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Part I, Section II, Chapter II
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Of those passions which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of the imagination.
Even of the passions derived from the imagination, those which take their origin from a peculiar turn or habit it has acquired, though they may be acknowledged to be perfectly natural, are, however, but little sympathized with. The imaginations of mankind, not having acquired that particular turn, cannot enter into them; and such passions, though they may be allowed to be almost unavoidable in some part of life, are always in some measure ridiculous. This is the case with that strong attachment which naturally grows up between two persons of different sexes, who have long fixed their thoughts upon one another. Our imagination not having run in the same channel with that of the lover, we cannot enter into the eagerness of his emotions. If our friend has been injured, we readily sympathize with his resentment, and grow angry with the very person with whom he is angry. If he has received a benefit, we readily enter into his gratitude, and have a very high sense of the merit of his benefactor. But if he is in love, though we may think his passion just as reasonable as any of the kind, yet we never think ourselves bound to conceive a passion of the same kind, and for the same person for whom he has conceived it. The passion appears to every body, but the man who feels it, entirely disproportioned to the value of the object; and love, though it is pardoned in a certain age because we know it is natural, is always laughed at, because we cannot enter into it. All serious and strong expressions of it appear ridiculous to a third person; and though a lover may be good company to his mistress, he is so to nobody else. He himself is sensible of this; and as long as he continues in his sober senses, endeavours to treat his own passion with raillery and ridicule. It is the only style in which we care to hear of it; because it is the only style in which we ourselves are disposed to talk of it. We grow weary of the grave, pedantic, and long-sentenced love of Cowley and Propertius, who never have done with exaggerating the violence of their attachments; but the gaiety of Ovid, and the gallantry of Horace, are always agreeable.
But though we feel no proper sympathy with an attachment of this kind, though we never approach even in imagination towards conceiving a passion for that particular person, yet as we either have conceived, or may be disposed to conceive, passions of the same kind, we readily enter into those high hopes of happiness which are proposed from its gratification, as well as into that exquisite distress which is feared from its disappointment. It interests us not as a passion, but as a situation that gives occasion to other passions which interest us; to hope, to fear, and to distress of every kind: in the same manner as in a description of a sea voyage, it is not the hunger which interests us, but the distress which that hunger occasions. Though we do not properly enter into the attachment of the lover, we readily go along with those expectations of romantic happiness which he derives from it. We feel how natural it is for the mind, in a certain situation, relaxed with indolence, and fatigued with the violence of desire, to long for serenity and quiet, to hope to find them in the gratification of that passion which distracts it, and to frame to itself the idea of that life of pastoral tranquillity and retirement which the elegant, the tender, and the passionate Tibullus takes so much pleasure in deferring; a life like what the poets describe in the Fortunate Islands, a life of friendship, liberty, and repose; free from labour, and from care, and from all the turbulent passions which attend them. Even scenes of this kind interest us most, when they are painted rather as what is hoped, than as what is enjoyed. The grossness of that passion which mixes with, and is, perhaps, the foundation of love, disappears when its gratification is far off and at a distance; but renders the whole offensive, when described as what is immediately possessed. The happy passion, upon this account, interests us much less than the fearful and the melancholy. We tremble for whatever can disappoint such natural and agreeable hopes: and thus enter into all the anxiety, and concern, and distress of the lover.
Hence it is, that, in some modern tragedies and romances, this passion appears so wonderfully interesting. It is not so much the love of Castalio and Monimia which attaches us in the Orphan, as the distress which that love occasions. The author who should introduce two lovers, in a scene of perfect security, expressing their mutual fondness for one another, would excite laughter, and not sympathy. If a scene of this kind is ever admitted into a tragedy, it is always, in some measure, improper, and is endured, not from any sympathy with the passion that is expressed in it, but from concern for the dangers and difficulties with which the audience foresee that its gratification is likely to be attended.
The reserve which the laws of society impose upon the fair sex, with regard to this weakness, renders it more peculiarly distressful in them, and, upon that very account, more deeply interesting. We are charmed with the love of Phædra, as it is expressed in the French tragedy of that name, notwithstanding all the extravagance and guilt which attends it. That very extravagance and guilt may be said, in some measure, to recommend it to us. Her fear, her shame, her remorse, her horror, her despair, become thereby more natural and interesting. All the secondary passions, if I may be allowed to call them so, which arise from the situation of love, become necessarily more furious and violent: and it is with these secondary passions only that we can properly be said to sympathize.
Of all the passions, however, which are so extravagantly disproportioned to the value of their objects, love is the only one that appears, even to the weakest minds, to have any thing in it that is either graceful or agreeable. In itself, first of all, though it may be ridiculous, it is not naturally odious; and though its consequences are often fatal and dreadful, its intentions are seldom mischievous. And then, though there is little propriety in the passion itself, there is a good deal in some of those which always accompany it. There is in love a strong mixture of humanity, generality, kindness, friendship, esteem; passions with which, of all others, for reasons which shall be explained immediately, we have the greatest propensity to sympathize, even notwithstanding we are sensible that they are, in some measure, excessive. The sympathy which we feel with them, renders the passion which they accompany less disagreeable, and supports it in our imagination, notwithstanding all the vices which commonly go along with it; though in the one sex it necessarily leads to ruin and infamy; and though in the other, where it is apprehended to be least fatal, it is almost always attended with an incapacity for labour, a neglect of duty, a contempt of fame, and even of common reputation. Notwithstanding all this, the degree of sensibility and generosity with which it is supposed to be accompanied, renders it to many the object of vanity; and they are fond of appearing capable of feeling what would do them no honour if they had really felt it.
It is for a reason of the same kind, that a certain reserve is necessary when we talk of our own friends, our own studies, our own professions. All these are objects which we cannot expect should interest our companions in the same degree in which they interest us. And it is for want of this reserve, that the one half of mankind make bad company to the other. A philosopher is company to a philosopher only; the member of a club, to his own little knot of companions.
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 Passions Arising from a Particular Turn or Habit of the Imagination.
Even among passions arising from the imagination, those born of some peculiar turn or habit it has acquired meet with little sympathy, however natural we acknowledge them to be. Other people's imaginations have not taken the same turn and cannot enter into them. Such passions, though we may recognize them as nearly unavoidable at some stage of life, are always somewhat ridiculous. Consider the strong attachment that naturally grows between two people of different sexes who have long dwelt on each other in thought. Since our imagination has not followed the lover's course, we cannot share the eagerness of his feelings. If our friend is wronged, we readily sympathize with his resentment and become angry at the person who angers him. If someone has done him a kindness, we readily share his gratitude and think highly of his benefactor's merit. But if he is in love, however reasonable we may consider his passion, we never feel obliged to fall in love ourselves with the same person. To everyone except the lover, his passion seems wholly out of proportion to the worth of its object. Love is pardoned at a certain age because we know it is natural, but is always laughed at because we cannot enter into it. Every serious and vehement expression of it seems ridiculous to a third person; and though the lover may be good company for his beloved, he is good company for no one else. He knows this himself and, so long as his judgment remains sound, tries to treat his own passion with humor and mockery. That is the only manner in which we care to hear of it, since it is the only manner in which we are disposed to discuss it ourselves. We tire of the solemn, pedantic, long-winded love of Cowley and Propertius, who never cease exaggerating the strength of their attachments; but Ovid's gaiety and Horace's gallantry never cease to please.
Though we cannot truly sympathize with an attachment of this kind, and cannot even imagine ourselves in love with that particular person, we have felt or may come to feel passions of the same kind. We can therefore readily enter into the exalted hopes of happiness that its fulfillment inspires, and the acute distress threatened by its disappointment. Love interests us not as a passion in itself but as a situation giving rise to other passions that do interest us: hope, fear, and distress of every kind. Likewise, in an account of a sea voyage, it is not hunger itself that interests us but the suffering it causes. Though we do not truly share the lover's attachment, we readily share the visions of romantic happiness it offers him. We feel how naturally a mind exhausted by intense desire and softened by idleness longs for peace and quiet, hopes to find them in the satisfaction of the very passion that disturbs it, and imagines the tranquil, secluded pastoral life that the elegant, tender, passionate Tibullus delights in portraying. It is a life like that described by poets in the Fortunate Islands: a life of friendship, freedom, and repose, free of labor, care, and all the turbulent passions that accompany them. Such scenes move us most when depicted as a hope rather than a present enjoyment. The coarseness of the appetite mingled with love, and perhaps underlying it, vanishes when its satisfaction lies far off; when that satisfaction is portrayed as immediate and present, it makes the whole scene offensive. For this reason happy love interests us much less than anxious or melancholy love. We tremble at whatever might frustrate such natural and pleasing hopes, and so enter into the lover's anxiety, concern, and distress.
This explains why the passion becomes so wonderfully engaging in some modern tragedies and romances. In The Orphan, it is not so much the love of Castalio and Monimia that holds us as the suffering their love brings about. An author who presented two lovers in perfect safety, declaring their affection to each other, would provoke laughter rather than sympathy. If such a scene is included in a tragedy at all, it is always somewhat improper; we bear it not because we sympathize with the passion expressed but because we worry about the dangers and difficulties we foresee in its fulfillment.
The restraint imposed by society's rules upon women in regard to this weakness makes love particularly distressing for them and therefore more deeply engaging to us. We are captivated by Phædra's love as portrayed in the French tragedy bearing her name, despite the extravagance and guilt that accompany it. Indeed, that very extravagance and guilt may in some measure make it more compelling. They make her fear, shame, remorse, horror, and despair more natural and affecting. All the secondary passions, if I may call them that, which arise from love's predicament necessarily grow fiercer and more intense; and only with these secondary passions can we properly be said to sympathize.
Yet of all passions so wildly out of proportion to the worth of their objects, love alone seems to have something graceful or pleasing in it, even to the least discerning minds. For one thing, though it may be ridiculous, it is not inherently hateful; and though its consequences are often disastrous and dreadful, its intentions are seldom harmful. Moreover, while the passion itself has little propriety, some passions that invariably accompany it have much. Love contains a strong admixture of humanity, broad goodwill, kindness, friendship, and esteem: passions with which, for reasons to be explained shortly, we are more disposed to sympathize than with any others, even when we recognize that they are somewhat excessive. Our sympathy with these feelings makes the passion accompanying them less disagreeable and keeps it alive in our imagination despite the vices that commonly attend it. In one sex it necessarily leads to ruin and disgrace; even in the other, where it is thought less ruinous, it almost always brings an inability to work, neglect of duty, contempt for fame, and even disregard for ordinary reputation. Nevertheless, because it is supposed to go with sensibility and generosity, many take pride in it and delight in appearing capable of a feeling that would bring them no honor if they actually felt it.
For a similar reason, we must show some reserve in speaking of our own friends, studies, and professions. We cannot expect these concerns to interest our companions as deeply as they interest us. The absence of such reserve makes half of humankind tiresome company for the other half. A philosopher is good company only for another philosopher, and a club member only for his own little circle.
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 passions that arise from a particular habit of the imagination.
Even among passions that come from imagination, we sympathize very little with those produced by a particular way a person’s imagination has developed. We may recognize that they are perfectly natural. But other people’s imaginations have not developed in the same way, so they cannot share those feelings. Such passions may be almost unavoidable at certain times in life, yet they always seem somewhat ridiculous. Consider the strong attachment that naturally develops between two people of different sexes who have thought about each other for a long time. Since our imagination has not followed the lover’s path, we cannot share the intensity of their feelings. If a friend is injured, we readily sympathize with their resentment. We become angry at the person they are angry with. If our friend receives a favor, we readily share their gratitude and greatly appreciate the benefactor’s merit. But if our friend is in love, we may consider their feeling as reasonable as any love. Still, we do not think we must love the same person ourselves. To everyone except the lover, the strength of the feeling seems completely out of proportion to the beloved’s value. We excuse love at a certain age because it is natural, but we laugh at it because we cannot share it. Any serious, intense expression of it looks ridiculous to an outsider. A lover may be good company for the beloved, but not for anyone else. The lover knows this and, as long as they think clearly, tries to joke about their own passion. That is the only way we want to hear about it, because it is the only way we would talk about it ourselves. We tire of Cowley’s and Propertius’s solemn, pedantic, long-winded declarations of love. They never stop exaggerating the intensity of their attachments. But Ovid’s cheerfulness and Horace’s flirtatious charm are always pleasant.
Although we cannot actually share such an attachment, or even imagine loving that particular person, we may have loved someone or may someday do so. We can therefore easily share the lover’s high hopes for happiness if love is fulfilled and their terrible distress at the thought of disappointment. The love itself does not engage us. Rather, the lover’s situation brings out feelings that do: hope, fear, and distress of every kind. In an account of a sea voyage, likewise, what engages us is not the hunger but the distress it causes. Though we do not share a lover’s attachment, we readily share their expectations of a wonderfully happy life. We understand why someone worn down by strong desire and idleness longs for peace and quiet, and hopes to find it by fulfilling that desire. They picture a calm, secluded country life, such as the refined, tender, passionate Tibullus so enjoys describing. It is like the life poets describe in the Fortunate Islands: friendship, freedom, and rest, without labor, worry, or the restless passions these bring. Such scenes interest us most when portrayed as hopes rather than as a life already being lived. When fulfillment is far away, the physical appetite mixed into love, and perhaps underlying it, fades from view. When its fulfillment is described as present, that appetite makes the whole scene distasteful. This is why happy love interests us far less than anxious or melancholy love. We worry about anything that might frustrate such natural and pleasant hopes. In this way we share the lover’s anxiety, concern, and distress.
This explains why love is so engaging in some modern tragedies and romances. In The Orphan, it is not so much the love between Castalio and Monimia that holds our attention as the distress it causes. A writer who showed two lovers safely exchanging expressions of affection would make us laugh, not sympathize. Even when such a scene appears in a tragedy, it is somewhat out of place. We tolerate it not because we share their passion but because we worry about the dangers and difficulties we foresee in their attempt to fulfill it.
Society’s rules require women to conceal this weakness. That makes love especially distressing for them and, for that very reason, especially moving to us. We are captivated by Phædra’s love in the French tragedy named for her, despite all its excess and guilt. Indeed, those very qualities make it more compelling in a way. Her fear, shame, remorse, horror, and despair become more natural and more engaging. All these secondary passions, as I might call the feelings arising from her situation in love, necessarily become more intense. We can properly sympathize only with these secondary passions.
Of all passions whose strength is wildly out of proportion to the value of their objects, love alone seems to have something graceful or pleasant about it, even to people with the weakest judgment. For one thing, though love itself may be ridiculous, it is not naturally hateful. Its consequences are often disastrous and frightening, but its intentions are rarely harmful. Also, though the passion itself shows little propriety, some of the feelings that always accompany it show a great deal. Love contains a strong mixture of humanity, generosity, kindness, friendship, and esteem. As I will explain shortly, these are the feelings we are most inclined to sympathize with, even when we know they go too far. Our sympathy with them makes the passion they accompany less unpleasant and keeps it appealing to our imagination despite the faults usually found alongside it. In one sex it necessarily leads to ruin and disgrace. In the other, where it is thought to be less disastrous, it is almost always accompanied by an inability to work, neglect of duty, disregard for fame, and even disregard for ordinary reputation. Despite all that, many people are proud of the sensitivity and generosity they believe accompany love. They like to appear capable of a feeling that would bring them no honor if they really experienced it.
For a similar reason, we need some restraint when talking about our friends, our studies, and our jobs. We cannot expect other people to care about these things as much as we do. Because people lack this restraint, half of humanity makes poor company for the other half. A philosopher can keep company only with another philosopher; a club member, only with their own small circle.