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Part II, Section III, Chapter II, 1
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Of the extent of this influence of fortune.
The effect of this influence of fortune is, first, to diminish our sense of the merit or demerit of those actions which arose from the most laudable or blamable intentions, when they fail of producing their proposed effects: and, secondly, to increase our sense of the merit or demerit of actions, beyond what is due to the motives or affections from which they proceed, when they accidentally give occasion either to extraordinary pleasure or pain.
1 First, I say, though the intentions of any person should be ever so proper and beneficent, on the one hand, or ever so improper and malevolent, on the other, yet, if they fail in producing their effects, his merit seems imperfect in the one case, and his demerit incomplete in the other. Nor is this irregularity of sentiment felt only by those who are immediately affected by the consequences of any action. It is felt, in some measure, even by the impartial spectator. The man who solicits an office for another, without obtaining it, is regarded as his friend, and seems to deserve his love and affection. But the man who not only solicits, but procures it, is more peculiarly considered as his patron and benefactor, and is entitled to his respect and gratitude. The person obliged, we are apt to think, may with some justice, imagine himself on a level with the first: but we cannot enter into his sentiments, if he does not feel himself inferior to the second. It is common indeed to say, that we are equally obliged to the man who has endeavoured to serve us, as to him who actually did so. It is the speech which we constantly make upon every unsuccessful attempt of this kind; but which, like all other fine speeches, must be understood with a grain of allowance. The sentiments which a man of generosity entertains for the friend who fails, may often indeed be nearly the same with those which he conceives for him who succeeds: and the more generous he is, the more nearly will those sentiments approach to an exact level. With the truly generous, to be beloved, to be esteemed by those whom they themselves think worthy of esteem, gives more pleasure, and thereby excites more gratitude, than all the advantages which they can ever expect from those sentiments. When they lose those advantages therefore, they seem to lose but a trifle, which is scarce worth regarding. They still however lose something. Their pleasure therefore, and consequently their gratitude, is not perfectly complete: and accordingly if, between the friend who fails and the friend who succeeds, all other circumstances are equal, there will, even in the noblest and the best mind, be some little difference of affection in favour of him who succeeds. Nay, so unjust are mankind in this respect, that though the intended benefit should be procured, yet if it is not procured by the means of a particular benefactor, they are apt to think that less gratitude is due to the man, who with the best intentions in the world could do no more than help it a little forward. As their gratitude is in this case divided among the different persons who contributed to their pleasure, a smaller share of it seems due to any one. Such a person, we hear men commonly say, intended no doubt to serve us; and we really believe exerted himself to the utmost of his abilities for that purpose. We are not, however, obliged to him for this benefit; since had it not been for the concurrence of others, all that he could have done would never have brought it about. This consideration, they imagine, should, even in the eyes of the impartial spectator, diminish the debt which they owe to him. The person himself who has unsuccessfully endeavoured to confer a benefit, has by no means the same dependency upon the gratitude of the man whom he meant to oblige, nor the same sense of his own merit towards him, which he would have had in the case of success.
Even the merit of talents and abilities which some accident has hindered from producing their effects, seems in some measure imperfect, even to those who are fully convinced of their capacity to produce them. The general who has been hindered by the envy of ministers from gaining some great advantage over the enemies of his country, regrets the loss of the opportunity for ever after. Nor is it only upon account of the public that he regrets it. He laments that he was hindered from performing an action which would have added a new lustre to his character in his own eyes, as well as in those of every other person. It satisfies neither himself nor others to reflect that the plan or design was all that depended on him, that no greater capacity was required to execute it than what was necessary to concert it: that he was allowed to be every way capable of executing it, and that had he been permitted to go on, success was infallible. He still did not execute it; and though he might deserve all the approbation which is due to a magnanimous and great design, he still wanted the actual merit of having performed a great action. To take the management of any affair of public concern from the man who has almost brought it to a conclusion, is regarded as the most invidious injustice. As he had done so much, he should, we think, have been allowed to acquire the complete merit of putting an end to it. It was objected to Pompey, that he came in upon the victories of Lucullus, and gathered those laurels which were due to the fortune and valour of another. The glory of Lucullus, it seems, was less complete even in the opinion of his own friends, when he was not permitted to finish that conquest which his conduct and courage had put in the power of almost any man to finish. It mortifies an architect when his plans are either not executed at all, or when they are so far altered as to spoil the effect of the building. The plan, however, is all that depends upon the architect. The whole of his genius is, to good judges, as completely discovered in that as in the actual execution. But a plan does not, even to the most intelligent, give the same pleasure as a noble and magnificent building. They may discover as much both of taste and genius in the one as in the other. But their effects are still vastly different, and the amusement derived from the first, never approaches to the wonder and admiration which are sometimes excited by the second. We may believe of many men, that their talents are superior to those of Cæsar and Alexander; and that in the same situations they would perform still greater actions. In the mean time, however, we do not behold them with that astonishment and admiration with which those two heroes have been regarded in all ages and nations. The calm judgments of the mind may approve of them more, but they want the splendor of great actions to dazzle and transport it. The superiority of virtues and talents have not, even upon those who acknowledge that superiority, the same effect with the superiority of atchievements.
As the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to do good seems thus, in the eyes of ungrateful mankind, to be diminished by the miscarriage, so does likewise the demerit of an unsuccessful attempt to do evil. The design to commit a crime, how clearly soever it may be proved, is scarce ever punished with the same severity as the actual commission of it. The case of treason is perhaps the only exception. That crime immediately affecting the being of the government itself, the government is naturally more jealous of it than of any other. In the punishment of treason, the sovereign resents the injuries which are immediately done to himself: in the punishment of other crimes, he resents those which are done to other men. It is his own resentment which he indulges in the one case: it is that of his subjects which by sympathy he enters into it in the other. In the first case, therefore, as he judges in his own cause, he is very apt to be more violent and sanguinary in his punishments than the impartial spectator can approve of. His resentment too rises here upon smaller occasions, and does not always, as in other cases, wait for the perpetration of the crime, or even for the attempt to commit it. A treasonable concert, though nothing has been done, or even attempted in consequence of it, nay, a treasonable conversation, is in many countries punished in the same manner as the actual commission of treason. With regard to all other crimes, the mere design, upon which no attempt has followed, is seldom punished at all, and is never punished severely. A criminal design, and a criminal action, it may be said indeed, do not necessarily suppose the same degree of depravity, and ought not therefore to be subjected to the same punishment. We are capable, it may be said, of resolving, and even of taking measures to execute, many things which, when it comes to the point, we feel ourselves altogether incapable of executing. But this reason can have no place when the design has been carried the length of the last attempt. The man, however, who fires a pistol at his enemy, but misses him, is punished with death by the laws of scarce any country. By the old law of Scotland, though he should wound him, yet, unless death ensues within a certain time, the assassin is not liable to the last punishment. The resentment of mankind, however, runs so high against this crime, their terror for the man who shows himself capable of committing it, is so great, that the mere attempt to commit it ought in all countries to be capital. The attempt to commit smaller crimes is almost always punished very lightly, and sometimes is not punished at all. The thief, whose hand has been caught in his neighbour’s pocket before he had taken any thing out of it, is punished with ignominy only. If he had got time to take away an handkerchief, he would have been put to death. The house-breaker, who has been found setting a ladder to his neighbour’s window, but had not got into it, is not exposed to the capital punishment. The attempt to ravish is not punished as a rape. The attempt to seduce a married woman is not punished at all, though seduction is punished severely. Our resentment against the person who only attempted to do a mischief, is seldom so strong as to bear us out in inflicting the same punishment upon him, which we should have thought due if he had actually done it. In the one case, the joy of our deliverance alleviates our sense of the atrocity of his conduct; in the other, the grief of our misfortune increases it. His real demerit, however, is undoubtedly the same in both cases, since his intentions were equally criminal: and there is in this respect, therefore, an irregularity in the sentiments of all men, and a consequent relaxation of discipline in the laws of, I believe, all nations, of the most civilized, as well as of the most barbarous. The humanity of a civilized people disposes them either to dispense with, or to mitigate punishments wherever their natural indignation is not goaded on by the consequences of the crime. Barbarians, on the other hand, when no actual consequence has happened from any action, are not apt to be very delicate or inquisitive about the motives.
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 extent of fortune's influence.
Fortune's influence has two effects. First, when actions arising from the most praiseworthy or blameworthy intentions fail to achieve their intended results, it diminishes our sense of their merit or demerit. Second, when actions accidentally occasion extraordinary pleasure or pain, it increases our sense of their merit or demerit beyond what their underlying motives or feelings deserve.
1 First, even when someone's intentions are entirely proper and beneficent, or entirely improper and malevolent, failure to achieve their purpose makes his merit seem imperfect in the one case and his demerit incomplete in the other. This irregularity is felt not only by those directly affected by the outcome. To some extent even the impartial spectator feels it. The person who seeks a position for another but fails to obtain it is regarded as a friend deserving love and affection. But the person who not only seeks the position but secures it is regarded, more particularly, as a patron and benefactor entitled to respect and gratitude. We tend to think that the recipient of the favor may, with some justice, consider himself the equal of the first; but we cannot share his feelings if he does not consider himself indebted to the second. We often say that we owe as much to someone who tried to help us as to someone who actually succeeded. We say this after every failed attempt of the kind; but like other fine speeches, it needs to be taken with some allowance. A generous person's feelings toward an unsuccessful friend may indeed come very close to his feelings toward a successful one; the more generous he is, the closer they will be. For the truly generous, to be loved and esteemed by those whom they themselves esteem gives more pleasure, and thus arouses more gratitude, than any advantage they might hope to gain from that regard. When they lose the advantage, then, they seem to lose only a trifle hardly worth noticing. Yet they still lose something. Their pleasure, and therefore their gratitude, is not quite complete; and if all else is equal between the friend who fails and the friend who succeeds, even the noblest and best person will feel a slight preference for the one who succeeds. Indeed, humankind is so unfair in this matter that even if the intended benefit comes about, but not through the efforts of a particular benefactor, people tend to think less gratitude is due to the person who, with the best intentions in the world, could do no more than help it along. Since their gratitude is divided among those who contributed to their happiness, each seems to deserve a smaller share. Such a person, we commonly hear, certainly meant to help us, and we sincerely believe he did all he could. Yet we do not owe him this benefit: without the cooperation of others, everything he did would have failed to bring it about. People imagine that this consideration should reduce their debt to him even in the eyes of the impartial spectator. The person who tried unsuccessfully to confer a benefit is himself far less confident of the intended recipient's gratitude, and far less conscious of merit toward him, than he would have been if he had succeeded.
Even the merit of talents and abilities that an accident prevents from bearing fruit seems in some measure incomplete, even to those entirely convinced of their power. A general kept by the envy of ministers from gaining a great advantage over his country's enemies regrets the lost opportunity for the rest of his life. He regrets it not only for the public's sake. He mourns the action he was prevented from performing, an action that would have given his character new brilliance in his own eyes and everyone else's. Neither he nor others are satisfied by reflecting that only the plan depended on him; that executing it required no greater ability than devising it; that he was acknowledged to be entirely capable of carrying it out; and that if allowed to proceed he would certainly have succeeded. He still did not carry it out. He may deserve all the approval owed to a great and magnanimous design, but he lacks the actual merit of having accomplished a great deed. Removing a person from the management of a public affair he has nearly completed is regarded as a particularly odious injustice. Since he has done so much, we think, he should have been allowed the full merit of bringing it to an end. Pompey was reproached for arriving after Lucullus's victories and gathering laurels owed to another's fortune and valor. Even Lucullus's friends, it seems, thought his glory less complete because he was not allowed to finish a conquest that his skill and courage had made almost anyone capable of finishing. An architect is mortified when his plans are never carried out, or are altered so much that the building's effect is spoiled. Yet the plans are all that depends on the architect, and to good judges they reveal his whole genius as fully as the finished building would. Still, even to the most discerning eye, a plan does not give the same pleasure as a noble, magnificent building. Judges may see as much taste and genius in one as in the other; their effects nevertheless differ immensely, and the pleasure derived from the plan never approaches the wonder and admiration sometimes aroused by the building. We may believe many people's talents superior to those of Caesar and Alexander, and believe that, in their circumstances, they would accomplish still greater things. Yet we do not look upon them with the astonishment and admiration these two heroes have inspired across all ages and nations. Our calm judgment may approve of them more, but they lack the splendor of great deeds that dazzles and transports the mind. Even for those who acknowledge superior virtue and talent, its effect is not the same as the effect of superior achievements.
Just as failure diminishes, in the eyes of ungrateful humankind, the merit of an unsuccessful effort to do good, so too it diminishes the demerit of an unsuccessful effort to do evil. A design to commit a crime, however clearly proved, is hardly ever punished as severely as the crime itself. Treason is perhaps the sole exception. Because it directly threatens the existence of government itself, government is naturally more jealous of it than of any other crime. In punishing treason, a sovereign resents injuries done directly to himself; in punishing other crimes, he resents injuries done to others. In one case he indulges his own resentment; in the other, through sympathy, he enters into the resentment of his subjects. Since he judges his own cause in the first case, he is apt to be more violent and bloodthirsty in punishment than the impartial spectator can approve. His resentment also flares up on slighter grounds and does not always wait, as with other crimes, for the crime to be committed or even attempted. In many countries, a treasonous conspiracy that leads to no act or attempt, or even a treasonous conversation, is punished just like an accomplished act of treason. With every other crime, a mere design followed by no attempt is seldom punished at all, and never severely. It may be said, of course, that a criminal design need not imply the same depravity as a criminal act, and so should not receive the same punishment. We may resolve to do something, and even take steps toward doing it, that we find ourselves quite incapable of carrying out when the time comes. But this argument has no force once the design has reached the point of a final attempt. Yet the person who fires a pistol at an enemy and misses is subject to death under the laws of hardly any country. Under the old law of Scotland, even if the victim was wounded, the assailant did not face the ultimate punishment unless death followed within a certain time. Human resentment against this crime, however, runs so high, and our fear of someone who shows himself capable of it is so great, that the bare attempt ought to be a capital offense everywhere. Attempts at lesser crimes are nearly always punished very lightly and sometimes not at all. The thief caught with his hand in his neighbor's pocket before taking anything is punished only with public disgrace. Had he succeeded in taking a handkerchief, he would have been put to death. The burglar caught placing a ladder against his neighbor's window but not yet inside it does not face capital punishment. An attempted rape is not punished as a rape. An attempt to seduce a married woman is not punished at all, though the accomplished seduction is severely punished. Our resentment toward someone who merely attempts harm is seldom strong enough to justify, in our eyes, the punishment we would have thought due if he had actually done the harm. In the one case, the joy of escape softens our sense of the atrocity of his conduct; in the other, our grief over the harm heightens it. His true demerit is surely the same in either case, since his intentions are equally criminal. In this respect there is an irregularity in everyone's feelings, and a corresponding relaxation of legal discipline, I believe, among all nations, civilized and barbarous alike. The humanity of a civilized people inclines them to waive or reduce penalties wherever the results of a crime do not spur their natural indignation. Barbarians, on the other hand, are not apt to inquire closely or delicately into motives when an action has had no actual consequence.
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).
How far fortune's influence extends.
Fortune's influence has two effects. First, when actions driven by the most praiseworthy or blameworthy intentions fail to achieve their aims, we see less merit or demerit in them. Second, when actions happen to cause extraordinary pleasure or pain, we see more merit or demerit in them than their motives or feelings deserve.
1 First, however proper and beneficent someone's intentions are, if they fail, that person's merit seems incomplete. Likewise, however improper and malicious the intentions are, failure makes the demerit seem incomplete. This inconsistency is not confined to the people directly affected. Even the impartial spectator feels it to some degree. A person who tries but fails to secure an appointment for someone else is seen as a friend who deserves affection. A person who succeeds is regarded more especially as a patron and benefactor, deserving respect and gratitude. We may think the recipient can reasonably regard himself as an equal of the friend who merely tried. But we cannot share his feelings if he does not feel indebted to the friend who succeeded. People often say they are just as indebted to someone who tried to help them as to someone who actually helped them. We routinely say this when such efforts fail. But like other fine phrases, it must be taken with some qualification. A generous person's feelings for the friend who fails may be nearly the same as for the friend who succeeds. The more generous the person, the closer those feelings will be. For a truly generous person, being loved and esteemed by someone whose judgment he respects gives more pleasure, and therefore causes more gratitude, than any practical benefit that esteem could bring. Losing the benefit seems to him a small matter, hardly worth noticing. But he still loses something. His pleasure and gratitude are therefore not quite complete. All else being equal, even the noblest person will feel a little more affection for the friend who succeeds. Indeed, people are so unfair about this that even if they do receive the intended benefit, they may give less gratitude to a benefactor who did his best but contributed only a little to obtaining it. They divide their gratitude among everyone whose efforts gave them pleasure, and think each deserves a smaller share. We commonly hear someone say, “He certainly meant to help us, and we truly believe he did everything he could. But we do not owe him this benefit. Without the help of others, his efforts would never have brought it about.” They imagine that even an impartial spectator would think their debt to him smaller. The person whose attempt to help has failed likewise cannot count on the intended recipient's gratitude as he could have if he had succeeded. Nor does he feel the same merit in himself toward that person.
Even the merit of talents and abilities seems somehow incomplete when an accident prevents them from achieving anything. This is true even for people who are certain those talents could have succeeded. A general kept by jealous ministers from winning a major advantage over his country's enemies regrets the lost chance for the rest of his life. He is not only thinking of the public good. He also regrets losing the chance to do something that would have added to his reputation both in his own eyes and in everyone else's. It is no comfort to him or others to say that only the plan depended on him, or that carrying it out would have required no more ability than devising it. Nor does it console him that everyone recognizes his ability to carry it out and that success would have been certain if he had been allowed to proceed. He did not carry it out. He might deserve all the approval owed to a great and courageous plan, but he lacks the actual merit of having done a great deed. Taking charge of a public project away from someone who has nearly finished it strikes us as a particularly spiteful injustice. Having done so much, we think he should have been allowed the full merit of completing it. Pompey was accused of taking over Lucullus's victories and claiming the honors earned by another man's luck and courage. Even Lucullus's own friends apparently saw his glory as less complete because he was not allowed to finish a conquest that his skill and bravery had made easy for almost anyone to finish. An architect feels disappointed if his plans are never built or if they are altered enough to ruin the building's effect. Yet designing the plans is all that depends on him. Good judges can see his talent as completely in the plan as in the finished building. But even the best-informed judges do not enjoy a plan as much as a grand and beautiful building. They may see just as much taste and talent in each. Still, the effects differ greatly. The interest a plan gives us never comes close to the wonder and admiration a completed building can inspire. We may believe that many people have greater talents than Cæsar and Alexander and would do still greater things in their place. Yet we do not feel the amazement and admiration for them that people of every age and nation have felt for those two heroes. Our calm judgment may rate them more highly, but they lack the brilliance of great deeds that can dazzle and move us. Even people who recognize a person's superior virtue and talent do not respond to that superiority as they do to superior achievements.
Just as failure to do good lowers the merit of an attempt in the eyes of ungrateful people, failure to do evil lowers an attempt's demerit. Even a clearly proven plan to commit a crime is hardly ever punished as severely as the completed crime. Treason may be the only exception. Since it directly threatens the government's existence, the government is especially sensitive to it. In punishing treason, a ruler responds to an injury to himself. In punishing other crimes, he sympathizes with injuries done to others. In the first case, he gives way to his own resentment. In the second, he shares the resentment of his subjects through sympathy. Judging his own case, he is likely to punish more violently and cruelly than an impartial spectator would approve. His resentment in such cases is also aroused by smaller things. Unlike in other cases, he does not always wait for the crime to be completed or even attempted. In many countries, a plan to commit treason is punished like actual treason even if nothing has been done or attempted to carry it out. Even a treasonous conversation may receive the same punishment. With other crimes, a mere plan that was never attempted is seldom punished at all and never punished severely. One might say that planning a crime and committing it need not show the same degree of wickedness, and should not carry the same penalty. A person might decide to do something and even take steps toward it, then find himself quite unable to go through with it when the moment comes. But this explanation does not apply when a person has gone as far as making the final attempt. Yet hardly any country's laws impose the death penalty on someone who fires a pistol at an enemy and misses. Under the old law of Scotland, even if he wounds the victim, the attacker is not liable to the ultimate penalty unless the victim dies within a certain time. People's resentment at this crime is so strong, however, and their fear of a person capable of it so great, that the mere attempt ought to be a capital offense in every country. Attempts at lesser crimes are almost always punished lightly, sometimes not at all. A thief caught with his hand in a neighbor's pocket before taking anything suffers only disgrace. If he had managed to take a handkerchief, he would have been put to death. A burglar found setting a ladder against a neighbor's window, but not yet inside, is not subject to the death penalty. Attempted rape is not punished as rape. Attempting to seduce a married woman goes unpunished, although successfully seducing her is punished severely. Our resentment against someone who has only tried to do harm is rarely strong enough for us to impose the penalty we would consider right if he had succeeded. When the attempt fails, relief at our escape softens our view of his dreadful conduct. When it succeeds, grief at our loss makes it worse. Yet his real demerit is surely identical in both cases, since his intentions were equally criminal. Here, then, everyone has an inconsistency in feeling. As a result, I believe the laws of every nation, civilized and uncivilized alike, are less strict about attempted crimes. A civilized people's humanity leads them to waive or reduce penalties when the crime's results have not sharpened their natural anger. People called barbarians, on the other hand, are not likely to examine motives very closely when an action has had no actual result.