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Part I, Section III, Chapter II, 1
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Of the origin of ambition, and of the distinction of ranks.
It is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more entirely with our joy than with our sorrow, that we make parade of our riches, and conceal our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying as to be obliged to expose our distress to the view of the public, and to feel, that though our situation is open to the eyes of all mankind, no mortal conceives for us the half of what we suffer. Nay, it is chiefly from this regard to the sentiments of mankind, that we pursue riches and avoid poverty. For to what purpose is all the toil and bustle of this world? what is the end of avarice and ambition, of the pursuit of wealth, of power, and pre-eminence? Is it to supply the necessities of nature? The wages of the meanest labourer can supply them. We see that they afford him food and clothing, the comfort of a house, and of a family. If we examine his œconomy with rigor, we should find that he spends a great part of them upon conveniences, which may be regarded as superfluities, and that, upon extraordinary occasions, he can give something even to vanity and distinction. What then is the cause of our aversion to his situation, and why should those who have been educated in the higher ranks of life, regard it as worse than death, to be reduced to live, even without labour, upon the same simple fare with him, to dwell under the same lowly roof, and to be clothed in the same humble attire? Do they imagine that their stomach is better, or their sleep sounder in a palace than in a cottage? the contrary has been so often observed, and, indeed, is so very obvious, though it had never been observed, that there is no body ignorant of it. From whence, then, arises that emulation which runs through all the different ranks of men, and what are the advantages which we propose by that great purpose of human life which we call bettering our condition? To be observed, to be attended to, to be taken notice of with sympathy, complacency, and approbation, are all the advantages which we can propose to derive from it. It is the vanity, not the ease, or the pleasure, which interests us. But vanity is always founded upon the belief of our being the object of attention and approbation. The rich man glories in his riches, because he feels that they naturally draw upon him the attention of the world, and that mankind are disposed to go along with him in all those agreeable emotions with which the advantages of his situation so readily inspire him. At the thought of this, his heart seems to swell and dilate itself within him, and he is fonder of his wealth upon this account, than for all the other advantages it procures him. The poor man, on the contrary, is ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it either places him out of the sight of mankind, or, that, if they take any notice of him, they have, however, scarce any fellow-feeling with the misery and distress which he suffers. He is mortified upon both accounts; for though to be overlooked, and to be disapproved of, are things entirely different, yet as obscurity covers us from the daylight of honour and approbation, to feel that we are taken no notice of necessarily damps the most agreeable hope, and disappoints the most ardent desire, of human nature. The poor man goes out and comes in unheeded, and when in the midst of a croud is in the same obscurity as if shut up in his own hovel. Those humble cares and painful attentions which occupy those in his situation, afford no amusement to the dissipated and the gay. They turn away their eyes from him, or if the extremity of his distress forces them to look at him, it is only to spurn so disagreeable an object from among them. The fortunate and the proud wonder at the insolence of human wretchedness, that it should dare to present itself before them, and with the loathsome aspect of its misery, presume to disturb the serenity of their happiness. The man of rank and distinction, on the contrary, is observed by all the world. Every body is eager to look at him, and to conceive, at least by sympathy, that joy and exultation with which his circumstances naturally inspire him. His actions are the objects of the public care. Scarce a word, scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether neglected. In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all direct their eyes; it is upon him that their passions seem all to wait with expectation, in order to receive that movement and direction which he shall impress upon them; and if his behaviour is not altogether absurd, he has, every moment, an opportunity of interesting mankind, and of rendering himself the object of the observation and fellow-feeling of every body about him. It is this, which notwithstanding the restraint it imposes, notwithstanding the loss of liberty with which it is attended, renders greatness the object of envy, and compensates in the opinion of mankind, all that toil, all that anxiety, all those mortifications which must be undergone in the pursuit of it; and what is of yet more consequence, all that leisure, all that ease, all that careless security, which are forfeited for ever by the acquisition.
When we consider the condition of the great, in those delusive colours in which the imagination is apt to paint it, it seems to be almost the abstract idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the very state which, in all our waking dreams and idle reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves as the final object of all our desires. We feel, therefore, a peculiar sympathy with the satisfaction of those who are in it. We favour all their inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity, we think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so agreeable a situation! We could even wish them immortal; and it seems hard to us, that death should at last put an end to such perfect enjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature, to compel them from their exalted stations to that humble, but hospitable home, which she has provided for all her children. Great King, live for ever! is the compliment, which after the manner of eastern adulation, we should readily make them, if experience did not teach us its absurdity. Every calamity that befalls them, every injury that is done them, excites in the breast of the spectator ten times more compassion and resentment than he would have felt, had the same things happened to other men. It is the misfortunes of Kings only which afford the proper subjects for tragedy. They resemble, in this respect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations are the chief which interest us upon the theatre; because, in spite of all that reason and experience can tell us to the contrary, the prejudices of the imagination attach to these two states a happiness superior to any other. To disturb, or to put an end to such perfect enjoyment, seems to be the most atrocious of all injuries. The traitor who conspires against the life of his monarch, is thought a greater monster than any other murderer. All the innocent blood that was shed in the civil wars, provoked less indignation than the death of Charles I. A stranger to human nature, who saw the indifference of men about the misery of their inferiors, and the regret and indignation which they feel for the misfortunes and sufferings of those above them, would be apt to imagine, that pain must be more agonizing, and the convulsions of death more terrible to persons of higher rank, than to those of meaner stations.
Upon this disposition of mankind, to go along with all the passions of the rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction of ranks, and the order of society. Our obsequiousness to our superiors more frequently arises from our admiration for the advantages of their situation, than from any private expectations of benefit from their good-will. Their benefits can extend but to a few; but their fortunes interest almost every body. We are eager to assist them in compleating a system of happiness that approaches so near to perfection; and we desire to serve them for their own sake, without any other recompense but the vanity or the honour of obliging them. Neither is our deference to their inclinations founded chiefly, or altogether, upon a regard to the utility of such submission, and to the order of society, which is best supported by it. Even when the order of society seems to require that we should oppose them, we can hardly bring ourselves to do it. That kings are the servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted, deposed, or punished, as the public conveniency may require, is the doctrine of reason and philosophy; but it is not the doctrine of Nature. Nature would teach us to submit to them, for their own sake, to tremble and bow down before their exalted station, to regard their smile as a reward sufficient to compensate any services, and to dread their displeasure, though no other evil was to follow from it, as the severest of all mortifications. To treat them in any respect as men, to reason and dispute with them upon ordinary occasions, requires such resolution, that there are few men whose magnanimity can support them in it, unless they are likewise assisted by familiarity and acquaintance. The strongest motives, the most furious passions, fear, hatred, and resentment, are scarce sufficient to balance this natural disposition to respect them: and their conduct must, either justly or unjustly, have excited the highest degree of all those passions, before the bulk of the people can be brought to oppose them with violence, or to desire to see them either punished or deposed. Even when the people have been brought this length, they are apt to relent every moment, and easily relapse into their habitual state of deference to those whom they have been accustomed to look upon as their natural superiors. They cannot stand the mortification of their monarch. Compassion soon takes the place of resentment, they forget all past provocations, their old principles of loyalty revive, and they run to re-establish the ruined authority of their old master, with the same violence with which they had opposed it. The death of Charles I. brought about the Restoration of the royal family. Compassion for James II. when he was seized by the populace in making his escape on ship-board, had almost prevented the Revolution, and made it go on more heavily than before.
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 origin of ambition and the distinction of ranks.
It is because people are disposed to sympathize more fully with our joy than our sorrow that we display our wealth and conceal our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying as having to expose our distress to the public and feeling that, although our situation is visible to all, not one person feels for us half of what we suffer. Indeed, it is chiefly out of regard for the sentiments of others that we pursue wealth and avoid poverty. For what is the purpose of all the toil and bustle of this world? What is the end of greed and ambition, of pursuing wealth, power, and preeminence? Is it to provide for nature's necessities? The wages of the lowest laborer can provide these. We see that they give him food and clothing, the comfort of a home and family. If we examined his household expenses closely, we would find that he spends much of his wages on conveniences that might be called luxuries and that, on special occasions, he can afford something even for vanity and display. What, then, causes our aversion to his condition? Why should people raised in the higher ranks regard it as worse than death to be reduced to living, even without working, on the same simple food, beneath the same humble roof, and in the same modest clothes? Do they imagine their stomachs fare better, or their sleep is sounder, in a palace than in a cottage? The opposite has been observed so often, and is so obvious even without observation, that nobody is unaware of it. What, then, is the source of the rivalry that runs through every rank? What advantages do we hope to gain from the great pursuit of life that we call improving our condition? To be seen, to be attended to, to be noticed with sympathy, pleasure, and approval: these are all the advantages we can hope to derive from it. It is vanity that concerns us, not ease or pleasure. And vanity always rests on the belief that we are objects of attention and approval. The rich man takes pride in his riches because he feels that they naturally draw the world's attention and that people are disposed to share all the pleasant emotions so readily inspired in him by the advantages of his station. At this thought his heart seems to swell within him, and he loves his wealth more for this reason than for all the other advantages it provides. The poor man, by contrast, is ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it either puts him out of sight or, if others do notice him, that they scarcely share the misery and distress he suffers. He is mortified on both counts. To be overlooked and to be disapproved of are entirely different things; but obscurity hides us from the daylight of honor and approval, and the sense that nobody notices us inevitably chills the sweetest hope and frustrates the most ardent desire of human nature. The poor man comes and goes unnoticed, and in the middle of a crowd remains as obscure as if he were shut in his own hovel. The humble cares and painful concerns that fill the lives of people in his condition provide no entertainment to the frivolous and carefree. They look away from him; or if the extremity of his distress forces them to look, it is only to thrust so unpleasant an object away. The fortunate and proud wonder at the insolence of human misery: how dare it present itself before them and presume, with its repulsive appearance, to disturb the serenity of their happiness? The man of rank and distinction, by contrast, is observed by the whole world. Everyone is eager to look at him and to feel, at least through sympathy, the joy and exultation his circumstances naturally inspire in him. His actions become objects of public concern. Hardly a word or a gesture of his passes entirely unnoticed. In a great gathering he is the one on whom all eyes are fixed; everyone's passions seem to wait upon him, expecting to take their movement and direction from him. Unless his behavior is altogether absurd, every moment gives him an opportunity to engage people and become the object of the attention and fellow feeling of everyone around him. This is what makes greatness enviable despite the restraints it imposes and the loss of liberty it entails. In people's eyes it makes up for all the toil, anxiety, and humiliation that must be endured in pursuit of greatness and, more importantly still, for all the leisure, ease, and carefree security forever forfeited by its acquisition.
When we consider the condition of the great in the deceptive colors imagination tends to give it, it seems almost the very idea of perfect happiness. It is the state we have pictured in our waking dreams and idle reveries as the final object of all our desires. We therefore feel a special sympathy with the satisfaction of those who enjoy it. We favor their every inclination and advance their every wish. How sad, we think, that anything should spoil so agreeable a condition! We could even wish them immortal; it seems harsh that death should at last bring such perfect enjoyment to an end. We think Nature cruel for compelling them to leave their exalted stations for the humble but hospitable home she has prepared for all her children. "Great King, live forever!" is the compliment we would readily offer them in the manner of Eastern flattery, if experience did not teach us its absurdity. Every calamity that befalls them, every injury done to them, arouses ten times more compassion and resentment in the spectator than the same things would if they befell anyone else. Only the misfortunes of kings provide proper subjects for tragedy. In this respect they resemble the misfortunes of lovers. These are the two situations that chiefly interest us in the theater, because, despite everything reason and experience tell us to the contrary, the prejudices of imagination attach to both a happiness surpassing all others. To disturb or end such perfect enjoyment seems the most atrocious injury of all. The traitor who conspires against his monarch's life is thought a greater monster than any other murderer. All the innocent blood shed in the civil wars provoked less indignation than the death of Charles I. A stranger to human nature, seeing people's indifference to the misery of their inferiors and their grief and indignation over the misfortunes and sufferings of their superiors, might suppose that pain must be more agonizing and the convulsions of death more terrible for those of high rank than for those of lower station.
The distinction of ranks and the order of society rest on this disposition to share the passions of the rich and powerful. Our deference to our superiors arises more often from our admiration of the advantages of their station than from any personal expectation of benefiting from their favor. Their favors can reach only a few, but their fortunes interest almost everybody. We are eager to help them complete a scheme of happiness that seems so close to perfection; we wish to serve them for their own sake, with no reward beyond the vanity or honor of being of service to them. Nor is our deference to their wishes chiefly, or entirely, founded on regard for the usefulness of such submission and for the social order it best sustains. Even when that order seems to require us to oppose them, we can scarcely bring ourselves to do so. That kings are the servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted, deposed, or punished as the public good may require, is the teaching of reason and philosophy; it is not the teaching of Nature. Nature would teach us to submit to them for their own sake; to tremble and bow before their exalted station; to regard their smile as reward enough for any service; and to dread their displeasure as the harshest humiliation, even if no other harm were to follow. To treat them as men in any respect, to reason and argue with them on ordinary occasions, requires such resolve that few possess the strength of mind for it unless familiarity and acquaintance help them. Even the strongest motives and fiercest passions—fear, hatred, and resentment—are scarcely enough to offset this natural tendency to respect them. Their conduct, whether justly or unjustly, must have aroused these passions to the highest degree before most people can be brought to oppose them violently or wish to see them punished or deposed. Even when the people have gone this far, they are apt to soften at any moment and easily relapse into their habitual deference to those they have been accustomed to regard as their natural superiors. They cannot bear their monarch's humiliation. Compassion soon replaces resentment; they forget every past provocation; their old loyalty revives; and they rush to restore their former master's ruined authority with the same violence with which they opposed it. The death of Charles I brought about the Restoration of the royal family. Compassion for James II, when the crowd seized him as he tried to escape aboard ship, nearly prevented the Revolution and slowed its progress more than before.
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).
Where ambition comes from, and why people are divided by rank.
We show off our wealth and hide our poverty because people share our joy more fully than our sorrow. Nothing is more humiliating than having to let everyone see our hardship while knowing that no one feels even half of what we suffer. Indeed, we seek wealth and avoid poverty mainly because we care about what others think. Why else all the work and activity in the world? What are greed and ambition for? Why pursue wealth, power, and status? Is it to meet our basic needs? The wages of the poorest worker can do that. They provide him with food, clothing, a home, and a family. If we looked closely at his spending, we would find that he spends much of his wages on comforts that might count as extras. On special occasions he can even spend a little to satisfy vanity and set himself apart. So why do we dread his situation? Why would people raised in higher ranks think it worse than death to eat his simple food, live under his modest roof, and wear his plain clothes, even without having to work? Do they imagine they would eat better or sleep more soundly in a palace than in a cottage? The opposite has been observed so often, and is so obvious even without observation, that everyone knows it. What, then, drives the competition among people of every rank? What do we hope to gain by what we call improving our condition, that great goal of human life? We want others to see us, pay attention to us, notice us with sympathy, pleasure, and approval. Those are the benefits we seek. It is vanity, not comfort or pleasure, that attracts us. Vanity depends on believing that others pay attention to and approve of us. A rich man takes pride in his riches because he feels they naturally attract the world's attention. He thinks people are ready to share the happy feelings his advantages give him. The thought makes his heart swell. He loves his wealth more for this reason than for all the other benefits it brings. A poor man, by contrast, is ashamed of being poor. He feels either that people do not see him at all, or that if they notice him they barely share his suffering. Both possibilities hurt him. Being ignored is not the same as being disapproved of. But being unknown shuts us out of the honor and approval we might otherwise enjoy. Feeling unnoticed therefore defeats one of our strongest desires and dampens one of our most welcome hopes. A poor man comes and goes without attracting notice. Even in a crowd he is as invisible as he would be shut inside his own small home. The humble worries and painful efforts that occupy people in his position do not entertain those busy with pleasures. They look away. If his suffering is too extreme for them to ignore, they merely push the unpleasant sight away from themselves. Lucky and proud people wonder how a suffering person dares show himself to them. They think the ugly sight of his misery has no right to disturb their happiness. A man of high rank, by contrast, is noticed by everyone. Everyone wants to look at him and share, at least through sympathy, the delight his position naturally gives him. The public pays attention to his actions. Hardly a word or gesture of his goes unnoticed. At a large gathering, everyone watches him. They seem to wait to see what he feels so they can take their cue from him. Unless his behavior is completely absurd, each moment gives him a chance to interest people and become the focus of everyone's attention and sympathy. This is why high rank inspires envy, despite the restrictions it brings and the freedom it takes away. In people's minds, that attention makes up for all the labor, anxiety, and humiliation involved in seeking rank. More importantly, they think it makes up for all the free time, comfort, and freedom from worry that a person gives up forever upon gaining it.
When we imagine the lives of the powerful in the misleading colors our minds give them, their position looks almost like perfect happiness itself. It is just the life we picture as the final goal of all our wishes in our idle daydreams. So we feel a special sympathy for the satisfaction of those who have it. We support every desire of theirs and help them get whatever they want. What a shame, we think, if anything spoiled so pleasant a life! We could even wish them eternal life. It seems harsh that death must eventually take them from their high positions to the modest but welcoming home nature provides for all her children. We would gladly flatter them in the eastern style by saying, “Great King, live forever!” if experience had not taught us how absurd that wish is. Any disaster or injury that befalls them stirs ten times as much compassion and anger in an observer as the same event would if it happened to others. Only kings' misfortunes, it seems, make proper subjects for tragedy. In this they resemble lovers' misfortunes. These two kinds of people interest us most in the theater because, despite everything reason and experience tell us, our imagination wrongly assigns them greater happiness than anyone else. Taking away or disturbing such perfect enjoyment therefore seems the worst possible injury. A traitor plotting to kill a monarch is considered a worse monster than any other murderer. All the innocent blood shed in the civil wars caused less outrage than the death of Charles I. Someone unfamiliar with human nature might observe how little people care about those below them and how much they grieve and rage over the suffering of those above them. Such an outsider would probably conclude that pain must hurt the high-ranking more, and that their deaths must be more terrible than the deaths of people with lower status.
The division of ranks and the structure of society rest on this human tendency to share the feelings of the rich and powerful. We comply with those above us more often because we admire the advantages they enjoy than because we personally expect benefits from their favor. Only a few can receive those benefits, but almost everyone takes an interest in their fortunes. We want to help complete what seems an almost perfect picture of happiness. We want to serve them for their own sake, with no reward beyond the pride or honor of doing them a favor. Nor do we defer to their wishes mainly, or entirely, because obedience is useful and helps maintain social order. Even when social order seems to call for opposing them, we can hardly bring ourselves to do so. Reason and philosophy teach that kings are public servants, to be obeyed, resisted, removed, or punished according to the public's needs. Nature teaches something else. It tells us to submit to kings for their own sake, to tremble and bow before their high station, to see their smile as payment enough for any service, and to dread their displeasure as a terrible humiliation even if it brings no other harm. Treating them as ordinary people, arguing or disagreeing with them in everyday situations, takes a courage few people have unless familiarity with them also helps. Even the strongest motives and fiercest feelings—fear, hatred, and anger—barely overcome our natural respect for them. Their behavior, fairly or unfairly, must arouse these feelings to the greatest degree before most people can be moved to fight them or wish to see them punished or removed. Even then the people often soften at any moment and readily fall back into their accustomed deference toward those they have long regarded as natural superiors. They cannot bear to see their monarch humiliated. Compassion soon replaces anger; they forget what provoked them. Their old loyalty returns, and they rush to restore their former master's broken authority as fiercely as they once fought it. The death of Charles I. led to the restoration of the royal family. Sympathy for James II., seized by a crowd as he was escaping aboard a ship, nearly prevented the Revolution and slowed it down considerably.