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Part I, Section I, Chapter III
Part I, Section I, Chapter III of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the affections of other men, by their concord or dissonance with our own.
When the original passions of the person principally concerned are in perfect concord with the sympathetic emotions of the spectator, they necessarily appear to this last just and proper, and suitable to their objects; and, on the contrary, when, upon bringing the case home to himself, he finds that they do not coincide with what he feels, they necessarily appear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the causes which excite them. To approve of the passions of another, therefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing as to observe that we entirely sympathize with them; and not to approve of them as such, is the same thing as to observe that we do not entirely sympathize with them. The man who resents the injuries that have been done to me, and observes that I resent them precisely as he does, necessarily approves of my resentment. The man whose sympathy keeps time to my grief, cannot but admit the reasonableness of my sorrow. He who admires the same poem, or the same picture, and admires them exactly as I do, must surely allow the justness of my admiration. He who laughs at the same joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well deny the propriety of my laughter. On the contrary, the person who, upon these different occasions, either feels no such emotion as that which I feel, or feels none that bears any proportion to mine, cannot avoid disapproving my sentiments on account of their dissonance with his own. If my animosity goes beyond what the indignation of my friend can correspond to; if my grief exceeds what his most tender compassion can go along with; if my admiration is either too high or too low to tally with his own; if I laugh loud and heartily when he only smiles, or, on the contrary, only smile when he laughs loud and heartily; in all these cases, as soon as he comes from considering the object, to observe how I am affected by it, according as there is more or less disproportion between his sentiments and mine, I must incur a greater or less degree of his disapprobation: and upon all occasions his own sentiments are the standards and measures by which he judges of mine.
To approve of another man’s opinions is to adopt those opinions, and to adopt them is to approve of them. If the same arguments which convince you convince me likewise, I necessarily approve of your conviction; and if they do not, I necessarily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly conceive that I should do the one without the other. To approve or disapprove, therefore, of the opinions of others is acknowledged, by every body, to mean no more than to observe their agreement or disagreement with our own. But this is equally the case with regard to our approbation or disapprobation of the sentiments or passions of others.
There are, indeed, some cases in which we seem to approve without any sympathy or correspondence of sentiments, and in which, consequently, the sentiment of approbation would seem to be different from the perception of this coincidence. A little attention, however, will convince us that even in these cases our approbation is ultimately founded upon a sympathy or correspondence of this kind. I shall give an instance in things of a very frivolous nature, because in them the judgments of mankind are less apt to be perverted by wrong systems. We may often approve of a jest, and think the laughter of the company quite just and proper, though we ourselves do not laugh, because, perhaps, we are in a grave humour, or happen to have our attention engaged with other objects. We have learned, however, from experience, what sort of pleasantry as upon most occasions capable of making us laugh, and we observe that this is one of that kind. We approve, therefore, of the laughter of the company, and feel that it is natural and suitable to its object; because, though in our present mood we cannot easily enter into it, we are sensible that upon most occasions we should very heartily join in it.
The same thing often happens with regard to all the other passions. A stranger passes by us in the street with all the marks of the deepest affliction; and we are immediately told that he has just received the news of the death of his father. It is impossible that, in this case, we should not approve of his grief. Yet it may often happen, without any defect of humanity on our part, that, so far from entering into the violence of his sorrow, we should scarce conceive the first movements of concern upon his account. Both he and his father, perhaps, are intirely unknown to us, or we happen to be employed about other things, and do not take time to picture out in our imagination the different circumstances of distress which must occur to him. We have learned, however, from experience, that such a misfortune naturally excites such a degree of sorrow, and we know that if we took time to consider his situation, fully and in all its parts, we should, without doubt, most sincerely sympathize with him. It is upon the consciousness of this conditional sympathy, that our approbation of his sorrow is founded, even in those cases in which that sympathy does not actually take place; and the general rules derived from our preceding experience of what our sentiments would commonly correspond with, correct upon this, as upon many other occasions, the impropriety of our present emotions.
The sentiment or affection of the heart from which any action proceeds, and upon which its whole virtue or vice must ultimately depend, may be considered under two different aspects, or in two different relations; first, in relation to the cause which excites it, or the motive which gives occasion to it; and secondly, in relation to the end which it proposes, or the effect which it tends to produce.
In the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or disproportion which the affection seems to bear to the cause or object which excites it, consists the propriety or impropriety, the decency or ungracefulness of the consequent action.
In the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the affection aims at, or tends to produce, consists the merit or demerit of the action, the qualities by which it is entitled to reward, or is deserving of punishment.
Philosophers have, of late years, considered chiefly the tendency of affections, and have given little attention to the relation which they stand in to the cause which excites them. In common life, however, when we judge of any person’s conduct, and of the sentiments which directed it, we constantly consider them under both these aspects. When we blame in another man the excesses of love, of grief, of resentment, we not only consider the ruinous effects which they tend to produce, but the little occasion which was given for them. The merit of his favourite, we say, is not so great, his misfortune is not so dreadful, his provocation is not so extraordinary, as to justify so violent a passion. We should have indulged, we say; perhaps, have approved of the violence of his emotion, had the cause been in any respect proportioned to it.
When we judge in this manner of any affection, as proportioned or disproportioned to the cause which excites it, it is scarce possible that we should make use of any other rule or canon but the correspondent affection in ourselves. If, upon bringing the case home to our own breast, we find that the sentiments which it gives occasion to, coincide and tally with our own, we necessarily approve of them as proportioned and suitable to their objects; if otherwise, we necessarily disapprove of them, as extravagant and out of proportion.
Every faculty in one man is the measure by which he judges of the like faculty in another. I judge of your sight by my sight, of your ear by my ear, of your reason by my reason, of your resentment by my resentment, of your love by my love. I neither have nor can have any other way of judging about them.
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 Manner in Which We Judge the Propriety or Impropriety of Other People’s Feelings, by Their Agreement or Disagreement with Our Own.
When the original passions of the person directly concerned agree perfectly with the sympathetic emotions of the spectator, they necessarily appear to the spectator just, proper, and suited to their objects. Conversely, when, on imagining himself in that person’s position, he finds that those passions do not coincide with what he feels, they necessarily appear unjust, improper, and unsuited to the causes that aroused them. To approve another’s passions as suited to their objects, then, is simply to observe that we sympathize with them entirely; to withhold such approval is to observe that we do not entirely sympathize with them. A man who resents injuries done to me, and sees that I resent them exactly as he does, necessarily approves of my resentment. The man whose sympathy keeps pace with my grief cannot help acknowledging that my sorrow is reasonable. Someone who admires the same poem or picture as I do, and admires it just as I do, must surely accept that my admiration is justified. Someone who laughs at the same joke with me can hardly deny that my laughter is proper. By contrast, anyone who in these various cases feels either none of my emotion or none in proportion to it cannot help disapproving of my feelings because they clash with his. If my hostility exceeds the indignation my friend can share, if my grief surpasses the reach of his tenderest compassion, if my admiration is too high or too low to match his, if I laugh heartily when he merely smiles or merely smile when he laughs heartily—in each of these cases, as soon as he turns from the object to consider my response to it, I incur his disapproval to the extent that our feelings differ. On every occasion he judges my feelings by the standard and measure of his own.
To approve someone else’s opinions is to adopt them, and to adopt them is to approve them. If the arguments that persuade you persuade me too, I necessarily approve your conviction; if they do not, I necessarily disapprove it. I cannot even conceive of doing one without the other. Everyone acknowledges, then, that to approve or disapprove others’ opinions means nothing more than to observe whether they agree or disagree with our own. The same holds for our approval or disapproval of other people’s feelings and passions.
There are indeed cases in which we seem to approve without sympathy or agreement of feeling; in these cases approval might seem different from perceiving that agreement. A little attention, however, shows that even here our approval is ultimately founded on sympathy or agreement of this kind. I shall take an example from trivial matters, since in these people’s judgments are less likely to be distorted by faulty theories. We may approve a joke and think the company’s laughter entirely just and proper though we do not laugh ourselves, perhaps because we are in a solemn mood or our attention is occupied elsewhere. Experience has taught us, however, what sort of humor can usually make us laugh, and we recognize this joke as belonging to that sort. We approve the company’s laughter and feel that it is natural and suited to its object because, although our present mood prevents us from easily joining in, we know that on most occasions we would join in wholeheartedly.
The same thing often happens with every other passion. A stranger passes us in the street bearing all the signs of profound distress, and we are immediately told that he has just learned of his father’s death. We cannot fail to approve his grief. Yet it may well be that, without any want of humanity on our part, we are far from sharing the force of his sorrow and scarcely feel the first stirrings of concern for him. Perhaps neither he nor his father is known to us, or perhaps we are occupied with other matters and do not take time to imagine the many painful circumstances he must face. Experience has taught us, nevertheless, that such a misfortune naturally arouses such a degree of sorrow, and we know that if we took the time to consider his situation fully, in every detail, we would certainly sympathize with him most sincerely. Our approval of his sorrow, even when we feel no actual sympathy, rests on our awareness of this sympathy we would feel under those conditions. The general rules we have drawn from earlier experience of what our feelings would usually accord with correct, here as on many other occasions, the impropriety of our present emotions.
The feeling or affection of the heart from which any action proceeds, and on which its entire virtue or vice must ultimately depend, may be considered from two different perspectives, in two different relations: first, in relation to the cause that awakens it, or the motive that occasions it; and second, in relation to the end it aims at, or the effect it tends to produce.
The propriety or impropriety, the grace or awkwardness, of the resulting action lies in how well or poorly the affection fits the cause or object that awakens it, and in whether it appears proportionate or disproportionate to that cause.
The merit or demerit of the action—the qualities that entitle it to reward or make it deserving of punishment—lies in the beneficial or harmful nature of the effects the affection aims at or tends to produce.
In recent years philosophers have chiefly considered where affections tend to lead, paying little attention to how they relate to the cause that awakens them. In ordinary life, however, whenever we judge a person’s conduct and the feelings guiding it, we constantly consider both aspects. When we blame another person for excessive love, grief, or resentment, we consider not only the ruinous consequences those passions tend to bring about but also how little occasion there was for them. The person he loves, we say, does not have such great merit; his misfortune is not so dreadful, nor the provocation so extraordinary, as to justify such a violent passion. Had the cause been in any way proportionate to it, we say, we might have allowed, perhaps even approved, the violence of his emotion.
When we judge in this way whether a feeling is proportionate or disproportionate to its cause, we can scarcely use any standard or rule other than the corresponding feeling in ourselves. If, when we bring the case home to our own hearts, we find that the feelings it occasions agree and coincide with our own, we necessarily approve of them as proportionate and suited to their objects; otherwise we necessarily disapprove of them as extravagant and out of proportion.
Each faculty in one person is the measure by which that person judges the same faculty in another. I judge your sight by my sight, your hearing by my hearing, your reason by my reason, your resentment by my resentment, and your love by my love. I have no other way of judging them, nor can I have one.
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 We Judge Whether Other People's Feelings Are Proper or Improper by Comparing Them with Our Own.
When the feelings of the person directly affected agree perfectly with the observer's sympathetic feelings, the observer must see them as proper and fitting for their causes. If, on imagining themselves in that person's place, the observer finds that those feelings do not match their own, they must see them as improper and out of place. So approving another person's feelings as appropriate means finding that we share them completely. Disapproving means finding that we do not fully share them. If a man is angry about the injuries done to me and sees that I am just as angry, he must approve of my anger. If he feels grief in step with mine, he must see my sorrow as reasonable. If he admires the same poem or picture exactly as I do, he must think my admiration is justified. If he laughs at the same joke along with me, he can hardly say my laughter is improper. But suppose someone feels nothing like what I feel in these situations, or feels it much less or much more strongly. That person cannot avoid disapproving of my feelings because they differ from their own. My hostility may exceed the anger my friend can feel. My grief may be more than even his tender compassion can share. My admiration may be too strong or too weak to match his. I may laugh loudly and heartily while he only smiles, or I may only smile when he laughs loudly and heartily. In each case, once he turns from the thing itself to the way it affects me, his disapproval will be greater or smaller according to the size of the difference between our feelings. On every occasion, he uses his own feelings as the standard for judging mine.
Approving of another person's opinions means accepting them; accepting them means approving of them. If the arguments that convince you also convince me, I must approve of your belief. If they do not convince me, I must disapprove. I cannot imagine doing one without the other. Everyone agrees that approving or disapproving of someone else's opinions simply means finding that they agree or disagree with our own. The same is true when we approve or disapprove of another person's feelings or passions.
There are cases in which we seem to approve without sharing another's feelings. In these cases, approval may look different from recognizing that our feelings agree. But a closer look shows that even here our approval ultimately rests on such agreement or sympathy. I will use a trivial example, since mistaken theories are less likely to distort our judgments about trivial things. We may approve of a joke and think the group's laughter is entirely appropriate, although we do not laugh ourselves. Perhaps we are in a serious mood or our attention is elsewhere. But experience has taught us what sort of joke usually makes us laugh, and we recognize this one as that sort. We therefore approve of the group's laughter as a natural response to the joke. Though we cannot readily join in given our present mood, we know that on most occasions we would laugh heartily with them.
This often happens with other feelings too. A stranger passes us in the street, looking deeply distressed. Someone tells us that he has just learned his father died. We cannot help approving of his grief. Yet we may not feel anything close to the force of his sorrow, or even much initial concern for him. This need not show any lack of humanity in us. Perhaps we know neither him nor his father, or we are busy and do not take time to imagine all the painful details of his situation. But experience has taught us that such a loss naturally brings such sorrow. We know that, if we took time to consider his situation fully, we would certainly sympathize with him sincerely. Our approval of his sorrow rests on our awareness that we would sympathize under those conditions, even when we do not actually do so. General rules drawn from our past experience of what we would usually feel correct our present feelings when they are out of place, in this case as in many others.
The feeling in a person's heart that leads to an action, and on which the action's goodness or badness ultimately depends, can be considered in two ways. We can look, first, at the cause that brings it about or the motive behind it. Second, we can look at the goal it seeks or the effect it tends to produce.
The propriety or impropriety of an action, how decent or unattractive it is, depends on whether the feeling behind it seems suited and proportionate to the cause or object that aroused it.
The action's merit or demerit—whether it deserves reward or punishment—depends on whether the effects the feeling aims at or tends to produce are helpful or harmful.
In recent years, philosophers have mainly considered the effects feelings tend to produce. They have paid little attention to how feelings relate to their causes. In everyday life, though, we always consider both when we judge someone's conduct and the feelings behind it. If we blame a person for excessive love, grief, or resentment, we think not only about the damaging effects these feelings may have but also about how little cause there was for them. We say that the person they love is not so admirable, their misfortune not so terrible, or the offense against them not so extraordinary as to justify such intense feeling. We might have allowed, or perhaps even approved of, that intensity if its cause had been strong enough.
When we judge whether a feeling is proportionate to its cause, we can hardly use any standard other than the feeling that cause would arouse in us. If, when we imagine ourselves in the same position, we find that the person's feelings match our own, we must approve of them as fitting and proportionate to their cause. If they do not match, we must disapprove of them as excessive and out of proportion.
Each person uses their own abilities as the measure for judging the same abilities in someone else. I judge your eyesight by mine, your hearing by mine, your reason by mine, your resentment by mine, and your love by mine. I have no other way to judge them, nor could I have one.