Adam Smith · Complete work
Part I, Section II, Chapter V
Part I, Section II, Chapter V of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Of the selfish passions.
Besides those two opposite sets of passions, the social and unsocial, there is another which holds a sort of middle place between them; is never either so graceful as is sometimes the one set, nor is ever so odious as is sometimes the other. Grief and joy, when conceived upon account of our own private good or bad fortune, constitute this third set of passions. Even when excessive, they are never so disagreeable as excessive resentment, because no opposite sympathy can ever interest us against them: and when most suitable to their objects they are never so agreeable as impartial humanity and just benevolence; because no double sympathy can ever interest us for them. There is, however, this difference between grief and joy, that we are generally most disposed to sympathize with small joys and great sorrows. The man, who, by some sudden revolution of fortune, is lifted up all at once into a condition of life, greatly above what he had formerly lived in, may be assured that the congratulations of his best friends are not all of them perfectly sincere. An upstart, though of the greatest merit, is generally disagreeable, and a sentiment of envy commonly prevents us from heartily sympathizing with his joy. If he has any judgment he is sensible of this, and instead of appearing to be elated with his good fortune, he endeavours, as much as he can, to smother his joy, and keep down that elevation of mind with which his new circumstances naturally inspire him. He affects the same plainness of dress, and the same modesty of behaviour, which became him in his former station. He redoubles his attention to his old friends, and endeavours more than ever to be humble, assiduous, and complaisant. And this is the behaviour which in his situation we most approve of; because we expect, it seems, that he should have more sympathy with our envy and aversion to his happiness, than we have with his happiness. It is seldom that with all this he succeeds. We suspect the sincerity of his humility, and he grows weary of this constraint. In a little time, therefore, he generally leaves all his old friends behind him, some of the meanest of them excepted, who may, perhaps, condescend to become his dependents: nor does he always acquire any new ones; the pride of his new connections is as much affronted at finding him their equal, as that of his old ones had been by his becoming their superior: and it requires the most obstinate and persevering modesty to atone for this mortification to either. He generally grows weary too soon, and is provoked, by the sullen and suspicious pride of the one, and by the saucy contempt of the other, to treat the first with neglect, and the second with petulance, till at last he grows habitually insolent, and forfeits the esteem of all. If the chief part of human happiness arises from the consciousness of being beloved, as I believe it does, those sudden changes of fortune seldom contribute much to happiness. He is happiest who advances more gradually to greatness, whom the public destines to every step of his preferment long before he arrives at it, in whom, upon that account, when it comes, it can excite no extravagant joy, and with regard to whom it cannot reasonably create either any jealousy in those he overtakes, or any envy in those he leaves behind.
Mankind, however, more readily sympathize with those smaller joys which flow from less important causes. It is decent to be humble amidst great prosperity; but we can scarce express too much satisfaction in all the little occurrences of common life, in the company with which we spent the evening last night, in the entertainment that was set before us, in what was said and what was done, in all the little incidents of the present conversation, and in all those frivolous nothings which fill up the void of human life. Nothing is more graceful than habitual chearfulness, which is always founded upon a peculiar relish for all the little pleasures which common occurrences afford. We readily sympathize with it: it inspires us with the same joy, and makes every trifle turn up to us in the same agreeable aspect in which it presents itself to the person endowed with this happy disposition. Hence it is that youth, the season of gaiety, so easily engages our affections. That propensity to joy which seems even to animate the bloom, and to sparkle from the eyes of youth and beauty, though in a person of the same sex, exalts, even the aged, to a more joyous mood than ordinary. They forget, for a time, their infirmities, and abandon themselves to those agreeable ideas and emotions to which they have long been strangers, but which, when the presence of so much happiness recalls them to their breast, take their place there, like old acquaintance, from whom they are sorry to have ever been parted, and whom they embrace more heartily upon account of this long separation.
It is quite otherwise with grief. Small vexations excite no sympathy, but deep affliction calls forth the greatest. The man who is made uneasy by every little disagreeable incident, who is hurt if either the cook or the butler have failed in the least article of their duty, who feels every defect in the highest ceremonial of politeness, whether it be shewn to himself or to any other person, who takes it amiss that his intimate friend did not bid him good-morrow when they met in the forenoon, and that his brother hummed a tune all the time he himself was telling a story; who is put out of humour by the badness of the weather when in the country, by the badness of the roads when upon a journey, and by the want of company, and dullness of all public diversions when in town; such a person, I say, though he should have some reason, will seldom meet with much sympathy. Joy is a pleasant emotion, and we gladly abandon ourselves to it upon the slightest occasion. We readily, therefore, sympathize with it in others, whenever we are not prejudiced by envy. But grief is painful, and the mind, even when it is our own misfortune, naturally resists and recoils from it. We would endeavour either not to conceive it at all, or to shake it off as soon as we have conceived it. Our aversion to grief will not, indeed, always hinder us from conceiving it in our own case upon very trifling occasions, but it constantly prevents us from sympathizing with it in others when excited by the like frivolous causes: for our sympathetic passions are always less irresistible than our original ones. There is, besides, a malice in mankind, which not only prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses, but renders them in some measure diverting. Hence the delight which we all take in raillery, and in the small vexation which we observe in our companion, when he is pushed, and urged, and teased upon all sides. Men of the most ordinary good-breeding dissemble the pain which any little incident may give them; and those who are more thoroughly formed to society, turn, of their own accord, all such incidents into raillery, as they know their companions will do for them. The habit which a man, who lives in the world, has acquired of considering how every thing that concerns himself will appear to others, makes those frivolous calamities turn up in the same ridiculous light to him, in which he knows they will certainly be considered by them.
Our sympathy, on the contrary, with deep distress, is very strong and very sincere. It is unnecessary to give an instance. We weep even at the feigned representation of a tragedy. If you labour, therefore, under any signal calamity, if by some extraordinary misfortune you are fallen into poverty, into diseases, into disgrace and disappointment; even though your own fault may have been, in part, the occasion, yet you may generally depend upon the sincerest sympathy of all your friends, and, as far as interest and honour will permit, upon their kindest assistance too. But if your misfortune is not of this dreadful kind, if you have only been a little baulked in your ambition, if you have only been jilted by your mistress, or are only hen-pecked by your wife, lay your account with the raillery of all your acquaintance.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
Of the self-interested passions.
Besides those two opposed classes of passions, the social and the unsocial, there is a third that occupies a middle ground: it is never as graceful as the one can sometimes be, nor as odious as the other can sometimes be. Grief and joy arising from our own private good or ill fortune make up this third class. Even in excess, they are never as disagreeable as excessive resentment, since no opposing sympathy can enlist us against them; and even when perfectly suited to their objects, they are never as agreeable as impartial humanity and just benevolence, since no double sympathy can enlist us on their side. Yet grief and joy differ in this: we are generally readiest to sympathize with small joys and great sorrows. A man suddenly lifted by a turn of fortune into a station far above his former one may be certain that not all the congratulations of his closest friends are entirely sincere. The newly risen man, however great his merit, is generally disagreeable to us, and envy commonly keeps us from sharing his joy wholeheartedly. If he has any judgment, he perceives this and, rather than seeming elated by his good fortune, does his utmost to stifle his joy and restrain the uplift his new circumstances naturally give him. He affects the same plain dress and modest manner that suited his former station. He doubles his attentions to his old friends and strives more than ever to be humble, diligent, and obliging. This is the conduct we most approve of in his position, for we seem to expect him to sympathize more with our envy and dislike of his happiness than we sympathize with his happiness. Even with all this, he seldom succeeds. We doubt the sincerity of his humility, and he tires of the constraint. Before long, therefore, he generally leaves behind all his old friends, except perhaps a few of the lowest who consent to become his dependents; nor does he always gain new friends. His new associates are as affronted in their pride to find him their equal as his old friends were to see him become their superior; only the most stubborn and enduring modesty can make amends to either group for this humiliation. He usually tires too soon and, provoked by the sullen, suspicious pride of the first group and the insolent contempt of the second, treats the former with neglect and the latter with irritation, until he becomes habitually arrogant and loses everyone's esteem. If the chief part of human happiness springs from knowing ourselves loved, as I believe it does, sudden changes of fortune seldom add much to happiness. Happiest is the man who rises more gradually to greatness, for whom the public anticipates every step of advancement long before he takes it. His rise then excites no extravagant joy in him, and can reasonably arouse neither jealousy in those he catches up with nor envy in those he leaves behind.
People, however, sympathize more readily with the smaller joys arising from less important causes. Modesty is fitting amid great prosperity; but we can scarcely express too much delight in all the little events of ordinary life—in the company with whom we spent last evening, the meal set before us, what was said and done, all the little incidents of our present conversation, and all those trivial nothings that fill the emptiness of human life. Nothing is more graceful than habitual cheerfulness, which always rests upon a special relish for all the little pleasures offered by everyday events. We readily sympathize with it: it inspires the same joy in us and makes every trifle appear as agreeable to us as it does to the person blessed with this happy disposition. This is why youth, the season of gaiety, so readily wins our affection. That inclination to joy which seems to animate the very bloom and sparkle in the eyes of youth and beauty raises even the elderly to a more joyous mood than usual, even when it appears in someone of their own sex. For a time they forget their infirmities and yield to pleasant thoughts and feelings long unfamiliar to them. Recalled to their hearts by the presence of so much happiness, these feelings take their places like old friends whom they regret ever having lost and embrace all the more warmly for the long separation.
Grief is quite another matter. Small vexations excite no sympathy, but deep affliction calls forth the greatest. Consider a man troubled by every little unpleasant incident: hurt if the cook or butler fails in the least part of a duty; sensitive to every lapse in the finest points of politeness, whether toward himself or someone else; offended that an intimate friend failed to say good morning when they met before noon, or that his brother hummed a tune while he himself told a story; put out of humor by bad weather in the country, bad roads on a journey, and a lack of company and the dullness of every public amusement in town. Such a person, I say, even if he has some cause, will seldom find much sympathy. Joy is a pleasant feeling, and we gladly give ourselves up to it on the slightest occasion. We therefore readily share it with others whenever envy does not stand in our way. But grief is painful, and even when the misfortune is our own, the mind naturally resists and recoils from it. We try either not to feel it at all or to shake it off as soon as we do. Our aversion to grief does not always stop us from feeling it ourselves over trifles, but it constantly stops us from sharing the grief of others when it arises from similarly trivial causes, for the passions we feel by sympathy are always less irresistible than those we feel firsthand. There is also a malicious streak in humanity that not only prevents sympathy with little discomforts but finds them somewhat amusing. Hence the pleasure we all take in teasing and in the slight annoyance of a companion prodded, pressed, and tormented from every side. People of even ordinary good breeding conceal the pain a little incident may cause them; those more thoroughly schooled in society turn such incidents into jokes themselves, knowing their companions would do so for them. A man accustomed to society learns to consider how everything affecting him will look to others, and this habit makes his trivial misfortunes appear to him in the same ridiculous light in which he knows others will view them.
Our sympathy with profound distress, on the contrary, is strong and sincere. No example is needed: we weep even at a tragedy's fictional portrayal. If, then, you suffer a grave calamity—if some extraordinary misfortune plunges you into poverty, illness, disgrace, and disappointment—even if your own fault has partly caused it, you can generally count on your friends' sincerest sympathy and, insofar as interest and honor allow, their kindest help. But if your misfortune is not so dreadful, if you have merely suffered a small setback in your ambition, been rejected by your lover, or fallen under your wife's thumb, expect the mockery of all your acquaintances.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included).
On self-interested passions.
Besides those two opposite groups of passions, the social and the antisocial, there is a third group between them. It is never as appealing as the social passions sometimes are, or as hateful as the antisocial passions sometimes are. This group consists of grief and joy over our own good or bad luck. Even when these feelings are excessive, they are never as unpleasant as excessive resentment. No sympathy for an opposing person can turn us against them. But even when they fit their causes perfectly, they are never as pleasing as impartial humanity and fair-minded beneficence. No sympathy for both parties can draw us toward them. There is a difference between grief and joy, though: we are usually most ready to sympathize with small joys and great sorrows. A man who suddenly rises to a position far above his old one can be sure that not all his closest friends' congratulations are wholly sincere. People generally dislike a newly successful man, however great his merit. Envy keeps them from fully sharing his joy. If he has good judgment, he knows this. Instead of displaying excitement over his good fortune, he does his best to hide his joy and restrain the high spirits his new circumstances naturally give him. He keeps the simple clothes and modest behavior that suited his former position. He pays even more attention to his old friends and tries harder than ever to be humble, diligent, and accommodating. This is the behavior we most approve of in his position. Apparently we expect him to sympathize more with our envy and dislike of his happiness than we sympathize with his happiness. Yet he rarely succeeds, despite all this. We doubt that his humility is sincere, and he grows tired of holding himself back. So before long he usually leaves his old friends behind, except perhaps a few of the poorest who are willing to become his dependents. Nor does he always gain new friends. His new associates resent finding him their equal just as much as his old ones resented his becoming their superior. Only persistent, stubborn modesty can make up for this offense to either group. Usually he grows tired of trying too soon. The sullen, suspicious pride of his old friends and the rude contempt of his new associates provoke him into neglecting the former and snapping at the latter. In time he becomes habitually arrogant and loses everyone's esteem. If most human happiness comes from knowing we are loved, as I believe it does, sudden rises in fortune rarely make people much happier. The happiest man rises more gradually. The public expects each promotion long before he gets it. So it brings him no wild joy, and it gives neither those he catches up with cause for jealousy nor those he leaves behind cause for envy.
People are much quicker to share the smaller joys that come from less important things. Modesty is appropriate in great prosperity, but we can hardly show too much pleasure in the little events of daily life: the company we spent last evening with, the food served to us, what people said and did, the small events of our present conversation, and all the trivial things that fill life's empty spaces. Nothing is more attractive than a habitually cheerful spirit, rooted in a special enjoyment of the small pleasures of ordinary events. We readily share that cheerfulness. It makes us happy too and lets us see every trifle in the same pleasant light as the cheerful person does. This is why youth, a time of high spirits, wins our affection so easily. Joy seems to enliven youthful beauty and shine from its eyes. Even when we see it in someone of our own sex, it puts older people in a happier mood than usual. For a while they forget their ailments. They let themselves feel pleasant thoughts and emotions they have not known for a long time. When the sight of so much happiness brings those feelings back, they return like old friends. The older people regret having parted from them and embrace them all the more warmly after such a long separation.
Grief is different. Small annoyances draw no sympathy, while deep suffering draws a great deal. Consider someone who is upset by every minor inconvenience: a cook or butler's tiniest failure, any lapse in elaborate manners toward him or anyone else, an intimate friend's failure to say good morning when they meet before noon, or his brother's humming throughout a story he is telling. Bad weather in the countryside, bad roads on a trip, and a lack of company or the dullness of public amusements in town all put him in a bad mood. Such a person, I say, will get little sympathy, even if he has some reason to complain. Joy is pleasant, and we happily give ourselves over to it on the slightest occasion. So we readily share another person's joy unless envy gets in the way. Grief, however, hurts. Even when the trouble is our own, the mind naturally resists and pulls back from it. We try either not to feel it at all or to shake it off as soon as it appears. This dislike of grief does not always stop us from feeling it over tiny troubles of our own. But it consistently stops us from sharing someone else's grief over equally trivial matters. The feelings we get from sympathy are always easier to resist than our own original feelings. People also have a mean streak that not only blocks sympathy for small annoyances but makes them somewhat funny. That is why we enjoy teasing and seeing a companion become slightly annoyed as people prod and tease him from every side. Anyone with ordinary manners conceals the pain of a minor annoyance. People more practiced in social life turn such events into jokes themselves, knowing their companions would do it for them. A man used to living among others learns to think about how everything involving him will look to them. That habit makes his little troubles look as ridiculous to him as he knows they will look to others.
By contrast, our sympathy for deep distress is powerful and sincere. No example should be needed: we even cry at an acted tragedy. So if you face some major calamity—if an extraordinary misfortune leaves you poor, ill, disgraced, or disappointed—you can usually count on the sincerest sympathy of all your friends. You can also count on their kindest help, as far as their interests and honor allow, even if you were partly at fault. But if your misfortune is not so terrible, if you have only had a small setback in your ambition, been rejected by your lover, or been bossed around by your wife, expect all your acquaintances to tease you.