Adam Smith · Complete work
Part II, Section I, Chapter II
Part II, Section I, Chapter II of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
Open the complete readerOriginal 18th-century English
Of the proper objects of gratitude and resentment.
To be the proper and approved object either of gratitude or resentment, can mean nothing but to be the object of that gratitude, and of that resentment, which naturally seems proper, and is approved of.
But these, as well as all the other passions of human nature, seem proper and are approved of, when the heart of every impartial spectator entirely sympathizes with them, when every indifferent by-stander entirely enters into, and goes along with them.
He, therefore, appears to deserve reward, who, to some person or persons, is the natural object of a gratitude which every human heart is disposed to beat time to, and thereby applaud: and he, on the other hand, appears to deserve punishment, who in the same manner is to some person or persons the natural object of a resentment which the breast of every reasonable man is ready to adopt and sympathize with. To us, surely, that action must appear to deserve reward, which every body who knows of it would wish to reward, and therefore delights to see rewarded: and that action must as surely appear to deserve punishment, which every body who hears of it is angry with, and upon that account rejoices to see punished.
1 As we sympathize with the joy of our companions when in prosperity, so we join with them in the complacency and satisfaction with which they naturally regard whatever is the cause of their good fortune. We enter into the love and affection which they conceive for it, and begin to love it too. We should be sorry for their sakes if it was destroyed, or even if it was placed at too great a distance from them, and out of the reach of their care and protection, though they should lose nothing by its absence except the pleasure of seeing it. If it is man who has thus been the fortunate instrument of the happiness of his brethren, this is still more peculiarly the case. When we see one man assisted, protected, relieved by another, our sympathy with the joy of the person who receives the benefit serves only to animate our fellow-feeling with his gratitude towards him who bestows it. When we look upon the person who is the cause of his pleasure with the eyes with which we imagine he must look upon him, his benefactor seems to stand before us in the most engaging and amiable light. We readily therefore sympathize with the grateful affection which he conceives for a person to whom he has been so much obliged; and consequently applaud the returns which he is disposed to make for the good offices conferred upon him. As we entirely enter into the affection from which these returns proceed, they necessarily seem every way proper and suitable to their object.
2 In the same manner, as we sympathize with the sorrow of our fellow-creature whenever we see his distress, so we likewise enter into his abhorrence and aversion for whatever has given occasion to it. Our heart, as it adopts and beats time to his grief, so is it likewise animated with that spirit by which he endeavours to drive away or destroy the cause of it. The indolent and passive fellow-feeling, by which we accompany him in his sufferings, readily gives way to that more vigorous and active sentiment by which we go along with him in the effort he makes, either to repel them, or to gratify his aversion to what has given occasion to them. This is still more peculiarly the case, when it is man who has caused them. When we see one man oppressed or injured by another, the sympathy which we feel with the distress of the sufferer seems to serve only to animate our fellow-feeling with his resentment against the offender. We are rejoiced to see him attack his adversary in his turn, and are eager and ready to assist him whenever he exerts himself for defence, or even for vengeance within a certain degree. If the injured should perish in the quarrel, we not only sympathize with the real resentment of his friends and relations, but with the imaginary resentment which in fancy we lend to the dead, who is no longer capable of feeling that or any other human sentiment. But as we put ourselves in his situation, as we enter, as it were, into his body, and in our imaginations, in some measure, animate anew the deformed and mangled carcass of the slain, when we bring home in this manner his case to our own bosoms, we feel upon this, as upon many other occasions, an emotion which the person principally concerned is incapable of feeling, and which yet we feel by an illusive sympathy with him. The sympathetic tears which we shed for that immense and irretrievable loss, which in our fancy he appears to have sustained, seem to be but a small part of the duty which we owe him. The injury which he has suffered demands, we think, a principal part of our attention. We feel that resentment which we imagine he ought to feel, and which he would feel, if in his cold and lifeless body there remained any consciousness of what passes upon earth. His blood, we think, calls aloud for vengeance. The very ashes of the dead seem to be disturbed at the thought that his injuries are to pass unrevenged. The horrors which are supposed to haunt the bed of the murderer, the ghosts which, superstition imagines, rise from their graves to demand vengeance upon those who brought them to an untimely end, all take their origin from this natural sympathy with the imaginary resentment of the slain. And with regard, at least, to this most dreadful of all crimes, Nature, antecedent to all reflections upon the utility of punishment, has in this manner stamped upon the human heart, in the strongest and most indelible characters, an immediate and instinctive approbation of the sacred and necessary law of retaliation.
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.
On the proper objects of gratitude and resentment.
To be a proper and approved object of gratitude or resentment can mean only to be the object of gratitude or resentment that naturally seems proper and wins approval.
These passions, like all other human passions, seem proper and win approval when every impartial spectator's heart entirely sympathizes with them—when every disinterested observer fully enters into and shares them.
A person therefore appears to deserve reward when he is, to someone, the natural object of gratitude with which every human heart is inclined to keep time and which it consequently applauds. Conversely, a person appears to deserve punishment when he is, to someone, the natural object of resentment that every reasonable heart is ready to adopt and share. Surely an action must seem to us deserving of reward when everyone who knows of it wishes to reward it and delights to see it rewarded. Equally surely, an action must seem deserving of punishment when everyone who hears of it is angered by it and therefore rejoices to see it punished.
1 Just as we share in our companions' joy when they prosper, we join them in the satisfaction and pleasure with which they naturally regard whatever caused their good fortune. We enter into the love and affection they feel for it, and come to love it ourselves. For their sake we would regret its destruction, or even its removal so far away that they could no longer care for and protect it, though the only thing they lost by its absence were the pleasure of seeing it. This is especially so if the fortunate instrument of their happiness is a person. When we see one person helped, protected, or relieved by another, our sympathy with the recipient's joy only deepens our fellow-feeling with his gratitude toward his benefactor. When we look at the person who made him happy through the eyes with which we imagine he sees him, that benefactor appears before us in the most engaging and lovable light. We readily share the grateful affection he feels for the person to whom he owes so much, and consequently applaud the returns he is inclined to make for the kindness he has received. Because we enter fully into the affection that inspires those returns, they necessarily seem in every way proper and suited to their object.
2 Likewise, just as we sympathize with the sorrow of a fellow human being whenever we see his distress, we also enter into his abhorrence and aversion toward its cause. Our heart adopts his grief and keeps time with it; it is also stirred by the spirit with which he tries to drive away or destroy what caused it. The passive, inactive fellow-feeling by which we accompany his suffering readily yields to the more vigorous, active sentiment by which we join his effort to repel that suffering or satisfy his aversion to its cause. This is especially true when another person caused it. When we see one person oppressed or injured by another, our sympathy with the sufferer's distress seems only to deepen our fellow-feeling with his resentment toward the offender. We are glad to see him strike back at his adversary, and eager to help when he acts in self-defense or even takes vengeance within certain bounds. If the injured man dies in the conflict, we sympathize not only with the real resentment of his friends and family but also with the imaginary resentment we lend the dead man in our minds, though he can no longer feel that or any other human emotion. We put ourselves in his place, enter, as it were, his body, and in imagination partly bring his disfigured and mangled corpse back to life. When we thus make his case our own, we feel, here as on many other occasions, an emotion the person chiefly concerned cannot feel, yet which an illusory sympathy makes us feel on his behalf. The sympathetic tears we shed for the immense, irreparable loss we imagine him to have suffered seem only a small part of what we owe him. His injury, we think, deserves the greater share of our attention. We feel the resentment we imagine he ought to feel, and would feel if his cold, lifeless body retained any awareness of events on earth. His blood, we think, cries out for vengeance. Even his ashes seem restless at the prospect that his injuries will go unavenged. The horrors said to haunt a murderer's bed, the ghosts that superstition imagines rising from their graves to demand vengeance on those who ended their lives too soon—all spring from this natural sympathy with the imagined resentment of the slain. With regard at least to murder, the most dreadful of crimes, Nature has thus, before any reflection on the usefulness of punishment, engraved on the human heart in the strongest, most indelible characters an immediate, instinctive approval of the sacred and necessary law of retaliation.
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).
Who rightly calls forth gratitude and resentment.
To say that someone rightly calls forth gratitude or resentment means simply that the gratitude or resentment felt toward that person seems fitting and wins our approval.
We approve of those feelings, like all human passions, when every impartial spectator fully shares them. Every uninvolved bystander must be able to understand and feel them too.
So a person seems to deserve reward when one or more people naturally feel gratitude toward him that everyone else can share and applaud. Likewise, a person seems to deserve punishment when one or more people naturally resent him in a way any reasonable person can share. Surely an action deserves reward in our eyes if everyone who knows about it would want to reward it and is glad to see it rewarded. And an action deserves punishment in our eyes if everyone who hears about it feels angry and is glad to see it punished.
1 We share our companions' joy when they prosper. We also share their pleasure in whatever caused their good fortune. We feel some of the love and affection they have for it and come to love it ourselves. For their sake, we would be sorry if it were destroyed or even moved too far away for them to see and protect. This is true even if its absence cost them nothing but the pleasure of seeing it. The feeling is especially strong when a person has brought happiness to others. When we see one person helped, protected, or rescued by another, sharing the recipient's joy strengthens our fellow-feeling with his gratitude toward his helper. We see the helper through the recipient's eyes, as we imagine them. The benefactor then appears to us in a particularly lovable light. We readily share the recipient's gratitude to someone who has done so much for him. We therefore approve of his desire to repay the good deeds he received. Because we fully share the feeling that moves him to do so, his attempts to repay seem entirely proper and appropriate to their object.
2 Likewise, when we see another person in distress, we share both his sorrow and his dislike of whatever caused it. As we feel his grief, we also feel his urge to drive away or destroy its cause. Our quiet, passive fellow-feeling with his pain quickly gives way to a stronger, more active feeling. We join him in trying either to put an end to the pain or to act on his dislike of its cause. This is especially true when another person caused the distress. When we see someone oppressed or injured by another, sharing the victim's distress strengthens our fellow-feeling with his resentment toward the offender. We are glad to see the injured person stand up to his opponent. We are eager to help him defend himself or even take revenge, within limits. If the injured person dies in the conflict, we share not only the real resentment of his friends and relatives but also a resentment we imagine the dead person feels. He can no longer feel that or any other human emotion. Still, we put ourselves in his place. In imagination we enter his body and, in a sense, give life again to his disfigured, broken remains. When we take his situation to heart in this way, we feel something he cannot feel. As on many other occasions, we feel it through an imagined sympathy with him. The sympathetic tears we shed for the vast, irreversible loss we imagine he has suffered seem like only a small part of what we owe him. We think his injury calls for much more of our attention. We feel the resentment we imagine he ought to feel and would feel if his cold, lifeless body still knew what happened on earth. We think his blood cries out for revenge. Even the dead man's ashes seem disturbed by the possibility that his injuries might go unavenged. People imagine horrors haunting a murderer's bed. Superstition imagines ghosts rising from their graves to demand vengeance on those who ended their lives too soon. These ideas all grow out of our natural sympathy with the resentment we imagine the dead feel. At least for murder, the most terrible crime, Nature has made us approve of the necessary law of retaliation at once, by instinct. She has marked this approval deeply and permanently on our hearts, before we ever think about whether punishment is useful.