Qualities Immediately Pleasing to Ourselves

Whoever has passed an evening with serious melancholy people, and has observed how suddenly the conversation was animated, and what sprightliness diffused itself over the countenance, discourse, and behaviour of every one, on the accession of a good-humoured, lively companion; such a one will easily allow that cheerfulness carries great merit with it, and naturally conciliates the good-will of mankind. No quality, indeed, more readily communicates itself to all around; because no one has a greater propensity to display itself, in jovial talk and pleasant entertainment. The flame spreads through the whole circle; and the most sullen and morose are often caught by it. That the melancholy hate the merry, even though Horace says it, I have some difficulty to allow; because I have always observed that, where the jollity is moderate and decent, serious people are so much the more delighted, as it dissipates the gloom with which they are commonly oppressed, and gives them an unusual enjoyment.

Anyone who has spent an evening with serious, melancholy people may have seen what happens when a cheerful, lively companion joins them. The conversation suddenly comes alive, and everyone grows more animated in expression, speech, and behavior. Anyone who has seen this will readily agree that cheerfulness has great merit and naturally wins people’s goodwill. Indeed, no quality spreads more readily to everyone nearby. This is because no quality is more inclined to show itself in cheerful conversation and pleasant entertainment. The flame spreads through the whole group, and even the gloomiest and most bad-tempered people are often caught up in it. Though Horace says that melancholy people hate cheerful ones, I find this hard to accept. I have always observed that, when the merriment is moderate and decent, serious people enjoy it all the more. It dispels the gloom that usually weighs on them and gives them a pleasure they rarely experience.

From this influence of cheerfulness, both to communicate itself and to engage approbation, we may perceive that there is another set of mental qualities, which, without any utility or any tendency to farther good, either of the community or of the possessor, diffuse a satisfaction on the beholders, and procure friendship and regard. Their immediate sensation, to the person possessed of them, is agreeable. Others enter into the same humour, and catch the sentiment, by a contagion or natural sympathy; and as we cannot forbear loving whatever pleases, a kindly emotion arises towards the person who communicates so much satisfaction. He is a more animating spectacle; his presence diffuses over us more serene complacency and enjoyment; our imagination, entering into his feelings and disposition, is affected in a more agreeable manner than if a melancholy, dejected, sullen, anxious temper were presented to us. Hence the affection and probation which attend the former: the aversion and disgust with which we regard the latter.²⁷

Cheerfulness spreads to others and wins their approval. From this, we may see that another set of mental qualities brings satisfaction to those who observe them and earns their friendship and regard. These qualities do so without being useful or tending to produce any further good, either for the community or for the person who has them. The person who has these qualities finds them pleasant. Others share the same mood and catch the feeling through a kind of contagion or natural sympathy. Since we cannot help loving whatever pleases us, we feel kindly toward the person who gives us so much satisfaction. A cheerful person is a more uplifting sight. His presence brings us greater peaceful contentment and enjoyment. When our imagination enters into his feelings and disposition, we feel more pleasure than we would in the presence of a melancholy, dejected, sullen, or anxious person. This is why we feel affection and approval for the cheerful person, and aversion and disgust toward the other.²⁷

Few men would envy the character which Caesar gives of Cassius:

Few men would envy the character Caesar describes in Cassius:

Not only such men, as Caesar adds, are commonly DANGEROUS, but also, having little enjoyment within themselves, they can never become agreeable to others, or contribute to social entertainment. In all polite nations and ages, a relish for pleasure, if accompanied with temperance and decency, is esteemed a considerable merit, even in the greatest men; and becomes still more requisite in those of inferior rank and character. It is an agreeable representation, which a French writer gives of the situation of his own mind in this particular, VIRTUE I LOVE, says he, WITHOUT AUSTERITY: PLEASURE WITHOUT EFFEMINACY: AND LIFE, WITHOUT FEARING ITS END.²⁸

As Caesar adds, such men are usually DANGEROUS. But they also find little enjoyment within themselves. So they can never be pleasant company or add to social enjoyment. In all civilized nations and ages, a taste for pleasure is considered a considerable virtue, even in the greatest men, if it is accompanied by moderation and decency. It is even more necessary in people of lower rank and character. A French writer gives a pleasing account of his own outlook on this matter: VIRTUE I LOVE, he says, WITHOUT SEVERITY: PLEASURE WITHOUT SOFTNESS: AND LIFE, WITHOUT FEARING ITS END.²⁸

Who is not struck with any signal instance of greatness of mind or dignity of character; with elevation of sentiment, disdain of slavery, and with that noble pride and spirit, which arises from conscious virtue? The sublime, says Longinus, is often nothing but the echo or image of magnanimity; and where this quality appears in any one, even though a syllable be not uttered, it excites our applause and admiration; as may be observed of the famous silence of Ajax in the Odyssey, which expresses more noble disdain and resolute indignation than any language can convey²⁹.

Who is not struck by a remarkable display of greatness of mind or dignity of character? Who is not moved by lofty feelings, a contempt for slavery, and the noble pride and spirit that come from knowing one is virtuous? Longinus says that the sublime is often nothing more than an echo or image of greatness of spirit. And whenever someone shows greatness of spirit, it wins our applause and admiration, even if that person says nothing. We can see this in the famous silence of Ajax in the Odyssey. His silence expresses more noble contempt and determined indignation than words can convey²⁹.

WERE I Alexander, said Parmenio, I WOULD ACCEPT OF THESE OFFERS MADE BY DARIUS. SO WOULD I TOO, replied Alexander, WERE I PARMENIO. This saying is admirable, says Longinus, from a like principle.³⁰

If I were Alexander, said Parmenio, I would accept these offers from Darius. So would I, replied Alexander, if I were Parmenio. Longinus says this remark is admirable for a similar reason.³⁰

GO! cries the same hero to his soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the Indies, GO TELL YOUR COUNTRYMEN, THAT YOU LEFT Alexander COMPLETING THE CONQUEST OF THE WORLD. 'Alexander,' said the Prince of Conde, who always admired this passage, 'abandoned by his soldiers, among barbarians, not yet fully subdued, felt in himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he could not believe it possible that any one would refuse to obey him. Whether in Europe or in Asia, among Greeks or Persians, all was indifferent to him: wherever he found men, he fancied he should find subjects.'

“GO!” the same hero cried to his soldiers when they refused to follow him to the Indies. “GO TELL YOUR COUNTRYMEN THAT YOU LEFT Alexander COMPLETING THE CONQUEST OF THE WORLD.” The Prince of Conde always admired this passage. He said: “Alexander had been abandoned by his soldiers among barbarians who were not yet fully subdued. Yet he felt such dignity and such a right to rule that he could not believe anyone would refuse to obey him. It made no difference to him whether he was in Europe or Asia, among Greeks or Persians. Wherever he found men, he imagined he would find subjects.”

The confident of Medea in the tragedy recommends caution and submission; and enumerating all the distresses of that unfortunate heroine, asks her, what she has to support her against her numerous and implacable enemies. MYSELF, replies she; MYSELF I SAY, AND IT IS ENOUGH. Boileau justly recommends this passage as an instance of true sublime³¹.

In the tragedy, Medea's confidante advises caution and submission. She lists all the unfortunate heroine's troubles. Then she asks Medea what support she has against her many relentless enemies. MYSELF, Medea replies. MYSELF, I SAY, AND IT IS ENOUGH. Boileau rightly recommends this passage as an example of the truly sublime³¹.

When Phocion, the modest, the gentle Phocion, was led to execution, he turned to one of his fellow-sufferers, who was lamenting his own hard fate, IS IT NOT GLORY ENOUGH FOR YOU, says he, THAT YOU DIE WITH PHOCION?³²

When the modest, gentle Phocion was led to execution, he turned to a fellow prisoner who was lamenting his own cruel fate. Phocion said, “Is it not glory enough for you to die with Phocion?”³²

Place in opposition the picture which Tacitus draws of Vitellius, fallen from empire, prolonging his ignominy from a wretched love of life, delivered over to the merciless rabble; tossed, buffeted, and kicked about; constrained, by their holding a poniard under his chin, to raise his head, and expose himself to every contumely. What abject infamy! What low humiliation! Yet even here, says the historian, he discovered some symptoms of a mind not wholly degenerate. To a tribune, who insulted him, he replied, I AM STILL YOUR EMPEROR.³³

Contrast this with Tacitus’s portrait of Vitellius, who had fallen from power. Out of a pitiful love of life, he prolonged his disgrace and was handed over to the merciless mob. They tossed him around, struck him, and kicked him. They held a dagger under his chin, forcing him to raise his head and expose himself to every insult. What abject disgrace! What utter humiliation! Yet even here, the historian says, Vitellius showed some signs that his mind was not wholly degraded. To a tribune who insulted him, he replied, I AM STILL YOUR EMPEROR.³³

We never excuse the absolute want of spirit and dignity of character, or a proper sense of what is due to one's self, in society and the common intercourse of life. This vice constitutes what we properly call MEANNESS; when a man can submit to the basest slavery, in order to gain his ends; fawn upon those who abuse him; and degrade himself by intimacies and familiarities with undeserving inferiors. A certain degree of generous pride or self-value is so requisite, that the absence of it in the mind displeases, after the same manner as the want of a nose, eye, or any of the most material feature of the face or member of the body.³⁴

We never excuse a complete lack of spirit, dignity, or proper self-respect in social life and everyday dealings. This fault is what we rightly call MEANNESS. A man shows it when he submits to the lowest slavery to get what he wants, flatters those who abuse him, and degrades himself by becoming close and familiar with undeserving people beneath him. A certain degree of noble pride or self-worth is so necessary that we are displeased when someone lacks it. We are displeased in the same way by the absence of a nose, an eye, or any other essential facial feature or body part.³⁴

The utility of courage, both to the public and to the person possessed of it, is an obvious foundation of merit. But to any one who duly considers of the matter, it will appear that this quality has a peculiar lustre, which it derives wholly from itself, and from that noble elevation inseparable from it. Its figure, drawn by painters and by poets, displays, in each feature, a sublimity and daring confidence; which catches the eye, engages the affections, and diffuses, by sympathy, a like sublimity of sentiment over every spectator.

Courage is clearly valuable because it benefits both the public and the courageous person. But anyone who considers the matter carefully will see that courage has a special brilliance of its own. This brilliance comes entirely from courage itself and from the noble spirit that always goes with it. When painters and poets portray courage, every feature shows grandeur and daring confidence. This image catches the eye and engages the emotions. Through sympathy, it inspires a similar sense of grandeur in everyone who sees it.

Under what shining colours does Demosthenes³⁵ represent Philip; where the orator apologizes for his own administration, and justifies that pertinacious love of liberty, with which he had inspired the Athenians. 'I beheld Philip,' says he, 'he with whom was your contest, resolutely, while in pursuit of empire and dominion, exposing himself to every wound; his eye gored, his neck wrested, his arm, his thigh pierced, what ever part of his body fortune should seize on, that cheerfully relinquishing; provided that, with what remained, he might live in honour and renown. And shall it be said that he, born in Pella, a place heretofore mean and ignoble, should be inspired with so high an ambition and thirst of fame: while you, Athenians, &c.' These praises excite the most lively admiration; but the views presented by the orator, carry us not, we see, beyond the hero himself, nor ever regard the future advantageous consequences of his valour.

How glowingly Demosthenes³⁵ describes Philip when defending his own leadership. He also justifies the stubborn love of liberty he had inspired in the Athenians. 'I saw Philip, your opponent, resolutely expose himself to every wound in pursuit of empire and power. His eye was gouged out, his neck twisted, his arm and thigh pierced. He cheerfully gave up whatever part of his body fortune chose to take, provided he could live with honor and renown with what remained. And shall it be said that he, born in Pella, a place once humble and insignificant, had such great ambition and thirst for fame, while you, Athenians, etc.' This praise excites the liveliest admiration. But the orator's account, we can see, draws our attention no further than the hero himself. It never considers the future benefits of his courage.

The material temper of the Romans, inflamed by continual wars, had raised their esteem of courage so high, that, in their language, it was called VIRTUE, by way of excellence and of distinction from all other moral qualities. THE Suevi, in the opinion of Tacitus, tus,³⁶ DRESSED THEIR HAIR WITH A LAUDIBLE INTENT: NOT FOR THE PURPOSE OF LOVING OR BEING LOVES; THEY DORNED THEMSELVES ONLY FOR THEIR ENEMIES, AND IN ORDER TO APPEAR MORE TERRIBLE. A sentiment of the historian, which would sound a little oddly in other nations and other ages.

The Romans’ warlike spirit, intensified by constant wars, led them to prize courage very highly. In their language, they called courage VIRTUE, marking it out as the foremost moral quality. In Tacitus’s opinion, the Suevi³⁶ STYLED THEIR HAIR FOR A PRAISEWORTHY PURPOSE. THEY DID NOT DO IT TO LOVE OR BE LOVED. THEY ADORNED THEMSELVES ONLY FOR THEIR ENEMIES, TO APPEAR MORE TERRIFYING. This view of the historian would sound a little odd in other nations and other ages.

The Scythians, according to Herodotus,³⁷ after scalping their enemies, dressed the skin like leather, and used it as a towel; and whoever had the most of those towels was most esteemed among them. So much had martial bravery, in that nation, as well as in many others, destroyed the sentiments of humanity; a virtue surely much more useful and engaging.

According to Herodotus,³⁷ the Scythians scalped their enemies, treated the skin like leather, and used it as a towel. Whoever had the most of these towels was held in the highest regard. Among the Scythians, as among many other nations, military bravery had so overwhelmed feelings of humanity. Yet humanity is surely a much more useful and appealing virtue.

It is indeed observable, that, among all uncultivated nations, who have not as yet had full experience of the advantages attending beneficence, justice, and the social virtues, courage is the predominant excellence; what is most celebrated by poets, recommended by parents and instructors, and admired by the public in general. The ethics of Homer are, in this particular, very different from those of Fenelon, his elegant imitator; and such as were well suited to an age, when one hero, as remarked by Thucydides [Lib.i.], could ask another, without offence, whether he were a robber or not. Such also very lately was the system of ethics which prevailed in many barbarous parts of Ireland; if we may credit Spencer, in his judicious account of the state of that kingdom.³⁸

Among all uncultivated nations that have not yet fully experienced the benefits of kindness, justice, and the social virtues, courage is the most prized quality. Poets celebrate courage above all else, parents and teachers recommend it, and the public generally admires it. In this respect, Homer's moral values are very different from those of Fenelon, his elegant imitator. Homer's values were well suited to an age when one hero could ask another, without giving offense, whether he was a robber. Thucydides notes this in Book I [Lib.i.]. A similar system of moral values prevailed until very recently in many barbarous parts of Ireland, if we can trust Spencer's perceptive account of the state of that kingdom.³⁸

Of the same class of virtues with courage is that undisturbed philosophical tranquillity, superior to pain, sorrow, anxiety, and each assault of adverse fortune. Conscious of his own virtue, say the philosophers, the sage elevates himself above every accident of life; and securely placed in the temple of wisdom, looks down on inferior mortals engaged in pursuit of honours, riches, reputation, and every frivolous enjoyment. These pretentious, no doubt, when stretched to the utmost, are by far too magnificent for human nature. They carry, however, a grandeur with them, which seizes the spectator, and strikes him with admiration. And the nearer we can approach in practice to this sublime tranquillity and indifference (for we must distinguish it from a stupid insensibility), the more secure enjoyment shall we attain within ourselves, and the more greatness of mind shall we discover to the world. The philosophical tranquillity may, indeed, be considered only as a branch of magnanimity.

In the same class of virtues as courage is a calm, undisturbed philosophical tranquillity. It rises above pain, sorrow, anxiety, and every blow of bad fortune. The philosophers say that the sage, conscious of his own virtue, rises above every accident of life. Secure in the temple of wisdom, he looks down on lesser mortals. They pursue honours, riches, reputation, and every trivial pleasure. No doubt, these claims, taken to their fullest extent, are far too grand for human nature. Yet they have a grandeur that captures the observer and inspires admiration. The closer we come in practice to this sublime tranquillity and indifference, the more secure the enjoyment we find within ourselves. We will also show the world greater strength of mind. But we must distinguish this tranquillity and indifference from a dull lack of feeling. Indeed, philosophical tranquillity may be considered just one form of magnanimity.

Who admires not Socrates; his perpetual serenity and contentment, amidst the greatest poverty and domestic vexations; his resolute contempt of riches, and his magnanimous care of preserving liberty, while he refused all assistance from his friends and disciples, and avoided even the dependence of an obligation? Epictetus had not so much as a door to his little house or hovel; and therefore, soon lost his iron lamp, the only furniture which he had worth taking. But resolving to disappoint all robbers for the future, he supplied its place with an earthen lamp, of which he very peacefully kept possession ever after.

Who does not admire Socrates? He was always calm and content, despite extreme poverty and troubles at home. He firmly scorned riches and took noble care to preserve his freedom. He refused all help from his friends and disciples, avoiding even the dependence that comes from owing a favor. Epictetus did not even have a door on his little house or hovel. So he soon lost his iron lamp, the only possession he had worth stealing. But he resolved to disappoint all robbers in the future. He replaced the iron lamp with a clay one, which he kept in peace ever after.

Among the ancients, the heroes in philosophy, as well as those in war and patriotism, have a grandeur and force of sentiment, which astonishes our narrow souls, and is rashly rejected as extravagant and supernatural. They, in their turn, I allow, would have had equal reason to consider as romantic and incredible, the degree of humanity, clemency, order, tranquillity, and other social virtues, to which, in the administration of government, we have attained in modern times, had any one been then able to have made a fair representation of them. Such is the compensation, which nature, or rather education, has made in the distribution of excellencies and virtues, in those different ages.

Among the ancients, heroes of philosophy, as well as heroes of war and patriotism, had grand and powerful feelings. These astonish our narrow souls, and we rashly dismiss them as excessive and beyond human nature. I admit that the ancients, in turn, would have had equal reason to consider our modern achievements fanciful and unbelievable. This would have been true if anyone had been able to give them a fair account of modern government. In governing, we have achieved a degree of humanity, mercy, order, tranquility, and other social virtues. In this way, nature, or rather education, has balanced the distribution of excellences and virtues across these different ages.

The merit of benevolence, arising from its utility, and its tendency to promote the good of mankind has been already explained, and is, no doubt, the source of a CONSIDERABLE part of that esteem, which is so universally paid to it. But it will also be allowed, that the very softness and tenderness of the sentiment, its engaging endearments, its fond expressions, its delicate attentions, and all that flow of mutual confidence and regard, which enters into a warm attachment of love and friendship: it will be allowed, I say, that these feelings, being delightful in themselves, are necessarily communicated to the spectators, and melt them into the same fondness and delicacy. The tear naturally starts in our eye on the apprehension of a warm sentiment of this nature: our breast heaves, our heart is agitated, and every humane tender principle of our frame is set in motion, and gives us the purest and most satisfactory enjoyment.

I have already explained the merit of benevolence, which comes from its usefulness and its tendency to promote human good. This is no doubt the source of a considerable part of the universal esteem for benevolence. But we must also recognize the softness and tenderness of the feeling itself. A warm bond of love or friendship includes affectionate gestures and words, thoughtful attentions, and a flow of mutual trust and regard. These feelings are delightful in themselves, and they are necessarily shared by those who witness them. They move the spectators to the same affection and tenderness. Tears naturally come to our eyes when we encounter such a warm feeling. Our chests heave, our hearts stir, and every humane, tender feeling in us is awakened, giving us the purest and most satisfying enjoyment.

When poets form descriptions of Elysian fields, where the blessed inhabitants stand in no need of each other's assistance, they yet represent them as maintaining a constant intercourse of love and friendship, and sooth our fancy with the pleasing image of these soft and gentle passions. The idea of tender tranquillity in a pastoral Arcadia is agreeable from a like principle, as has been observed above.³⁹

When poets describe the Elysian fields, the blessed inhabitants have no need of one another’s help. Yet poets portray them as sharing constant love and friendship. This pleasing image of soft and gentle feelings comforts our imagination. For the same reason, the idea of gentle peace in a pastoral Arcadia is pleasing, as noted above.³⁹

Who would live amidst perpetual wrangling, and scolding, and mutual reproaches? The roughness and harshness of these emotions disturb and displease us: we suffer by contagion and sympathy; nor can we remain indifferent spectators, even though certain that no pernicious consequences would ever follow from such angry passions.

Who would want to live among constant arguing, scolding, and mutual accusations? The roughness and harshness of these emotions disturb and upset us. We suffer because those emotions spread to us and because we sympathize with others. We cannot remain indifferent spectators, even if we are certain that such anger will never lead to harmful consequences.

As a certain proof that the whole merit of benevolence is not derived from its usefulness, we may observe, that in a kind way of blame, we say, a person is TOO GOOD; when he exceeds his part in society, and carries his attention for others beyond the proper bounds. In like manner, we say, a man is too HIGH-SPIRITED, TOO INTREPID, TOO INDIFFERENT ABOUT FORTUNE: reproaches, which really, at bottom, imply more esteem than many panegyrics. Being accustomed to rate the merit and demerit of characters chiefly by their useful or pernicious tendencies, we cannot forbear applying the epithet of blame, when we discover a sentiment, which rises to a degree, that is hurtful; but it may happen, at the same time, that its noble elevation, or its engaging tenderness so seizes the heart, as rather to increase our friendship and concern for the person.⁴⁰

We can see clear proof that not all the merit of kindness comes from its usefulness. Sometimes we gently criticize a person for being TOO GOOD. We say this when the person does more than their share in society and takes concern for others too far. Similarly, we say that someone is too HIGH-SPIRITED, TOO FEARLESS, or TOO INDIFFERENT TO FORTUNE. These criticisms really show more esteem than many words of praise. We are used to judging people’s virtues and faults chiefly by their helpful or harmful effects. So we cannot help criticizing a feeling when it becomes strong enough to cause harm. But at the same time, its noble strength or appealing tenderness may so capture our hearts that our friendship and concern for the person increase.⁴⁰

The amours and attachments of Harry the IVth of France, during the civil wars of the league, frequently hurt his interest and his cause; but all the young, at least, and amorous, who can sympathize with the tender passions, will allow that this very weakness, for they will readily call it such, chiefly endears that hero, and interests them in his fortunes.

Harry IV of France’s love affairs and attachments often harmed his interests and his cause during the civil wars of the League. But all young and amorous people, at least, who can sympathize with tender feelings will admit that this very weakness makes the hero especially dear to them and draws their interest to his fortunes. They will readily call it a weakness.

The excessive bravery and resolute inflexibility of Charles the XIIth ruined his own country, and infested all his neighbours; but have such splendour and greatness in their appearance, as strikes us with admiration; and they might, in some degree, be even approved of, if they betrayed not sometimes too evident symptoms of madness and disorder.

Charles the XIIth’s excessive bravery and stubborn resolve ruined his own country and afflicted all his neighbors. But these qualities appear so splendid and grand that we admire them. We might even approve of them to some degree, if they did not sometimes show all too clear signs of madness and disorder.

The Athenians pretended to the first invention of agriculture and of laws: and always valued themselves extremely on the benefit thereby procured to the whole race of mankind. They also boasted, and with reason, of their war like enterprises; particularly against those innumerable fleets and armies of Persians, which invaded Greece during the reigns of Darius and Xerxes. But though there be no comparison in point of utility, between these peaceful and military honours; yet we find, that the orators, who have writ such elaborate panegyrics on that famous city, have chiefly triumphed in displaying the warlike achievements. Lysias, Thucydides, Plato, and Isocrates discover, all of them, the same partiality; which, though condemned by calm reason and reflection, appears so natural in the mind of man.

The Athenians claimed to have invented agriculture and laws. They always took great pride in the benefits these inventions brought to the whole human race. They also boasted, with good reason, of their military exploits. In particular, they boasted of their victories against the countless Persian fleets and armies that invaded Greece under Darius and Xerxes. But the peaceful achievements were far more useful than the military ones. Even so, the orators who wrote elaborate tributes to the famous city chiefly celebrated its military achievements. Lysias, Thucydides, Plato, and Isocrates all show the same preference. Though calm reasoning and reflection condemn this preference, it seems so natural to the human mind.

It is observable, that the great charm of poetry consists in lively pictures of the sublime passions, magnanimity, courage, disdain of fortune; or those of the tender affections, love and friendship; which warm the heart, and diffuse over it similar sentiments and emotions. And though all kinds of passion, even the most disagreeable, such as grief and anger, are observed, when excited by poetry, to convey a satisfaction, from a mechanism of nature, not easy to be explained: Yet those more elevated or softer affections have a peculiar influence, and please from more than one cause or principle. Not to mention that they alone interest us in the fortune of the persons represented, or communicate any esteem and affection for their character.

The great charm of poetry lies in its vivid pictures of noble passions, such as generosity of spirit, courage, and disregard for fortune. It also lies in its pictures of tender feelings, such as love and friendship. These warm the heart and fill it with similar feelings and emotions. Poetry can give us pleasure by arousing any kind of passion, even the most unpleasant, such as grief and anger. This happens through a working of nature that is not easy to explain. Yet the more elevated or tender feelings have a special influence and please us for more than one reason. Not to mention that they alone make us care about what happens to the people portrayed. They alone also give us respect and affection for their characters.

And can it possibly be doubted, that this talent itself of poets, to move the passions, this pathetic and sublime of sentiment, is a very considerable merit; and being enhanced by its extreme rarity, may exalt the person possessed of it, above every character of the age in which he lives? The prudence, address, steadiness, and benign government of Augustus, adorned with all the splendour of his noble birth and imperial crown, render him but an unequal competitor for fame with Virgil, who lays nothing into the opposite scale but the divine beauties of his poetical genius.

Can anyone doubt that a poet’s ability to stir emotions, to express deep feeling and grandeur, is a great merit? This talent is extremely rare, which adds to its value. It may raise its possessor above every other person of their age. Augustus had prudence, skill, steadiness, and a kind manner of ruling. All the splendor of his noble birth and imperial crown added to these qualities. Yet even with all this, he cannot compete with Virgil for fame. Virgil offers nothing on his side of the scale but the divine beauties of his poetic genius.

The very sensibility to these beauties, or a delicacy of taste, is itself a beauty in any character; as conveying the purest, the most durable, and most innocent of all enjoyments.

An appreciation of these beauties, or a refined taste, is itself a beautiful quality in a person. It brings the purest, most lasting, and most innocent of all pleasures.

These are some instances of the several species of merit, that are valued for the immediate pleasure which they communicate to the person possessed of them. No views of utility or of future beneficial consequences enter into this sentiment of approbation; yet is it of a kind similar to that other sentiment, which arises from views of a public or private utility. The same social sympathy, we may observe, or fellow-feeling with human happiness or misery, gives rise to both; and this analogy, in all the parts of the present theory, may justly be regarded as a confirmation of it.

These are some examples of qualities valued for the immediate pleasure they give the people who possess them. Our approval of these qualities does not depend on their usefulness or future benefits. Yet this approval is similar to the approval that comes from considering public or private usefulness. We may observe that both arise from the same social sympathy, or fellow feeling for human happiness and misery. This similarity throughout the present theory may rightly be seen as confirmation of it.