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Part I, Section III, Chapter I, 1
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Section III: Of the effects of prosperity and adversity upon the judgment of mankind with regard to the propriety of action; and why it is more easy to obtain their approbation in the one state than in the other.
That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively sensation than our sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person principally concerned.
Our sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has been more taken notice of than our sympathy with joy. The word sympathy, in its most proper and primitive signification, denotes our fellow-feeling with the sufferings, not that with the enjoyments, of others. A late ingenious and subtile philosopher thought it necessary to prove, by arguments, that we had a real sympathy with joy, and that congratulation was a principle of human nature. Nobody, I believe, ever thought it necessary to prove that compassion was such.
First of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense, more universal than that with joy. Though sorrow is excessive, we may still have some fellow-feeling with it. What we feel does not, indeed, in this case, amount to that complete sympathy, to that perfect harmony and correspondence of sentiments which constitutes approbation. We do not weep, and exclaim, and lament, with the sufferer. We are sensible, on the contrary, of his weakness, and of the extravagance of his passion, and yet often feel a very sensible concern upon his account. But if we do not entirely enter into, and go along with, the joy of another, we have no sort of regard or fellow-feeling for it. The man who skips and dances about with that intemperate and senseless joy which we cannot accompany him in, is the object of our contempt and indignation.
Pain besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pungent sensation than pleasure, and our sympathy with pain, though it falls greatly short of what is naturally felt by the sufferer, is generally a more lively and distinct perception than our sympathy with pleasure, though this last often approaches more nearly, as I shall show immediately, to the natural vivacity of the original passion.
Over and above all this, we often struggle to keep down our sympathy with the sorrow of others. Whenever we are not under the observation of the sufferer, we endeavour, for our own sake, to suppress it as much as we can, and we are not always successful. The opposition which we make to it, and the reluctance with which we yield to it, necessarily oblige us to take more particular notice of it. But we never have occasion to make this opposition to our sympathy with joy. If there is any envy in the case, we never feel the least propensity towards it; and if there is none, we give way to it without any reluctance. On the contrary, as we are always ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and sometimes really wish to sympathize with the joy of others, when by that disagreeable sentiment we are disqualified from doing so. We are glad, we say, on account of our neighbour’s good fortune, when in our hearts, perhaps, we are really sorry. We often feel a sympathy with sorrow when we wish to be rid of it; and we often miss that with joy when we would be glad to have it. The obvious observation, therefore, which it naturally falls in our way to make, is that our propensity to sympathize with sorrow must be very strong, and our inclination to sympathize with joy very weak.
Notwithstanding this prejudice, however, I will venture to affirm, that, when there is no envy in the case, our propensity to sympathize with joy is much stronger than our propensity to sympathize with sorrow; and that our fellow-feeling for the agreeable emotion approaches much more nearly to the vivacity of what is naturally felt by the persons principally concerned, than that which we conceive for the painful one.
We have some indulgence for that excessive grief which we cannot entirely go along with. We know what a prodigious effort is requisite before the sufferer can bring down his emotions to compleat harmony and concord with those of the spectator. Though he fails, therefore, we easily pardon him. But we have no such indulgence for the intemperance of joy; because we are not conscious that any such vast effort is requisite to bring it down to what we can entirely enter into. The man who, under the greatest calamities, can command his sorrow, seems worthy of the highest admiration; but he who, in the fulness of prosperity, can in the same manner master his joy, seems hardly to deserve any praise. We are sensible that there is a much wider interval in the one case than in the other, between what is naturally felt by the person principally concerned, and what the spectator can entirely go along with.
What can be added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who is out of debt, and has a clear conscience? To one in this situation, all accessions of fortune may properly be said to be superfluous; and if he is much elevated upon account of them, it must be the effect of the most frivolous levity. This situation, however, may very well be called the natural and ordinary state of mankind. Notwithstanding the present misery and depravity of the world, so justly lamented, this really is the state of the greater part of men. The greater part of men, therefore, cannot find any great difficulty in elevating themselves to all the joy which any accession to this situation can well excite in their companion.
But though little can be added to this state, much may be taken from it. Though between this condition and the highest pitch of human prosperity, the interval is but a trifle; between it and the lowest depth of misery the distance is immense and prodigious. Adversity, on this account, necessarily depresses the mind of the sufferer much more below its natural state, than prosperity can elevate him above it. The spectator, therefore, must find it much more difficult to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time, with his sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into his joy, and must depart much further from his own natural and ordinary temper of mind in the one case than in the other. It is on this account, that, though our sympathy with sorrow is often a more pungent sensation than our sympathy with joy, it always falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person principally concerned.
It is agreeable to sympathize with joy; and wherever envy does not oppose it, our heart abandons itself with satisfaction to the highest transports of that delightful sentiment. But it is painful to go along with grief, and we always enter into it with reluctance1. When we attend to the representation of a tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which the entertainment inspires as long as we can, and we give way to it at last only when we can no longer avoid it: we even then endeavour to cover our concern from the company. If we shed any tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid lest the spectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness, should regard it as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch whose misfortunes call upon our compassion feels with what reluctance we are likely to enter into his sorrow, and therefore proposes his grief to us with fear and hesitation: he even smothers the half of it, and is ashamed, upon account of this hard-heartedness of mankind, to give vent to the fulness of his affliction. It is otherwise with the man who riots in joy and success. Wherever envy does not interest us against him, he expects our compleatest sympathy. He does not fear, therefore, to announce himself with shouts of exultation, in full confidence that we are heartily disposed to go along with him.
Footnote 1:
It has been objected to me that as I found the sentiment of approbation, which is always agreeable, upon sympathy, it is inconsistent with my system to admit any disagreeable sympathy. I answer, that in the sentiment of approbation there are two things to be taken notice of; first the sympathetic passion of the spectator; and, secondly, the emotion which arises from his observing the perfect coincidence between this sympathetic passion in himself, and the original passion in the person principally concerned. This last emotion, in which the sentiment of approbation properly consists, is always agreeable and delightful. The other may either be agreeable or disagreeable, according to the nature of the original passion, whose feature it must always, in some measure, retain. Two sounds I suppose, may, each of them, taken singly, be austere, and yet, if they are perfect concords, the perception of their harmony and coincidence may be agreeable.
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.
Section III: Of the effects of prosperity and adversity on people's judgment of the propriety of action, and why their approval is easier to obtain in one condition than the other.
That although our sympathy with sorrow is generally more vivid than our sympathy with joy, it usually falls much further short of the intensity naturally felt by the person directly concerned.
Our sympathy with sorrow, though no more real, has attracted more attention than our sympathy with joy. The word sympathy, in its original and most proper sense, means our fellow feeling with the sufferings of others, not with their enjoyments. A recent, ingenious, subtle philosopher thought it necessary to prove by argument that we genuinely sympathize with joy and that congratulation is a principle of human nature. Nobody, I believe, ever thought it necessary to prove the same of compassion.
First, our sympathy with sorrow is, in one sense, more universal than our sympathy with joy. Even when sorrow is excessive, we may still feel something of it. True, what we then feel does not amount to complete sympathy, that perfect harmony and correspondence of sentiments which constitutes approval. We do not weep, cry out, and lament with the sufferer. Rather, we recognize his weakness and the extravagance of his passion, yet often feel considerable concern for him. But if we cannot fully enter into and share another's joy, we have no regard or fellow feeling for it at all. The man who leaps and dances about with an unrestrained, senseless joy we cannot share becomes an object of contempt and indignation.
Pain, moreover, whether mental or bodily, is a sharper sensation than pleasure. Though our sympathy with pain falls far short of what the sufferer naturally feels, it is generally a more vivid and distinct perception than our sympathy with pleasure, even though the latter often comes closer, as I shall shortly show, to the natural intensity of the original passion.
Beyond all this, we often struggle to hold back our sympathy with others' sorrow. When the sufferer is not watching us, we try for our own sake to suppress it as much as we can, and do not always succeed. Our resistance to it and our reluctance to yield necessarily make us more conscious of it. We never need to resist our sympathy with joy in this way. If envy is present, we feel no inclination toward that sympathy at all; if not, we yield to it freely. Indeed, because we are always ashamed of our envy, we often pretend, and sometimes genuinely wish, to share another's joy when that disagreeable feeling prevents us from doing so. We say we are glad of our neighbor's good fortune when perhaps in our hearts we are actually sorry. We often feel sympathy with sorrow when we wish to be free of it, and often fail to feel sympathy with joy when we would welcome it. The observation most naturally suggested by this is therefore that our tendency to sympathize with sorrow must be very strong, and our tendency to sympathize with joy very weak.
Despite this prejudice, I venture to assert that, where there is no envy, our tendency to sympathize with joy is much stronger than our tendency to sympathize with sorrow; and that our fellow feeling with a pleasant emotion comes much closer to the intensity naturally felt by the people directly concerned than does our fellow feeling with a painful one.
We make some allowance for excessive grief that we cannot entirely share. We know what a tremendous effort the sufferer must make to bring his emotions into complete harmony with the spectator's. We readily forgive him, then, if he fails. But we make no such allowance for unrestrained joy, since we do not feel that any such great effort is needed to bring it down to a level we can fully share. A man who commands his sorrow under the greatest calamities seems worthy of the highest admiration; but one who similarly masters his joy in the fullness of prosperity seems scarcely to deserve praise. We sense that the distance between what the person directly concerned naturally feels and what the spectator can fully share is much wider in the first case than in the second.
What can be added to the happiness of a man who is healthy, free of debt, and clear in conscience? For someone in this condition, every increase of fortune may properly be called superfluous; if it raises his spirits very high, that must be the effect of the most frivolous levity. Yet this condition may fairly be called the natural, ordinary state of humanity. Despite the world's present misery and depravity, so rightly lamented, this is actually the condition of most people. Most people, therefore, find little difficulty in raising their spirits to share all the joy that any addition to this condition can arouse in a companion.
But although little can be added to this state, much can be taken away from it. The interval between it and the highest human prosperity is slight; the distance between it and the deepest misery is immense. Adversity must therefore depress the sufferer's mind much further below its natural state than prosperity can raise it above that state. The spectator consequently finds it far harder to sympathize fully and keep perfect time with the sufferer's sorrow than to enter completely into his joy; in the first case he must depart much further from his own natural, ordinary frame of mind than in the second. That is why, though our sympathy with sorrow is often a sharper sensation than our sympathy with joy, it always falls much further short of the intensity naturally felt by the person directly concerned.
It is pleasant to sympathize with joy; wherever envy does not oppose us, our hearts gladly surrender to the fullest transports of that delightful feeling. But sharing grief is painful, and we always enter into it reluctantly1. When we attend a tragedy, we resist the sympathetic sorrow it inspires as long as we can and yield to it only when we can resist no longer; even then, we try to hide our concern from the company. If we shed tears, we carefully conceal them, fearing that spectators who do not share such extreme tenderness will regard it as weakness and a lack of fortitude. The unhappy person whose misfortunes call for our compassion senses how reluctantly we are likely to share his sorrow, and therefore offers it to us fearfully and hesitantly. He even suppresses half of it, ashamed by humanity's hard-heartedness to release his grief in full. The man exulting in joy and success behaves differently. Wherever envy does not set us against him, he expects our fullest sympathy. He is not afraid to announce his success with triumphant shouts, confident that we are wholeheartedly disposed to share it.
Footnote 1:
It has been objected that, since I ground the sentiment of approval, which is always pleasant, in sympathy, it is inconsistent with my system to allow that any sympathy can be unpleasant. I reply that the sentiment of approval involves two things to be distinguished: first, the spectator's sympathetic passion; second, the emotion arising when he perceives the perfect coincidence between that sympathetic passion in himself and the original passion in the person directly concerned. This latter emotion, in which approval properly consists, is always pleasant and delightful. The former may be pleasant or unpleasant according to the character of the original passion, whose features it must always retain to some degree. Two sounds, I suppose, may each sound harsh in isolation, yet if they form a perfect concord, the perception of their harmony and coincidence may be pleasant.
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).
Section III: How prosperity and adversity affect people's judgments about the propriety of actions, and why it is easier to win their approval in one condition than in the other.
Although our sympathy with sorrow usually feels stronger than our sympathy with joy, it generally falls much further short of what the person directly involved actually feels.
Our sympathy with sorrow has received more attention than our sympathy with joy, though it is no more real. In its original and strictest sense, the word sympathy means sharing other people's suffering, not their pleasures. A clever and subtle philosopher recently thought it necessary to argue that we really do share others' joy, and that offering congratulations is part of human nature. I think no one has ever thought it necessary to prove the same thing about compassion.
First, our sympathy with sorrow is in one sense more universal than our sympathy with joy. Even if someone grieves too much, we may still feel something of his sorrow. In that case, what we feel does not amount to full sympathy: the complete agreement of feelings that makes us approve of his response. We do not cry out, weep, and mourn along with him. In fact, we see that he is weak and that his emotion is excessive, yet we often feel considerable concern for him. But if we cannot fully share another person's joy, we feel no concern or fellow-feeling for it at all. We feel contempt and indignation toward a man who skips and dances in a wild, foolish happiness we cannot share.
Pain, whether mental or physical, also strikes more sharply than pleasure. Our sympathy with pain is generally more vivid and distinct than our sympathy with pleasure, though it falls far short of what the sufferer feels. Our sympathy with pleasure, as I will show shortly, often comes much closer to the strength of the original feeling.
There is more. We often struggle to hold back our sympathy with other people's sorrow. When the sufferer cannot see us, we try to suppress it for our own comfort, though we do not always succeed. Fighting the feeling and giving in reluctantly make us especially aware of it. We never have to fight our sympathy with joy in this way. If we feel envy, we have no inclination to share the joy at all. If there is no envy, we share it freely. Indeed, because we are ashamed of our envy, we often pretend to share someone's joy, and sometimes genuinely wish we could, though envy prevents it. We say we are glad about a neighbor's good fortune when we may secretly be sorry. We often feel sympathy with sorrow when we wish it would go away. We often fail to feel sympathy with joy when we would welcome it. It is therefore natural to conclude, from what we notice most easily, that our tendency to share sorrow must be very strong and our tendency to share joy very weak.
Despite this bias, I would argue that, when envy is absent, we are much more inclined to share joy than sorrow. The joy we feel for others comes much closer to the strength of their own pleasant feeling than our sympathy with pain comes to the strength of theirs.
We allow some room for excessive grief that we cannot fully share. We know how enormous an effort the sufferer must make to bring his emotions into complete agreement with an observer's. We therefore readily forgive him when he fails. We show no such tolerance for excessive joy, because we do not think it takes a comparable effort to bring that joy down to a level we can fully share. A man who controls his sorrow in the worst misfortune seems worthy of the highest admiration. But a man who controls his joy in the height of prosperity seems barely worthy of praise. We sense that the gap between the person's own feeling and what an observer can fully share is much wider for grief than for joy.
What more could make a healthy man happy if he has no debts and a clear conscience? For someone in this position, any increase in wealth can rightly be called unnecessary. Great excitement about it must come from a rather silly lack of seriousness. Yet this position may fairly be called humanity's normal, ordinary condition. Despite the world's present misery and corruption, which people rightly lament, this is actually the condition of most people. Most of us, then, have little difficulty becoming as happy as a companion is likely to be about any improvement on it.
Although little can be added to this condition, much can be taken away. The gap between it and the height of human prosperity is small; the gap between it and the deepest misery is enormous. Hardship therefore pushes a sufferer's mind much farther below its normal state than prosperity can lift it above that state. An observer consequently has much more trouble sharing his sorrow completely and matching its pace than joining fully in his joy. To share sorrow, the observer must move much farther from his own ordinary state of mind. This explains why sympathy with sorrow, though it often feels sharper than sympathy with joy, always falls much further short of the strength of the person's original feeling.
Sharing joy feels good. Wherever envy does not stand in the way, we gladly let ourselves feel its greatest excitement. Sharing grief hurts, however, and we always approach it reluctantly1. When we watch a tragedy, we resist the sympathetic sorrow it arouses as long as we can. We give in only when we cannot avoid it, and even then we try to hide our distress from others. If we cry, we carefully conceal our tears. We worry that other spectators will not share such tenderness and will see it as weakness and a lack of manliness. A suffering person whose troubles call for our compassion senses our reluctance to share his grief. So he tells us about it fearfully and hesitantly. He even hides half of it. Knowing how hard-hearted people can be, he is ashamed to express the full depth of his pain. A man enjoying success is different. If we do not envy him, he expects us to share his joy completely. He does not hesitate to announce it with delighted shouts, confident that we will gladly join him.
1 Someone has objected that my account is inconsistent: I base approval, which is always pleasant, on sympathy, yet allow sympathy to be unpleasant. My answer is that approval involves two things. First is the feeling the observer experiences through sympathy. Second is the feeling that comes from noticing how perfectly this sympathetic feeling matches the original feeling of the person directly involved. Approval properly consists in that second feeling, which is always pleasant and delightful. The first can be pleasant or unpleasant, depending on the original passion, some of whose character it must always retain. I suppose two sounds could each be harsh on its own, yet form a perfect harmony together. Hearing how they agree could then be pleasant.