that explains every moral sentiment through self-love. We must recognize a broader concern for the public. We must admit that the interests of society are not entirely indifferent to us, even for their own sake. Usefulness is only a tendency to bring about a certain end. It is a contradiction to say that something pleases us as a means to an end if the end itself does not affect us at all. Suppose, then, that usefulness is a source of moral sentiment and that we do not always consider usefulness in relation to ourselves. It follows that everything that contributes to society’s happiness directly wins our approval and goodwill. This principle largely explains the origin of morality. Why look for obscure and far-fetched theories when we have one so obvious and natural?

[FOOTNOTE: It is needless to push our researches so far as to ask, why we have humanity or a fellow-feeling with others. It is sufficient, that this is experienced to be a principle in human nature. We must stop somewhere in our examination of causes; and there are, in every science, some general principles, beyond which we cannot hope to find any principle more general. No man is absolutely indifferent to the happiness and misery of others. The first has a natural tendency to give pleasure; the second, pain. This every one may find in himself. It is not probable, that these principles can be resolved into principles more simple and universal, whatever attempts may have been made to that purpose. But if it were possible, it belongs not to the present subject; and we may here safely consider these principles as original; happy, if we can render all the consequences sufficiently plain and perspicuous!]

[FOOTNOTE: We need not pursue our inquiry so far as to ask why we feel compassion or sympathy for others. It is enough that experience shows these feelings to be part of human nature. We must stop somewhere in our search for causes. In every science, there are general principles beyond which we cannot hope to find anything more general. No one is completely indifferent to the happiness and suffering of others. Happiness naturally tends to give us pleasure, and suffering to give us pain. Everyone can discover this in themselves. People have tried to explain these principles in terms of simpler and more universal ones. But such an explanation is unlikely. Even if it were possible, it would not belong to the present subject. Here we may safely consider these principles fundamental. We should be satisfied if we can make all their consequences sufficiently clear!]

Have we any difficulty to comprehend the force of humanity and benevolence? Or to conceive, that the very aspect of happiness, joy, prosperity, gives pleasure; that of pain, suffering, sorrow, communicates uneasiness? The human countenance, says Horace ['Uti ridentibus arrident, ita flentibus adflent Humani vultus,'—Hor.], borrows smiles or tears from the human countenance. Reduce a person to solitude, and he loses all enjoyment, except either of the sensual or speculative kind; and that because the movements of his heart are not forwarded by correspondent movements in his fellow-creatures. The signs of sorrow and mourning, though arbitrary, affect us with melancholy; but the natural symptoms, tears and cries and groans, never fail to infuse compassion and uneasiness. And if the effects of misery touch us in so lively a manner; can we be supposed altogether insensible or indifferent towards its causes; when a malicious or treacherous character and behaviour are presented to us?

Do we have any difficulty understanding the power of kindness and goodwill? Is it hard to see that the sight of happiness, joy, and prosperity gives us pleasure? Or that the sight of pain, suffering, and sorrow makes us uneasy? As Horace says, ['Uti ridentibus arrident, ita flentibus adflent Humani vultus,' (Hor.)], one human face takes its smiles or tears from another. Put a person in solitude, and they lose all enjoyment except physical or intellectual pleasure. This is because their feelings are not strengthened by matching feelings in other people. Signs of sorrow and mourning, though chosen by convention, make us feel sad. But natural signs, such as tears, cries, and groans, always stir compassion and uneasiness. And if the effects of misery touch us so deeply, can we be entirely unmoved or indifferent toward its causes? Can we be indifferent when faced with malicious or treacherous character and behavior?

We enter, I shall suppose, into a convenient, warm, well-contrived apartment: We necessarily receive a pleasure from its very survey; because it presents us with the pleasing ideas of ease, satisfaction, and enjoyment. The hospitable, good-humoured, humane landlord appears. This circumstance surely must embellish the whole; nor can we easily forbear reflecting, with pleasure, on the satisfaction which results to every one from his intercourse and good-offices.

Suppose we enter a comfortable, warm, well-designed room. Simply looking at it gives us pleasure, because it brings to mind ease, satisfaction, and enjoyment. The hospitable, good-humored, kind landlord appears. His presence surely makes the whole scene more pleasant. We can hardly help thinking with pleasure about the satisfaction everyone gains from his company and kindness.

His whole family, by the freedom, ease, confidence, and calm enjoyment, diffused over their countenances, sufficiently express their happiness. I have a pleasing sympathy in the prospect of so much joy, and can never consider the source of it, without the most agreeable emotions.

His whole family clearly shows its happiness in their faces, which reflect freedom, ease, confidence, and calm enjoyment. Seeing so much joy gives me a pleasant sense of shared happiness. I can never think of its source without feeling the greatest pleasure.

He tells me, that an oppressive and powerful neighbour had attempted to dispossess him of his inheritance, and had long disturbed all his innocent and social pleasures. I feel an immediate indignation arise in me against such violence and injury.

He tells me that a powerful, oppressive neighbor tried to take his inheritance from him. The neighbor had long disrupted all his innocent pleasures, including those he shared with others. I immediately feel outraged by such violence and harm.

But it is no wonder, he adds, that a private wrong should proceed from a man, who had enslaved provinces, depopulated cities, and made the field and scaffold stream with human blood. I am struck with horror at the prospect of so much misery, and am actuated by the strongest antipathy against its author.

But, he adds, it is no wonder that a man who had enslaved provinces and emptied cities of people would wrong an individual. He had also made the battlefield and the execution scaffold run with human blood. I am horrified at the prospect of so much suffering, and I feel the strongest hatred toward the man who caused it.

In general, it is certain, that, wherever we go, whatever we reflect on or converse about, everything still presents us with the view of human happiness or misery, and excites in our breast a sympathetic movement of pleasure or uneasiness. In our serious occupations, in our careless amusements, this principle still exerts its active energy.

In general, it is certain that wherever we go, and whatever we think or talk about, everything shows us human happiness or misery. It stirs a sympathetic feeling of pleasure or unease in us. This principle remains active in both our serious work and our casual amusements.

A man who enters the theatre, is immediately struck with the view of so great a multitude, participating of one common amusement; and experiences, from their very aspect, a superior sensibility or disposition of being affected with every sentiment, which he shares with his fellow-creatures.

A man entering a theatre is immediately struck by the sight of so many people enjoying the same entertainment. The sight makes him more sensitive to every feeling he shares with his fellow human beings.

He observes the actors to be animated by the appearance of a full audience, and raised to a degree of enthusiasm, which they cannot command in any solitary or calm moment.

He sees that a full audience energizes the actors. It inspires a level of enthusiasm they cannot summon when alone or calm.

Every movement of the theatre, by a skilful poet, is communicated, as it were by magic, to the spectators; who weep, tremble, resent, rejoice, and are inflamed with all the variety of passions, which actuate the several personages of the drama.

A skillful playwright conveys every emotion on stage to the audience, as if by magic. The spectators weep, tremble, feel resentment, and rejoice. They are stirred by all the varied passions that move the characters in the play.

Where any event crosses our wishes, and interrupts the happiness of the favourite characters, we feel a sensible anxiety and concern. But where their sufferings proceed from the treachery, cruelty, or tyranny of an enemy, our breasts are affected with the liveliest resentment against the author of these calamities. It is here esteemed contrary to the rules of art to represent anything cool and indifferent. A distant friend, or a confident, who has no immediate interest in the catastrophe, ought, if possible, to be avoided by the poet; as communicating a like indifference to the audience, and checking the progress of the passions.

When events go against our wishes and interrupt the happiness of our favorite characters, we feel real anxiety and concern. But their suffering may be caused by an enemy’s treachery, cruelty, or tyranny. Then we feel the strongest resentment toward the person responsible for their suffering. At such a moment, it is considered bad art to portray anyone as calm and indifferent. If possible, the poet should avoid a distant friend or confidant who has no direct interest in the outcome. Such a character would make the audience equally indifferent and hold back the growth of their emotions.

Few species of poetry are more entertaining than PASTORAL; and every one is sensible, that the chief source of its pleasure arises from those images of a gentle and tender tranquillity, which it represents in its personages, and of which it communicates a like sentiment to the reader. Sannazarius, who transferred the scene to the sea-shore, though he presented the most magnificent object in nature, is confessed to have erred in his choice. The idea of toil, labour, and danger, suffered by the fishermen, is painful; by an unavoidable sympathy, which attends every conception of human happiness or misery.

Few kinds of poetry are more entertaining than pastoral poetry. Everyone recognizes that its chief pleasure comes from the gentle and tender calm it portrays in its characters. This calm gives the reader a similar feeling. Sannazarius moved the scene to the seashore, presenting the most magnificent sight in nature. Yet his choice is generally considered a mistake. The thought of the fishermen’s toil, labor, and danger is painful. This is because we cannot help feeling sympathy whenever we think of human happiness or misery.

When I was twenty, says a French poet, Ovid was my favourite: Now I am forty, I declare for Horace. We enter, to be sure, more readily into sentiments, which resemble those we feel every day: But no passion, when well represented, can be entirely indifferent to us; because there is none, of which every man has not, within him, at least the seeds and first principles. It is the business of poetry to bring every affection near to us by lively imagery and representation, and make it look like truth and reality: A certain proof, that, wherever that reality is found, our minds are disposed to be strongly affected by it.

“When I was twenty,” says a French poet, “Ovid was my favorite. Now that I am forty, I prefer Horace.” We certainly respond more readily to feelings that resemble those we experience every day. But no passion, when well portrayed, can leave us entirely unmoved. This is because every person has at least the seeds and beginnings of every passion within them. Poetry’s task is to bring every feeling close to us through vivid imagery and portrayal, making it seem true and real. This is certain proof that, wherever we find that reality, our minds are ready to be strongly affected by it.

Any recent event or piece of news, by which the fate of states, provinces, or many individuals is affected, is extremely interesting even to those whose welfare is not immediately engaged. Such intelligence is propagated with celerity, heard with avidity, and enquired into with attention and concern. The interest of society appears, on this occasion, to be in some degree the interest of each individual. The imagination is sure to be affected; though the passions excited may not always be so strong and steady as to have great influence on the conduct and behaviour.

Any recent event or news affecting the fate of states, provinces, or many individuals is extremely interesting. It interests even those whose own welfare is not directly affected. Such news spreads quickly, is eagerly received, and is examined with attention and concern. In such cases, society’s interest seems to be, to some degree, the interest of each individual. The imagination is sure to be affected, though the feelings aroused may not always be strong and steady enough to greatly influence conduct and behavior.

The perusal of a history seems a calm entertainment; but would be no entertainment at all, did not our hearts beat with correspondent movements to those which are described by the historian.

Reading history seems like a quiet pleasure. But it would be no pleasure at all if our hearts did not respond to the events the historian describes.

Thucydides and Guicciardin support with difficulty our attention; while the former describes the trivial encounters of the small cities of Greece, and the latter the harmless wars of Pisa. The few persons interested and the small interest fill not the imagination, and engage not the affections. The deep distress of the numerous Athenian army before Syracuse; the danger which so nearly threatens Venice; these excite compassion; these move terror and anxiety.

Thucydides and Guicciardin have difficulty holding our attention. Thucydides describes the minor clashes between the small cities of Greece, and Guicciardin describes the harmless wars of Pisa. So few people are involved, and so little is at stake, that these events do not capture our imagination or engage our emotions. But the terrible distress of the large Athenian army before Syracuse and the imminent danger to Venice arouse compassion, terror, and anxiety.

The indifferent, uninteresting style of Suetonius, equally with the masterly pencil of Tacitus, may convince us of the cruel depravity of Nero or Tiberius: But what a difference of sentiment! While the former coldly relates the facts; and the latter sets before our eyes the venerable figures of a Soranus and a Thrasea, intrepid in their fate, and only moved by the melting sorrows of their friends and kindred. What sympathy then touches every human heart! What indignation against the tyrant, whose causeless fear or unprovoked malice gave rise to such detestable barbarity!

The detached, unengaging style of Suetonius may convince us of the cruel depravity of Nero or Tiberius. The masterful writing of Tacitus may do the same. But what a difference in feeling! Suetonius relates the facts coldly. Tacitus, by contrast, brings before our eyes the venerable figures of Soranus and Thrasea. They face their fate without fear and are moved only by the heartbreaking grief of their friends and family. What sympathy then touches every human heart! What outrage against the tyrant whose groundless fear or unprovoked malice caused such detestable cruelty!

If we bring these subjects nearer: If we remove all suspicion of fiction and deceit: What powerful concern is excited, and how much superior, in many instances, to the narrow attachments of self-love and private interest! Popular sedition, party zeal, a devoted obedience to factious leaders; these are some of the most visible, though less laudable effects of this social sympathy in human nature.

If we bring these subjects closer to home, and remove all suspicion of fiction and deceit, how powerful a concern they arouse! In many cases, this concern is much stronger than our narrow attachments to ourselves and our private interests. Popular rebellion, party fervor, and devoted obedience to factional leaders are some of the most visible, though less admirable, effects of this social sympathy in human nature.

The frivolousness of the subject too, we may observe, is not able to detach us entirely from what carries an image of human sentiment and affection.

We may also observe that even a trivial subject cannot entirely detach us from what reflects human feelings and affection.

When a person stutters, and pronounces with difficulty, we even sympathize with this trivial uneasiness, and suffer for him. And it is a rule in criticism, that every combination of syllables or letters, which gives pain to the organs of speech in the recital, appears also from a species of sympathy harsh and disagreeable to the ear. Nay, when we run over a book with our eye, we are sensible of such unharmonious composition; because we still imagine, that a person recites it to us, and suffers from the pronunciation of these jarring sounds. So delicate is our sympathy!

When someone stutters and struggles to pronounce words, we sympathize even with this slight discomfort and suffer for them. Critics also hold that every combination of syllables or letters that is painful to pronounce sounds harsh and unpleasant. This too is a kind of sympathy. Even when we read a book silently, we notice such awkward writing. This is because we still imagine someone reading it aloud to us and struggling to pronounce the jarring sounds. Such is the delicacy of our sympathy!

Easy and unconstrained postures and motions are always beautiful: An air of health and vigour is agreeable: Clothes which warm, without burthening the body; which cover, without imprisoning the limbs, are well-fashioned. In every judgement of beauty, the feelings of the person affected enter into consideration, and communicate to the spectator similar touches of pain or pleasure.¹⁴

Relaxed, natural postures and movements are always beautiful. An appearance of health and vigor is pleasing. Clothes are well designed when they keep the body warm without weighing it down and cover the limbs without restricting them. In every judgment of beauty, we consider the feelings of the person involved. Those feelings give the observer a similar sense of pain or pleasure.¹⁴

What wonder, then, if we can pronounce no judgement concerning the character and conduct of men, without considering the tendencies of their actions, and the happiness or misery which thence arises to society? What association of ideas would ever operate, were that principle here totally unactive.¹⁵

Is it any wonder, then, that we cannot judge people’s character and conduct without considering the effects of their actions? We must consider the happiness or misery those actions bring to society. What association of ideas would ever work if that principle played no part here?¹⁵

If any man from a cold insensibility, or narrow selfishness of temper, is unaffected with the images of human happiness or misery, he must be equally indifferent to the images of vice and virtue: As, on the other hand, it is always found, that a warm concern for the interests of our species is attended with a delicate feeling of all moral distinctions; a strong resentment of injury done to men; a lively approbation of their welfare. In this particular, though great superiority is observable of one man above another; yet none are so entirely indifferent to the interest of their fellow-creatures, as to perceive no distinctions of moral good and evil, in consequence of the different tendencies of actions and principles. How, indeed, can we suppose it possible in any one, who wears a human heart, that if there be subjected to his censure, one character or system of conduct, which is beneficial, and another which is pernicious to his species or community, he will not so much as give a cool preference to the former, or ascribe to it the smallest merit or regard? Let us suppose such a person ever so selfish; let private interest have ingrossed ever so much his attention; yet in instances, where that is not concerned, he must unavoidably feel SOME propensity to the good of mankind, and make it an object of choice, if everything else be equal. Would any man, who is walking along, tread as willingly on another's gouty toes, whom he has no quarrel with, as on the hard flint and pavement? There is here surely a difference in the case. We surely take into consideration the happiness and misery of others, in weighing the several motives of action, and incline to the former, where no private regards draw us to seek our own promotion or advantage by the injury of our fellow-creatures. And if the principles of humanity are capable, in many instances, of influencing our actions, they must, at all times, have some authority over our sentiments, and give us a general approbation of what is useful to society, and blame of what is dangerous or pernicious. The degrees of these sentiments may be the subject of controversy; but the reality of their existence, one should think, must be admitted in every theory or system.

If someone is unmoved by images of human happiness or misery, whether from cold insensitivity or narrow selfishness, they must be equally indifferent to images of vice and virtue. On the other hand, a warm concern for the interests of humanity always comes with a sensitive awareness of all moral distinctions. It also comes with strong resentment of harm done to people and a lively approval of their welfare. In this respect, some people are clearly much more sensitive than others. Yet no one is so completely indifferent to the interests of others that they see no moral difference between actions and principles with different consequences. How could anyone with a human heart fail to see a difference between two characters or ways of behaving? Suppose one benefits humanity or the community, while the other harms it. Could anyone judging them fail to show even a cool preference for the beneficial one? Could anyone fail to consider it worthy of even the slightest merit or regard? Let us suppose that a person is extremely selfish and that private interest absorbs nearly all their attention. Even so, when private interest is not involved, they must inevitably feel SOME inclination toward the good of humanity. All else being equal, they must choose it. Would anyone walking along step as willingly on the gouty toes of someone they have no quarrel with as on hard stone or pavement? Surely there is a difference between the two cases. When weighing our reasons for acting, we surely consider the happiness and misery of others. We incline toward their happiness when no private concerns lead us to seek our own advancement or advantage by harming them. And if humane principles can influence our actions in many cases, they must always have some influence over our feelings. They must lead us generally to approve of what is useful to society and blame what is dangerous or harmful. The strength of these feelings may be open to debate. But one would think that every theory or system must admit that they exist.

A creature, absolutely malicious and spiteful, were there any such in nature, must be worse than indifferent to the images of vice and virtue. All his sentiments must be inverted, and directly opposite to those, which prevail in the human species. Whatever contributes to the good of mankind, as it crosses the constant bent of his wishes and desires, must produce uneasiness and disapprobation; and on the contrary, whatever is the source of disorder and misery in society, must, for the same reason, be regarded with pleasure and complacency. Timon, who probably from his affected spleen more than an inveterate malice, was denominated the manhater, embraced Alcibiades with great fondness. GO ON, MY BOY! cried he, ACQUIRE THE CONFIDENCE OF THE PEOPLE: YOU WILL ONE DAY, I FORESEE, BE THE CAUSE OF GREAT CALAMITIES TO THEM¹⁶. Could we admit the two principles of the Manicheans, it is an infallible consequence, that their sentiments of human actions, as well as of everything else, must be totally opposite, and that every instance of justice and humanity, from its necessary tendency, must please the one deity and displease the other. All mankind so far resemble the good principle, that, where interest or revenge or envy perverts not our disposition, we are always inclined, from our natural philanthropy, to give the preference to the happiness of society, and consequently to virtue above its opposite. Absolute, unprovoked, disinterested malice has never perhaps place in any human breast; or if it had, must there pervert all the sentiments of morals, as well as the feelings of humanity. If the cruelty of Nero be allowed entirely voluntary, and not rather the effect of constant fear and resentment; it is evident that Tigellinus, preferably to Seneca or Burrhus, must have possessed his steady and uniform approbation.

A completely malicious and spiteful creature, if one existed in nature, would be more than indifferent to vice and virtue. All its feelings would be reversed, directly opposite to those common among humans. Anything that contributes to humanity’s good would cause it distress and disapproval. Such good would run against its constant wishes and desires. Conversely, anything that causes disorder and misery in society would, for the same reason, give it pleasure and satisfaction. Timon was called the man-hater, probably because of his affected bitterness rather than deep-rooted malice. He embraced Alcibiades with great affection. GO ON, MY BOY! he cried. WIN THE PEOPLE’S TRUST: ONE DAY, I FORESEE, YOU WILL CAUSE THEM GREAT MISFORTUNES¹⁶. Suppose we accepted the two principles of the Manicheans. Their feelings about human actions, as about everything else, would necessarily be completely opposite. Every act of justice and humanity must, because of its inevitable effects, please one deity and displease the other. All humans resemble the good principle to this extent: unless self-interest, revenge, or envy corrupts our disposition, our natural love of humanity always inclines us to prefer society’s happiness. Consequently, we prefer virtue to its opposite. Perhaps absolute, unprovoked, disinterested malice has never existed in any human heart. If it did, it would corrupt every moral feeling, as well as every feeling of humanity. Suppose Nero’s cruelty was entirely voluntary, rather than the result of constant fear and resentment. If so, Tigellinus, rather than Seneca or Burrhus, must clearly have enjoyed his steady and consistent approval.

A statesman or patriot, who serves our own country in our own time, has always a more passionate regard paid to him, than one whose beneficial influence operated on distant ages or remote nations; where the good, resulting from his generous humanity, being less connected with us, seems more obscure, and affects us with a less lively sympathy. We may own the merit to be equally great, though our sentiments are not raised to an equal height, in both cases. The judgement here corrects the inequalities of our internal emotions and perceptions; in like manner, as it preserves us from error, in the several variations of images, presented to our external senses. The same object, at a double distance, really throws on the eye a picture of but half the bulk; yet we imagine that it appears of the same size in both situations; because we know that on our approach to it, its image would expand on the eye, and that the difference consists not in the object itself, but in our position with regard to it. And, indeed, without such a correction of appearances, both in internal and external sentiment, men could never think or talk steadily on any subject; while their fluctuating situations produce a continual variation on objects, and throw them into such different and contrary lights and positions.¹⁷

We always feel more passionate regard for a statesman or patriot who serves our own country in our own time. We feel less for one whose beneficial influence reached distant ages or remote nations. In those cases, the good resulting from his generous concern for others is less connected with us. It seems less clear and moves us to less lively sympathy. We may acknowledge that their merit is equally great, though our feelings are not equally strong in both cases. Here, judgment corrects the unevenness of our inner feelings and perceptions. In the same way, judgment keeps us from making mistakes when the images presented to our senses vary. At twice the distance, the same object actually casts an image on the eye only half as large. Yet we imagine that the object appears the same size in both positions. This is because we know that its image would grow larger as we approached it. We know that the difference lies not in the object itself, but in our position relative to it. Indeed, without such a correction of appearances, both in inner feeling and in sensory perception, people could never think or talk consistently about any subject. Our changing positions continually alter how objects appear, placing them in such different and opposing lights and positions.¹⁷

The more we converse with mankind, and the greater social intercourse we maintain, the more shall we be familiarized to these general preferences and distinctions, without which our conversation and discourse could scarcely be rendered intelligible to each other. Every man's interest is peculiar to himself, and the aversions and desires, which result from it, cannot be supposed to affect others in a like degree. General language, therefore, being formed for general use, must be moulded on some more general views, and must affix the epithets of praise or blame, in conformity to sentiments, which arise from the general interests of the community. And if these sentiments, in most men, be not so strong as those, which have a reference to private good; yet still they must make some distinction, even in persons the most depraved and selfish; and must attach the notion of good to a beneficent conduct, and of evil to the contrary. Sympathy, we shall allow, is much fainter than our concern for ourselves, and sympathy with persons remote from us much fainter than that with persons near and contiguous; but for this very reason it is necessary for us, in our calm judgements and discourse concerning the characters of men, to neglect all these differences, and render our sentiments more public and social. Besides, that we ourselves often change our situation in this particular, we every day meet with persons who are in a situation different from us, and who could never converse with us were we to remain constantly in that position and point of view, which is peculiar to ourselves. The intercourse of sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form some general unalterable standard, by which we may approve or disapprove of characters and manners. And though the heart takes not part entirely with those general notions, nor regulates all its love and hatred by the universal abstract differences of vice and virtue, without regard to self, or the persons with whom we are more intimately connected; yet have these moral differences a considerable influence, and being sufficient, at least for discourse, serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools.¹⁸

The more we talk with other people and take part in social life, the more familiar these general preferences and distinctions become. Without them, we could hardly make ourselves understood to one another. Each person’s interests are particular to that person. The desires and aversions that arise from them cannot be expected to affect others to the same degree. General language is formed for general use, so it must be shaped by more general views. It must use words of praise and blame that reflect feelings arising from the common interests of the community. In most people, these feelings may not be as strong as those connected with private good. Yet even the most corrupt and selfish people must still make some distinction. They must associate good with helpful conduct and evil with the opposite. We may admit that sympathy is much weaker than concern for ourselves. Sympathy for people far away is also much weaker than sympathy for those close to us. But for this very reason, we must set aside these differences when we calmly judge and discuss people’s characters. We must make our feelings more public and social. Besides, our own position in this respect often changes. Every day we meet people whose position differs from ours. They could never converse with us if we always kept to our own particular position and point of view. So, by sharing feelings in society and conversation, we form a general, fixed standard. By this standard, we can approve or disapprove of people’s characters and conduct. Our hearts do not entirely follow these general ideas. Nor do we govern all our love and hatred by the universal, abstract differences between vice and virtue, without regard for ourselves or those closest to us. Yet these moral differences have considerable influence. They are sufficient, at least for discussion, and serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit, in the theater, and in the schools.¹⁸

Thus, in whatever light we take this subject, the merit, ascribed to the social virtues, appears still uniform, and arises chiefly from that regard, which the natural sentiment of benevolence engages us to pay to the interests of mankind and society. If we consider the principles of the human make, such as they appear to daily experience and observation, we must, A PRIORI, conclude it impossible for such a creature as man to be totally indifferent to the well or ill-being of his fellow-creatures, and not readily, of himself, to pronounce, where nothing gives him any particular bias, that what promotes their happiness is good, what tends to their misery is evil, without any farther regard or consideration. Here then are the faint rudiments, at least, or outlines, of a GENERAL distinction between actions; and in proportion as the humanity of the person is supposed to increase, his connexion with those who are injured or benefited, and his lively conception of their misery or happiness; his consequent censure or approbation acquires proportionable vigour. There is no necessity, that a generous action, barely mentioned in an old history or remote gazette, should communicate any strong feelings of applause and admiration. Virtue, placed at such a distance, is like a fixed star, which, though to the eye of reason it may appear as luminous as the sun in his meridian, is so infinitely removed as to affect the senses, neither with light nor heat. Bring this virtue nearer, by our acquaintance or connexion with the persons, or even by an eloquent recital of the case; our hearts are immediately caught, our sympathy enlivened, and our cool approbation converted into the warmest sentiments of friendship and regard. These seem necessary and infallible consequences of the general principles of human nature, as discovered in common life and practice.

Thus, however we look at the subject, the value we assign to social virtues remains the same. It comes chiefly from the concern for humanity and society that our natural feeling of benevolence inspires. Consider the principles of human nature as they appear in daily experience and observation. We must then conclude in advance that human beings cannot be entirely indifferent to the well-being or suffering of others. When nothing gives them a particular bias, they readily judge for themselves that what promotes happiness is good and what leads to misery is evil. They make this judgment without any further consideration. Here, then, we have at least the faint beginnings or outlines of a GENERAL distinction between actions. A person’s blame or approval grows stronger as their humanity increases, as their connection with those harmed or helped grows closer, and as they imagine those people’s misery or happiness more vividly. A generous action, merely mentioned in an old history or a distant newspaper, need not inspire strong feelings of approval and admiration. Virtue at such a distance is like a fixed star. To the eye of reason, it may seem as bright as the sun at its highest point. Yet it is so infinitely far away that it gives our senses neither light nor heat. Bring the virtue nearer, through our acquaintance or connection with the people involved, or even through an eloquent account of the event. Our hearts are immediately moved, our sympathy comes alive, and our cool approval turns into the warmest feelings of friendship and regard. These seem to be necessary and certain consequences of the general principles of human nature, as we discover them in everyday life and conduct.

Again; reverse these views and reasonings: Consider the matter a posteriori; and weighing the consequences, enquire if the merit of social virtue be not, in a great measure, derived from the feelings of humanity, with which it affects the spectators. It appears to be matter of fact, that the circumstance of UTILITY, in all subjects, is a source of praise and approbation: That it is constantly appealed to in all moral decisions concerning the merit and demerit of actions: That it is the SOLE source of that high regard paid to justice, fidelity, honour, allegiance, and chastity: That it is inseparable from all the other social virtues, humanity, generosity, charity, affability, lenity, mercy, and moderation: And, in a word, that it is a foundation of the chief part of morals, which has a reference to mankind and our fellow-creatures.

Now reverse these views and arguments. Consider the matter in light of experience, and weigh the consequences. Ask whether the merit of social virtue comes largely from the feelings of humanity it inspires in those who observe it. The facts seem to show that usefulness, in all matters, is a source of praise and approval. Usefulness is always considered in moral judgments about the merits and faults of actions. It is the SOLE source of the high regard given to justice, fidelity, honour, allegiance, and chastity. It is inseparable from all the other social virtues: humanity, generosity, charity, friendliness, gentleness, mercy, and moderation. In short, usefulness is a foundation of the chief part of morality that concerns humanity and our fellow creatures.

It appears also, that, in our general approbation of characters and manners, the useful tendency of the social virtues moves us not by any regards to self-interest, but has an influence much more universal and extensive. It appears that a tendency to public good, and to the promoting of peace, harmony, and order in society, does always, by affecting the benevolent principles of our frame, engage us on the side of the social virtues. And it appears, as an additional confirmation, that these principles of humanity and sympathy enter so deeply into all our sentiments, and have so powerful an influence, as may enable them to excite the strongest censure and applause. The present theory is the simple result of all these inferences, each of which seems founded on uniform experience and observation.

It also appears that, when we generally approve of character and conduct, social virtues do not appeal to us because they are useful to us personally. Their usefulness has a much wider and more general influence. A tendency to benefit the public and promote peace, harmony, and order in society always appeals to our natural benevolence. In this way, it leads us to favor the social virtues. Further confirmation comes from the fact that humanity and sympathy run deeply through all our feelings. They have such a powerful influence that they can inspire the strongest blame and praise. The present theory is the simple result of all these conclusions. Each conclusion seems to be based on consistent experience and observation.

Were it doubtful, whether there were any such principle in our nature as humanity or a concern for others, yet when we see, in numberless instances, that whatever has a tendency to promote the interests of society, is so highly approved of, we ought thence to learn the force of the benevolent principle; since it is impossible for anything to please as means to an end, where the end is totally indifferent. On the other hand, were it doubtful, whether there were, implanted in our nature, any general principle of moral blame and approbation, yet when we see, in numberless instances, the influence of humanity, we ought thence to conclude, that it is impossible, but that everything which promotes the interest of society must communicate pleasure, and what is pernicious give uneasiness. But when these different reflections and observations concur in establishing the same conclusion, must they not bestow an undisputed evidence upon it?

Suppose we doubted that human nature includes humanity, or concern for others. Even so, we see countless examples of people highly approving of whatever tends to promote society’s interests. From this, we should recognize the strength of our benevolent nature. After all, something cannot please us as a means to an end if we are completely indifferent to that end. On the other hand, suppose we doubted that human nature includes a general tendency to judge things morally right or wrong. Even so, we see countless examples of the influence of humanity. From this, we should conclude that everything that promotes society’s interests must give pleasure, while everything harmful must cause uneasiness. But these different reflections and observations all support the same conclusion. Must they not give us unquestionable evidence for it?

It is however hoped, that the progress of this argument will bring a farther confirmation of the present theory, by showing the rise of other sentiments of esteem and regard from the same or like principles.

However, it is hoped that the argument will provide further support for the present theory. It will do so by showing how other feelings of esteem and regard arise from the same or similar principles.