Adam Smith · Complete work
Part I, Section I, Chapter IV
Part I, Section I, Chapter IV of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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The same subject continued.
We may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sentiments of another person by their correspondence or disagreement with our own, upon two different occasions; either, first, when the objects which excite them are considered without any peculiar relation, either to themselves or to the person whose sentiments we judge of; or, secondly, when they are considered as peculiarly affecting one or other of us.
1 With regard to those objects which are considered without any peculiar relation either to ourselves or to the person whose sentiments we judge of; wherever his sentiments intirely correspond with our own, we ascribe to him the qualities of taste and good judgment. The beauty of a plain, the greatness of a mountain, the ornaments of a building, the expression of a picture, the composition of a discourse, the conduct of a third person, the proportions of different quantities and numbers, the various appearances which the great machine of the universe is perpetually exhibiting, with the secret wheels and springs which produce them; all the general subjects of science and taste, are what we and our companions regard, as having no peculiar relation to either of us. We both look at them from the same point of view, and we have no occasion for sympathy, or for that imaginary change of situations from which it arises, in order to produce, with regard to these, the most perfect harmony of sentiments and affections. If, notwithstanding, we are often differently affected, it arises either from the different degrees of attention, which our different habits of life allow us to give easily to the several parts of those complex objects, or from the different degrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the mind to which they are addressed.
When the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in things of this kind, which are obvious and easy, and in which, perhaps, we never found a single person who differed from us, though we, no doubt, must approve of them, yet he seems to deserve no praise or admiration on account of them. But when they not only coincide with our own, but lead and direct our own; when in forming them he appears to have attended to many things which we had overlooked, and to have adjusted them to all the various circumstances of their objects; we not only approve of them, but wonder and are surprised at their uncommon and unexpected acuteness and comprehensiveness, and he appears to deserve a very high degree of admiration and applause. For approbation heightened by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment which is properly palled admiration, and of which applause is the natural expression. The decision of the man who judges that exquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest deformity, or that twice two are equal to four, must certainly be approved of by all the world, but will not, surely, be much admired. It is the acute and delicate discernment of the man of taste, who distinguishes the minute, and scarce perceptible, differences of beauty and deformity; it is the comprehensive accuracy of the experienced mathematician, who unravels, with ease, the most intricate and perplexed proportions; it is the great leader in science and taste, the man who directs and conducts our own sentiments, the extent and superior justness of whole talents astonish us with wonder and surprise, who excites our admiration and seems to deserve our applause: and upon this foundation is grounded the greater part of the praise which is bestowed upon what are called the intellectual virtues.
The utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what first recommends them to us; and, no doubt, the consideration of this, when we come to attend to it, gives them a new value. Originally, however, we approve of another man’s judgment, not as something useful, but as right, as accurate, as agreeable to truth and reality: and it is evident we attribute those qualities to it for no other reason but because we find that it agrees with our own. Taste, in the same manner, is originally approved of, not as useful, but as just, as delicate, and as precisely suited to its object. The idea of the utility of all qualities of this kind, is plainly an after-thought, and not what first recommended them to our approbation.
2 With regard to those objects, which affect in a particular manner either ourselves or the person whose sentiments we judge of, it is at once more difficult to preserve this harmony and correspondence, and at the same time, vastly more important. My companion does not naturally look upon the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury that has been done me, from the same point of view in which I consider them. They affect me much more nearly. We do not view them from the same station, as we do a picture, or a poem, or a system of philosophy, and are, therefore, apt to be very differently affected by them. But I can much more easily overlook the want of this correspondence of sentiments with regard to such indifferent objects as concern neither me nor my companion, than with regard to what interests me so much as the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury that has been done me. Though you despise that picture, or that poem, or even that system of philosophy, which I admire, there is little danger of our quarrelling upon that account. Neither of us can reasonably be much interested about them. They ought all of them to be matters of great indifference to us both; so that, though our opinions may be opposite, our affections may still be very nearly the same. But it is quite otherwise with regard to those objects by which either you or I are particularly affected. Though your judgment in matters of speculation, though your sentiments in matters of taste, are quite opposite to mine, I can easily overlook this opposition; and if I have any degree of temper, I may still find some entertainment in your conversation, even upon those very subjects. But if you have either no fellow-feeling for the misfortunes I have met with, or none that bears any proportion to the grief which distracts me, or if you have either no indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or none that bears any proportion to the resentment which transports me, we can no longer converse upon these subjects. We become intolerable to one another. I can neither support your company, nor you mine. You are confounded at my violence and passion, and I am enraged at your cold insensibility and want of feeling.
In all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of sentiments between the spectator and the person principally concerned, the spectator must, first of all, endeavour, as much as he can, to put himself in the situation of the other, and to bring home to himself every little circumstance of distress which can possibly occur to the sufferer. He must adopt the whole case of his companion with all its minutest incidents; and strive to render as perfect as possible, that imaginary change of situation upon which his sympathy is founded.
After all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will still be very apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt by the sufferer. Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree of passion which naturally animates the person principally concerned. That imaginary change of situation, upon which their sympathy is founded, is but momentary. The thought of their own safety, the thought that they themselves are not really the sufferers, continually intrudes itself upon them; and though it does not hinder them from conceiving a passion somewhat analogous to what is felt by the sufferer, hinders them from conceiving any thing that approaches to the same degree of violence. The person principally concerned is sensible of this, and, at the same time passionately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs for that relief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the affections of the spectators with his own. To see the emotions of their hearts, in every respect, beat time to his own, in the violent and disagreeable passions, constitutes his sole consolation. But he can only hope to obtain this by lowering his passion to that pitch, in which the spectators are capable of going along with him. He must flatten, if I may be allowed to say so, the sharpness of its natural tone, in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the emotions of those who are about him. What they feel, will, indeed, always be, in some respects, different from what he feels, and compassion can never be exactly the same with original sorrow; because the secret consciousness that the change of situations, from which the sympathetic sentiment arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers it in degree, but in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite different modification. These two sentiments, however, may, it is evident, have such a correspondence with one another, as is sufficient for the harmony of society. Though they will never be unisons, they may be concords, and this is all that is wanted or required.
In order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the spectators to assume the circumstances of the person principally concerned, so she teaches this last in some measure to assume those of the spectators. As they are continually placing themselves in this situation, and thence conceiving emotions similar to what he feels; so he is as constantly placing himself in theirs, and thence conceiving some degree of that coolness about his own fortune, with which he is sensible that they will view it. As they are constantly considering what they themselves would feel, if they actually were the sufferers, so he is as constantly led to imagine in what manner he would be affected if he was only one of the spectators of his own situation. As their sympathy makes them look at it, in some measure, with his eyes, so his sympathy makes him look at it, in some measure, with theirs, especially when in their presence and acting under their observation: and as the reflected passion, which he thus conceives, is much weaker than the original one, it necessarily abates the violence of what he felt before he came into their presence, before he began to recollect in what manner they would be affected by it, and to view his situation in this candid and impartial light.
The mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the company of a friend will restore it to some degree of tranquillity and sedateness. The breast is, in some measure, calmed and composed the moment we come into his presence. We are immediately put in mind of the light in which he will view our situation, and we begin to view it ourselves in the same light; for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We expect less sympathy from a common acquaintance than from a friend: we cannot open to the former all those little circumstances which we can unfold to the latter: we assume, therefore, more tranquillity before him, and endeavour to fix our thoughts upon those general outlines of our situation which he is willing to consider. We expect still less sympathy from an assembly of strangers, and we assume, therefore, still more tranquillity before them, and always endeavour to bring down our passion to that pitch, which the particular company we are in may be expected to go along with. Nor is this only an assumed appearance: for if we are at all masters of ourselves, the presence of a mere acquaintance will really compose us, still more than that of a friend; and that of an assembly of strangers still more than that of an acquaintance.
Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for restoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any time, it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal and happy temper, which is so necessary to self-satisfaction and enjoyment. Men of retirement and speculation, who are apt to sit brooding at home over either grief or resentment, though they may often have more humanity, more generosity, and a nicer sense of honour, yet seldom possess that equality of temper which is so common among men of the world.
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.
The Same Subject Continued.
We may judge whether another person’s feelings are proper or improper by their agreement or disagreement with our own on two different occasions: first, when the objects that awaken them are considered without any special relation either to us or to the person whose feelings we judge; and second, when they are considered as particularly affecting one of us.
1 With objects considered without any special relation either to ourselves or to the person whose feelings we judge, whenever his feelings agree entirely with ours we credit him with taste and sound judgment. The beauty of a plain, the grandeur of a mountain, the decoration of a building, the expression of a picture, the composition of a speech, the conduct of a third person, the proportions among different quantities and numbers, the shifting appearances constantly displayed by the great machine of the universe and the hidden wheels and springs that produce them—all these general subjects of science and taste are regarded by us and our companions as having no particular relation to either of us. We both view them from the same vantage point; there is no need for sympathy, or for the imagined exchange of places that gives rise to it, to bring our feelings and affections about them into perfect harmony. If we nevertheless respond to them differently, the cause lies either in the different degrees of attention our different habits of life allow us readily to give to the several parts of these complex objects, or in differences in the natural sharpness of the mental faculty to which they appeal.
When our companion’s feelings agree with ours about matters of this kind that are plain and easy, on which perhaps we have never met anyone who differed from us, we certainly approve them, but he earns no praise or admiration for them. When, however, his feelings not only agree with ours but guide and direct them—when in forming them he seems to have noticed many things we overlooked and adapted his judgment to every circumstance of the objects—we not only approve but marvel at his unusual and unexpected discernment and breadth of understanding. He seems worthy of a great degree of admiration and applause. Approval heightened by wonder and surprise is what we properly call admiration, and applause is its natural expression. Everyone must surely approve the judgment that exquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest ugliness, or that twice two are equal to four; hardly anyone will much admire it. Rather, it is the keen and delicate perception of the person of taste, who distinguishes the minute, almost imperceptible differences between beauty and ugliness; the comprehensive precision of the experienced mathematician, who easily unravels the most intricate and perplexing proportions; the person who leads in science and taste, who directs and guides our own feelings, whose talents astonish us by their range and superior accuracy—this is the person who excites our admiration and seems to deserve our applause. On this foundation rests most of the praise bestowed on what are called the intellectual virtues.
One might think that the usefulness of these qualities is what first recommends them to us; certainly, reflecting on their usefulness gives them a new value. But originally we approve another person’s judgment not because it is useful but because it is right, accurate, and in accord with truth and reality. Plainly we attribute these qualities to it only because we find it agrees with our own judgment. Likewise, we initially approve taste not because it is useful but because it is sound, discriminating, and precisely suited to its object. The thought of the usefulness of all such qualities plainly comes afterward; it is not what first won our approval.
2 With objects that particularly affect either ourselves or the person whose feelings we judge, preserving this harmony and agreement is at once more difficult and vastly more important. My companion does not naturally view a misfortune that has befallen me, or an injury done to me, as I do. These things touch me much more closely. Unlike a picture, a poem, or a system of philosophy, we do not view them from the same position and are therefore likely to be affected very differently. Yet I can far more easily overlook the lack of agreement about matters that concern neither of us than about something so important to me as my misfortune or the injury I have suffered. Although you despise a picture, a poem, or even a system of philosophy that I admire, we are in little danger of quarreling over it. Neither of us can reasonably care very much about them; all should be matters of considerable indifference to us both. Thus our opinions may be opposed while our affections remain very nearly the same. Things that particularly affect you or me are quite different. Even if your conclusions on speculative matters and your feelings on matters of taste are the very opposite of mine, I can easily overlook the difference. If I have any self-command, I may still enjoy our conversation even on those subjects. But if you have no fellow-feeling for the misfortunes I have suffered, or none proportionate to the grief that overwhelms me; if you feel no indignation at the injuries I have endured, or none proportionate to the resentment that carries me away, we can no longer speak about them. We become unbearable to each other. I cannot stand your company, nor you mine. You are astonished by my vehemence and passion; I am enraged by your cold indifference and lack of feeling.
In all such cases, if some agreement of feeling is to arise between the spectator and the person directly concerned, the spectator must first try as far as he can to put himself in the other’s situation and to bring home to himself every small detail of distress that the sufferer might encounter. He must take on his companion’s whole case down to its smallest incidents, striving to make as complete as possible the imagined exchange of positions on which his sympathy depends.
Even after all this, the spectator’s emotions are still likely to fall short of the force of the sufferer’s. Though people are naturally sympathetic, they never feel about another person’s fate the degree of passion that naturally animates the person directly concerned. The imagined exchange of positions on which their sympathy rests lasts only a moment. Their awareness of their own safety, the thought that they are not actually suffering themselves, continually intrudes. It does not prevent them from conceiving a passion somewhat like the sufferer’s, but does prevent them from feeling anything close to its intensity. The person directly concerned knows this and at the same time passionately desires a fuller sympathy. He longs for a relief that only complete agreement between the spectators’ feelings and his own can bring. In violent and painful passions, his sole consolation is to see the emotions of their hearts keep perfect time with his. But he can hope for this only by lowering his passion to a level the spectators can share. He must soften, if I may put it this way, the sharpness of its natural note until it is in harmony with the emotions of those around him. Their feeling will indeed always differ in some ways from his; compassion can never be exactly the same as original sorrow. For the hidden awareness that the exchange of places giving rise to sympathy is only imagined not only reduces its intensity but also changes its character to some extent, giving it an altogether different form. Still, these two feelings can plainly agree enough to sustain the harmony of society. They will never be the same note, but they may form a harmony, and that is all that is needed or required.
To produce this harmony, nature teaches the spectators to take on the circumstances of the person directly concerned, and also teaches him to take on theirs to some extent. As they repeatedly put themselves in his position and thereby conceive emotions similar to his, so he repeatedly puts himself in theirs and thereby conceives some of the calm with which he knows they will view his fortunes. As they repeatedly consider what they would feel if they themselves were actually suffering, so he is repeatedly led to imagine how he would feel if he were merely a spectator of his own situation. As their sympathy makes them look at it to some extent through his eyes, his sympathy makes him look at it to some extent through theirs, especially when he is in their presence and under their observation. And because the passion he conceives through this reflection is far weaker than his original passion, it necessarily diminishes the violence of what he felt before coming into their presence, before recalling how they would respond and looking at his situation in this fair and impartial light.
The mind, then, is rarely so disturbed that the company of a friend cannot restore some calm and composure. The heart is soothed and settled to some extent the moment we come into his presence. We immediately remember how he will view our situation and begin to view it in the same light ourselves, for sympathy has an instant effect. We expect less sympathy from an ordinary acquaintance than from a friend; we cannot disclose to the former all the little circumstances we can tell the latter. We therefore compose ourselves more in his presence and try to fix our thoughts on the broad outlines of our situation that he is willing to consider. We expect still less sympathy from a gathering of strangers and therefore become more composed before them, always trying to bring our passion down to the level we can expect our particular company to share. Nor is this merely an outward show. If we possess any self-command, the presence of a mere acquaintance truly calms us more than that of a friend, and the presence of a gathering of strangers calms us still more than that of an acquaintance.
Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for restoring peace of mind when we have unfortunately lost it, as well as the best safeguards of the steady and cheerful disposition so necessary to contentment and enjoyment. Those who live in retirement and contemplation and tend to brood at home over grief or resentment, though they may often have more humanity, more generosity, and a finer sense of honor, seldom possess the evenness of temper so common among people accustomed to society.
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).
The Same Subject Continued.
We can judge whether someone else's feelings are proper by comparing them with our own in two kinds of situation. First, we may be considering things that have no special connection to either us or the person whose feelings we judge. Second, we may be considering things that affect one of us in particular.
1 When something has no special connection to either of us, we credit a person with taste and good judgment if their feelings about it agree completely with ours. Examples include the beauty of a plain, the size of a mountain, the decorations of a building, what a painting expresses, how a speech is put together, another person's conduct, the proportions of quantities and numbers, and the changing appearance of the great machine of the universe and the hidden wheels and springs that make it work. These are all general subjects of knowledge and taste. Neither we nor our companions see them as having a special connection to either of us. We both look at them from the same position. We do not need sympathy or an imaginary exchange of places to agree perfectly about them. If we nevertheless feel differently, it is because our ways of life have trained us to pay attention to different parts of these complicated things, or because our minds naturally differ in how sharply they perceive them.
Suppose a companion agrees with us about something obvious and easy, something on which perhaps nobody we have met has ever disagreed with us. We approve of their judgment, of course, but we do not think they deserve praise or admiration for it. It is different when their judgments not only agree with ours but guide them. We see that the person has noticed many details we missed and has taken account of all the different features of the subject. We approve, but also marvel at this person's unexpectedly sharp and wide-ranging understanding. They seem to deserve great admiration and praise. Approval made stronger by wonder and surprise is what we properly call admiration, and praise is its natural expression. Everyone must approve of someone who judges exquisite beauty better than extreme ugliness, or judges twice two to equal four. But nobody will admire such a judgment much. We admire the person with refined taste who notices tiny differences between beauty and ugliness that most of us barely perceive. We admire the experienced mathematician whose broad and exact understanding easily works out the most complicated and confusing proportions. We admire a leader in knowledge and taste who guides our own judgments and astonishes us with the range and greater accuracy of their abilities. Such a person seems to deserve our praise. This is the basis for most of the praise given to what we call intellectual virtues.
One might think we value these qualities first because they are useful. Their usefulness certainly gives us an additional reason to value them once we notice it. But at first we approve of someone's judgment because it is right, accurate, and in keeping with the truth, not because it is useful. Clearly, we call it right and accurate because we find it agrees with our own judgment. In the same way, we first approve of someone's taste because it is sound, sensitive, and exactly suited to its subject, not because it is useful. We think about the usefulness of these qualities only afterward. It is not what first wins our approval.
2 When something affects either us or the person whose feelings we judge in a special way, agreeing with each other is much harder and much more important. My companion does not naturally see a misfortune that happens to me or an injury done to me as I see it. These events affect me much more closely. Unlike a painting, a poem, or a philosophical system, we cannot view them from the same position. So we are likely to feel very differently about them. But it is much easier for me to overlook a difference in feeling about things that affect neither of us than about my own misfortune or the injury I have suffered. If you dislike a painting, poem, or even philosophical system that I admire, we are unlikely to quarrel about it. Neither of us has much reason to care deeply about it. We should both be fairly indifferent to these things. Our opinions may be opposed while our feelings remain much the same. Matters that particularly affect you or me are quite different. Your views on theoretical questions and your taste may be the opposite of mine. I can easily overlook that. If I have any self-control, I can still enjoy talking with you, even about those subjects. But if you have no sympathy for the misfortunes I have met with, or too little sympathy to match the grief that overwhelms me, we cannot keep talking about them. Nor can we keep talking if you feel no anger over injuries done to me, or too little to match my own resentment. We become unbearable to each other. I cannot stand your company, and you cannot stand mine. You are shocked by the strength of my feelings, and I am furious at what looks to me like your cold lack of feeling.
In such cases, to bring the feelings of an observer and the person directly affected into some agreement, the observer must first try as hard as possible to put themselves in the other's place. They must imagine every small detail of the distress that person might face. They must take in the whole situation, down to its smallest incidents, and try to make the imagined exchange of places on which sympathy depends as complete as possible.
Even after doing this, the observer's feelings will usually be much less intense than those of the person who suffers. People are sympathetic by nature, but they never feel as strongly about what happens to someone else as the affected person does. The imagined exchange of places that gives rise to sympathy lasts only a moment. The thought of their own safety keeps returning: they know they are not actually suffering. They can still imagine something similar to what the other person feels, but not nearly as intense. The person directly affected senses this and strongly wishes for more complete sympathy. They long for the relief that only full agreement between their feelings and those of the observers can bring. In the midst of intense and painful emotions, their only comfort is to see the observers' hearts respond in every respect like their own. But they can hope for this only if they lower their feelings to a level the observers can share. They must soften the harshness of those feelings, so to speak, to bring them into harmony with the feelings of the people around them. What observers feel will always be different in some ways. Compassion can never be exactly the same as the grief originally felt. The observers know, deep down, that their exchange of places is imaginary. This knowledge not only makes their feeling weaker but changes its character to some extent. Still, the two feelings can agree well enough for people to live together harmoniously. They will never be identical, but they can be in harmony. That is all we need.
To create this harmony, nature teaches observers to imagine the circumstances of the person directly affected. It also teaches that person to imagine the observers' position to some degree. The observers keep putting themselves in the sufferer's position, and thus feel something similar. In turn, the sufferer keeps imagining their position and gains some of the calmness with which they view the sufferer's situation. They consider what they would feel if they really suffered. The sufferer considers what they would feel if they were merely an observer of their own situation. Sympathy makes the observers look at the situation partly through the sufferer's eyes. It likewise makes the sufferer look at it partly through theirs, especially in their presence and under their observation. The feeling the sufferer develops by looking at the situation this way is much weaker than their original feeling. It therefore reduces the force of what they felt before coming into the observers' presence, thinking about how they would react, and viewing their own situation from this fair and impartial standpoint.
Our minds are rarely so upset that a friend's company cannot restore some calm. As soon as we are with a friend, we feel somewhat calmer and more settled. We immediately think of how the friend will view our situation and begin to see it that way ourselves. Sympathy has an immediate effect. We expect less sympathy from an acquaintance than from a friend. We cannot tell an acquaintance all the small details we could share with a friend. So we are calmer with the acquaintance and try to focus on the broad features of our situation that they are willing to consider. We expect still less sympathy from a gathering of strangers, so we become calmer still. We always try to bring our feelings down to a level the people we are with can share. Nor are we merely pretending to be calm. If we have any control over ourselves, being with an acquaintance really will settle us more than being with a friend. Being with a group of strangers will settle us more still.
Society and conversation are therefore the most powerful ways to restore peace of mind after we have lost it. They are also the best way to keep an even, cheerful temperament, which is essential to being satisfied and enjoying life. People who live withdrawn, reflective lives may sit at home dwelling on grief or resentment. They may often be kinder, more generous, and more sensitive to honor than people active in society. But they seldom have the steady temper that people accustomed to the world commonly possess.