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Part I, Section I, Chapter V
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Of the amiable and respectable virtues.
Upon these two different efforts, upon that of the spectator to enter into the sentiments of the person principally concerned, and upon that of the person principally concerned, to bring down his emotions to what the spectator can go along with, are founded two different sets of virtues. The soft, the gentle, the amiable virtues, the virtues of candid condescension and indulgent humanity, are founded upon the one: the great, the awful and respectable, the virtues of self-denial, of self-government, of that command of the passions which subjects all the movements of our nature to what our own dignity and honour, and the propriety of our own conduct require, derive their origin from the other.
How amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart seems to re-echo all the sentiments of those with whom he converses, who grieves for their calamities, who resents their injuries, and rejoices at their good fortune! When we bring home to ourselves the situation of his companions, we enter into their gratitude, and feel what consolation they must derive from the tender sympathy of so affectionate a friend. And for a contrary reason, how disagreeable does he appear to be, whose hard and obdurate heart feels for himself only, but is altogether insensible of the happiness or misery of others! We enter, in this case too, into the pain which his presence must give to every mortal with whom he converses, to those especially with whom we are most apt to sympathize, the unfortunate and the injured.
On the other hand, what noble propriety and grace do we feel in the conduct of those who, in their own case, exert that recollection and self-command which constitute the dignity of every passion, and which bring it down to what others can enter into? We are disgusted with that clamorous grief, which, without any delicacy, calls upon our compassion with sighs and tears and importunate lamentations. But we reverence that reserved, that silent and majestic sorrow, which discovers itself only in the swelling of the eyes, in the quivering of the lips and cheeks, and in the distant, but affecting, coldness of the whole behaviour. It imposes the like silence upon us. We regard it with respectful attention, and watch with anxious concern over our whole behaviour, lest by any impropriety we should disturb that concerted tranquillity, which it requires so great an effort to support.
The insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner when we indulge its fury without check or restraint, is, of all subjects, the most detestable. But we admire that noble and generous resentment which governs its pursuit of the greatest injuries, not by the rage which they are apt to excite in the breast of the sufferer, but by the indignation which they naturally call forth in that of the impartial spectator; which allows no word, no gesture, to escape it beyond what this more equitable sentiment would dictate; which never, even in thought, attempts any greater vengeance, nor desires to inflict any greater punishment, than what every indifferent person would rejoice to see executed.
And hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for ourselves, that to restrain our selfish, and to indulge our benevolent affections, constitutes the perfection of human nature; and can alone produce among mankind that harmony of sentiments and passions in which consist their whole grace and propriety. As to love our neighbour as we love ourselves is the great law of christianity, so it is the great precept of nature to love ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour is capable of loving us.
As taste and good judgment, when they are considered as qualities which deserve praise and admiration, are supposed to imply a delicacy of sentiment and an acuteness of understanding not commonly to be met with; so the virtues of sensibility and self-command are not apprehended to consist in the ordinary, but in the uncommon degrees of those qualities. The amiable virtue of humanity requires, surely, a sensibility, much beyond what is possessed by the rude vulgar of mankind. The great and exalted virtue of magnanimity undoubtedly demands much more than that degree of self-command, which the weakest of mortals are capable of exerting. As in the common degree of the intellectual qualities, there are no abilities; so in the common degree of the moral, there is no virtue. Virtue is excellence, something uncommonly great and beautiful, which rises far above what is vulgar and ordinary. The amiable virtues consist in that degree of sensibility which surprises by its exquisite and unexpected delicacy and tenderness. The awful and respectable, in that degree of self-command which astonishes by its amazing superiority over the most ungovernable passions of human nature.
There is, in this respect, a considerable difference between virtue and mere propriety; between those qualities and actions which deserve to be admired and celebrated, and those which simply deserve to be approved of. Upon many occasions, to act with the most perfect propriety, requires no more than that common and ordinary degree of sensibility or self-command which the most worthless of mankind are possessed of, and sometimes even that degree is not necessary. Thus, to give a very low instance, to eat when we are hungry, is certainly, upon ordinary occasions, perfectly right and proper, and cannot miss being approved of as such by every body. Nothing, however, could be more absurd than to say it is virtuous.
On the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable degree of virtue in those actions, which fall short of the most perfect propriety; because they may still approach nearer to perfection than could well be expected upon occasions in which it was so extremely difficult to attain it: and this is very often the case upon those occasions which require the greatest exertions of self-command. There are some situations which bear so hard upon human nature, that the greatest degree of self-government, which can belong to so imperfect a creature as man, is not able to stifle, altogether, the voice of human weakness, or reduce the violence of the passions to that pitch of moderation, in which the impartial spectator can entirely enter into them. Though in those cases, therefore, the behaviour of the sufferer fall short of the most perfect propriety, it may still deserve some applause, and even in a certain sense, may be denominated virtuous. It may still manifest an effort or generosity and magnanimity of which the greater part of men are incapable; and though it fails of absolute perfection, it may be a much nearer approximation towards perfection, than what, upon such trying occasions, is commonly either to be found or to be expected.
In cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree of blame or applause which seems due to any action, we very frequently make use of two different standards. The first is the idea of complete propriety and perfection, which, in those difficult situations, no human conduct ever did, or even can come up to; and in comparison with which the actions of all men must for ever appear blameable and imperfect. The second is the idea of that degree of proximity or distance from this complete perfection, which the actions of the greater part of men commonly arrive at. Whatever goes beyond this degree, how far soever it may be removed from absolute perfection, seems to deserve applause; and whatever falls short of it, to deserve blame.
It is in the same manner that we judge of the productions of all arts which address themselves to the imagination. When a critic examines the work of any of the great masters for poetry or painting, he may sometimes examine it by an idea of perfection, in his own mind, which neither that nor any other human work will ever come up to; and as long as he compares it with this standard, he can see nothing in it but faults and imperfections. But when he come to consider the rank which it ought to hold among other works of the same kind, he necessarily compares it with a very different standard, the common degree of excellence which is usually attained in this particular art; and when he judges of it by this new measure, it may often appear to deserve the highest applause, upon account of its approaching much nearer to perfection than the greater part of those works which can be brought into competition with it.
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 Amiable and Respectable Virtues.
Two different sets of virtues arise from these two efforts: the spectator's effort to enter into the feelings of the person chiefly concerned, and that person's effort to temper his emotions to a pitch the spectator can share. The first gives rise to the gentle, amiable virtues of openhearted accommodation and compassionate humanity. From the second spring the great, imposing, respectable virtues of self-denial and self-command, that mastery of the passions which subjects every movement of our nature to the demands of our own dignity and honor, and of propriety in our conduct.
How lovable a person appears when his sympathetic heart seems to echo every feeling of those around him—when he mourns their misfortunes, resents the wrongs done to them, and rejoices in their good fortune! Imagining ourselves in his companions' place, we share their gratitude and feel how much comfort the tender sympathy of so affectionate a friend must bring them. By contrast, how disagreeable is the person whose hard, unyielding heart feels only for himself and remains wholly insensible to the happiness or misery of others! Here too we enter into the pain his presence must cause everyone who encounters him, especially those with whom we are readiest to sympathize: the unfortunate and the injured.
On the other hand, what noble propriety and grace we find in those who, when the matter concerns themselves, exercise the composure and self-command that give every passion its dignity and bring it within the reach of others' sympathy! We recoil from clamorous grief that demands our compassion, without restraint, through sighs, tears, and unrelenting lamentation. But we revere the restrained, silent, majestic sorrow disclosed only in swollen eyes, trembling lips and cheeks, and a remote but moving coolness of manner. It imposes the same silence on us. We look on with respectful attention and anxiously guard our own behavior against any impropriety that might disturb the carefully sustained calm which costs its bearer so much effort.
Likewise, anger indulged without check or restraint, in all its insolence and brutality, is among the most hateful sights. Yet we admire the noble and generous resentment that, even in pursuing redress for the gravest injuries, is guided not by the rage they may arouse in the sufferer but by the indignation they naturally stir in the impartial spectator. It permits no word or gesture beyond what this more equitable feeling would allow; it never seeks, even in thought, a greater vengeance or a severer punishment than any disinterested person would be glad to see carried out.
Thus the perfection of human nature lies in feeling deeply for others and little for ourselves, in curbing our selfish affections and giving scope to our benevolent ones. This alone can produce among human beings that harmony of feelings and passions in which all their grace and propriety consist. As loving our neighbor as ourselves is the great law of Christianity, so the great precept of nature is to love ourselves only as we love our neighbor—or, which amounts to the same thing, as our neighbor is able to love us.
When taste and good judgment are held worthy of praise and admiration, they are understood to imply a delicacy of feeling and keenness of understanding not commonly found. Likewise, the virtues of sensibility and self-command are understood to consist not in ordinary but in uncommon degrees of those qualities. The amiable virtue of humanity surely requires a sensibility far beyond that possessed by the coarse and unrefined among us. The great and exalted virtue of magnanimity undoubtedly calls for far more self-command than even the weakest person can muster. An ordinary degree of intellectual qualities shows no special ability; an ordinary degree of moral qualities shows no virtue. Virtue is excellence, something unusually great and beautiful, raised far above the commonplace. The amiable virtues consist in a sensibility that surprises us with its exquisite, unexpected tenderness and delicacy; the imposing and respectable virtues, in a self-command that astonishes us by mastering even the most unruly passions of human nature.
In this respect there is a considerable difference between virtue and mere propriety: between qualities and actions that deserve admiration and celebration, and those that simply deserve approval. Often the most perfectly proper action requires no more than the ordinary sensibility or self-command possessed even by the least worthy people; sometimes it does not require even that. To take a humble example, eating when we are hungry is certainly right and proper under ordinary circumstances, and everyone would approve of it. Yet nothing could be more absurd than to call it virtuous.
Conversely, actions that fall short of perfect propriety may still show considerable virtue, because they may come closer to perfection than one could reasonably expect in circumstances where perfection is exceedingly hard to attain. This is often true where the greatest exertions of self-command are required. Some circumstances press so hard on human nature that even the greatest self-mastery possible for so imperfect a creature as a human being cannot wholly silence the voice of human weakness or moderate the passions enough for the impartial spectator to enter fully into them. Though the sufferer's conduct in such cases falls short of perfect propriety, it may still merit praise and may even, in a certain sense, be called virtuous. It may reveal a generous effort and a magnanimity beyond the reach of most people; though it fails of absolute perfection, it may come far closer to it than can ordinarily be found or expected in such trying circumstances.
When deciding how much blame or praise an action of this kind deserves, we very often employ two different standards. The first is our idea of complete propriety and perfection, which no human conduct in such difficult circumstances ever has reached or even could reach; judged against it, every person's actions must always appear imperfect and blameworthy. The second is our idea of how near to or far from this complete perfection most people's actions ordinarily come. Whatever surpasses this usual degree seems to deserve praise, however far it remains from absolute perfection; whatever falls below it seems to deserve blame.
We judge works of the imaginative arts in the same way. A critic examining the work of one of the great masters of poetry or painting may sometimes compare it with an ideal of perfection in his own mind, one that neither this nor any other human work will ever attain. So long as he uses that standard, he sees nothing but faults and imperfections. But when he considers the place the work should hold among others of its kind, he must compare it with a very different standard: the degree of excellence commonly attained in that particular art. Measured against this, the work may well deserve the highest praise, since it approaches perfection far more closely than most works that might be set beside it.
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).
On virtues we love and virtues we respect.
Two different efforts give rise to two sets of virtues. One is the effort a spectator makes to share the feelings of the person directly involved. The other is the effort that person makes to bring their feelings down to a level the spectator can share. The first gives rise to the gentle, lovable virtues of sympathetic understanding and kindness toward others. The second gives rise to the great and respected virtues of self-denial and self-control. It means governing our passions so that everything we do meets the demands of our dignity, honor, and proper conduct.
How likable is someone whose sympathetic heart seems to echo the feelings of everyone they meet! They grieve over others’ misfortunes, feel anger over their injuries, and rejoice in their good luck. When we imagine being one of their companions, we share their gratitude. We feel how much comfort such an affectionate friend’s tender sympathy must bring them. By contrast, how unpleasant is someone whose hard heart feels only for themselves and is entirely unmoved by other people’s happiness or suffering! Here too, we can imagine the pain their presence brings to everyone they meet, especially the people we most readily sympathize with: those who are unfortunate or have been wronged.
On the other hand, we find dignity and grace in people who, when something happens to them, gather themselves and exercise self-control. That control lends dignity to any passion and brings it to a level others can share. We dislike loud grief that demands our compassion with sighs, tears, and relentless complaints, without any restraint. But we respect quiet, reserved, dignified sorrow. It shows itself only in swollen eyes, trembling lips and cheeks, and a distant but moving coolness of manner. It makes us quiet too. We watch respectfully and take anxious care with our own behavior. We do not want some improper act to disturb a composure that takes such effort to maintain.
Likewise, anger let loose without restraint is arrogant and brutal, and nothing is more hateful. But we admire noble, generous resentment over even the gravest injuries when it follows not the sufferer’s fury but the indignation those injuries naturally stir in an impartial spectator. It allows no word or gesture beyond what that fairer feeling would allow. Even in thought, it seeks no greater revenge or punishment than an uninvolved person would gladly see carried out.
This is why the perfection of human nature means feeling much for others and little for ourselves, holding back selfish feelings and giving room to benevolent ones. Only this can create among people the harmony of feelings and passions that makes their conduct graceful and proper. Christianity’s great law tells us to love our neighbor as ourselves. Nature’s great rule tells us to love ourselves only as we love our neighbor—or, equivalently, as much as our neighbor is able to love us.
When we praise taste and good judgment, we mean sensitivity and sharp understanding beyond what we ordinarily find. Likewise, sensitivity and self-control count as virtues not at ordinary levels but at exceptional ones. The lovable virtue of humanity surely calls for far greater sensitivity than most coarse people have. The great virtue of magnanimity surely demands much more self-control than even the weakest person can manage. Ordinary intellectual qualities do not amount to ability; ordinary moral qualities do not amount to virtue. Virtue is excellence, something unusually great and beautiful, far above the commonplace. The lovable virtues involve sensitivity so delicate and tender that it surprises us. The respected virtues involve self-control so strong that its mastery over our most unruly passions astonishes us.
There is therefore an important difference between virtue and mere propriety. Some qualities and actions deserve admiration and celebration; others deserve only approval. On many occasions, perfectly proper conduct takes no more than the ordinary sensitivity or self-control even the least worthy people have. Sometimes it takes less. Take a very simple example: eating when hungry is perfectly right and proper in ordinary circumstances, and everyone approves of it. But calling it virtuous would be absurd.
Conversely, an action may show considerable virtue even when it falls short of perfect propriety. It may come closer to perfection than we could reasonably expect under exceptionally difficult conditions. This often happens when exceptional self-control is needed. Some situations strain human nature so badly that even the greatest self-control possible for imperfect human beings cannot entirely silence human weakness. It cannot reduce violent passions to the moderate level an impartial spectator could fully share. The sufferer’s behavior may therefore fall short of perfect propriety but still deserve praise. In a sense we may even call it virtuous. It may show an effort, generosity, and magnanimity beyond the capacity of most people. Though not absolutely perfect, it may come much closer to perfection than is normally found or expected in such trying circumstances.
In cases like these, we often use two standards to decide how much blame or praise an action deserves. The first is complete propriety and perfection. In such difficult situations, no one’s conduct ever meets that standard or even could. Measured against it, everyone’s actions always look flawed and blameworthy. The second standard is how close most people’s actions ordinarily come to that perfection. Any action that exceeds that usual level seems worthy of praise, however far it remains from absolute perfection. Any action that falls below it seems worthy of blame.
We judge imaginative art in the same way. A critic examining a great poet’s or painter’s work may compare it with an ideal of perfection in their own mind, an ideal no human work can ever attain. Judged by that measure, the work has nothing but faults. But when the critic considers where it ranks among works of the same kind, another standard comes into play: the level of excellence usually reached in that art. Measured this way, the work may deserve the highest praise because it comes much closer to perfection than most works that could be compared with it.