PART II.

OF LOVE AND HATRED.

SECTION I.

OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED.

'Tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions of _love_ and _hatred_; and that because they produce merely a simple impression, without any mixture or composition. 'Twould be as unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their nature, origin, causes, and objects; and that both because these are the subjects of our present inquiry, and because these passions of themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and experience. This we have already observed concerning pride and humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and, indeed, there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions, that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter.

As the immediate _object_ of pride and humility is self, or that identical person of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are intimately conscious; so the _object_ of love and hatred is some other person, of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are not conscious. This is sufficiently evident from experience. Our love and hatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and when we talk of _self-love_, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the sensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion, which is excited by a friend or mistress. 'Tis the same case with hatred. We may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never feel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others.

But though the object of love and hatred be always some other person, 'tis plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the _cause_ of these passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. For since love and hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the same object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would produce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must, from the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever be able to make its appearance. There must, therefore, be some cause different from the object.

If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are very much diversified, and have not many things in common. The virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same passions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, swiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the external advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, clothes, nation and climate. There is not one of these objects but what, by its different qualities, may produce love and esteem, or hatred and contempt.

From the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt the _quality_ that operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed. A prince that is possessed of a stately palace commands the esteem of the people upon that account; and that, _first_, by the beauty of the palace; and, _secondly_, by the relation of property, which connects it with him. The removal of either of these destroys the passion; which evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one.

'Twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred through all the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility, and which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. 'Twill be sufficient to _remark_, in general, that the object of love and hatred is evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also _suppose_, with some show of probability, _that the cause of both these passions is always related to a thinking being_, and _that the cause of the former produces a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate uneasiness_.

One of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and hatred must be related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. Virtue and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging to a third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt, towards those who have no relation to them. A person looking out at a window sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with which I have no concern: I believe none will pretend, that this person will pay me the same respect as if I were owner of the palace.

'Tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions is requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition the one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they become in a manner undistinguishable. But as in pride and humility, we have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that every cause of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I might here observe the same method with the same success, in examining particularly the several causes of love and hatred. But as I hasten to a full and decisive proof of these systems, I delay this examination for a moment; and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my present purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an argument that is founded on unquestionable experience.

There are few persons that are satisfied with their own character, or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of showing themselves to the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now 'tis evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which are the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity, or the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied. But if love and esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according as these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of proceeding would be very absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence in the sentiments of every other person with those themselves have entertained. 'Tis true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or make reflections on their general nature and resemblances. But without such a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in this particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as well as by a kind of _presentation_, which tells us what will operate on others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since then the same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred, all the arguments that have been employed to prove that the causes of the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the latter.

SECTION II.

EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM.

Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to assent to that conclusion I draw from them, concerning the transition along related impressions and ideas, especially as 'tis a principle in itself so easy and natural. But that we may place this system beyond doubt, both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well as to recal a few of these observations which I have formerly touched upon.

In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am in company with a person, whom I formerly regarded without any sentiments either of friendship or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of all these four passions placed before me. Myself am the proper object of pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred.

Regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their situation with respect to each other. 'Tis evident here are four affections, placed as it were in a square, or regular connexion with, and distance from, each other. The passions of pride and humility, as well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the identity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self, to the second some other person. These two lines of communication or connexion form two opposite sides of the square. Again, pride and love are agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. This similitude of sensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred, form a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of the square. Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love with hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with hatred, by their sensations or impressions.

I say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. This we must prove by our experiments.

_First experiment_. To proceed with the greater order in these experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation above mentioned, viz. in company with some other person, there is an object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas to any of these passions. Thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary stone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing of itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: 'tis evident such an object will produce none of these four passions. Let us try it upon each of them successively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree imaginable. Let us change the object as oft as we please, provided still we choose one that has neither of these two relations. Let us repeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the mind is susceptible. No object in the vast variety of nature will, in any disposition, produce any passion without these relations.

_Second experiment_. Since an object that wants both these relations can ever produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these relations, and see what will follow. Thus, suppose I regard a stone, or any common object that belongs either to me or my companion, and by that means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions: 'tis plain that, to consider the matter _a priori_, no emotion of any kind can reasonably be expected. For, besides that a relation of ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others; which opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind perfectly free from any affection or emotion. This reasoning _a priori_ is confirmed by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that causes not a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will ever, by its property or other relations, either to ourselves or others, be able to produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred.

_Third experiment_. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas is not able alone to give rise to these affections. Let us now remove this relation, and, in its stead, place a relation of impressions, by presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has no relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the consequences. To consider the matter first _a priori_, as in the preceding experiment, we may conclude that the object will have a small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. For, besides that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal force to two contrary passions, which, by their opposition, destroy each other. But if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though the one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change of objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause a transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion that is connected with the passion merely by a relation of impressions. What our reason would conclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that an object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of connexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the disposition as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility or hatred, and search for other objects, upon which, by a double relation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has only one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can never give rise to any constant and established passion.

Most fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be exactly conformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions. Suppose I were travelling with a companion through a country to which we are both utter strangers; 'tis evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good humour both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose that this country has no relation either to myself or friend, it can never be the immediate cause of pride or love; and, therefore, if I found not the passion on some other object that bears either of us a closer relation, my emotions are rather to be considered as the overflowings of an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion. The case is the same where the object produces uneasiness.

_Fourth experiment_. Having found, that neither an object, without any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object that has only one relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason alone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever has a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since 'tis evident they must have some cause. But, to leave as little room for doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether the event in this case answers our expectation. I chuse an object, such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object I bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of affairs there immediately arises a passion. But what passion? That very one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. That I may be sure I am not mistaken in this experiment, I remove first one relation, then another, and find that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves the object perfectly indifferent. But I am not content with this. I make a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation, I only change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows from this alteration. I immediately perceive the affections to wheel about, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz. of impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted by a double relation of impressions and ideas. By repeating the same experiment in changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the affections back to pride; and, by a new repetition, I again place them at love or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this relation, I try the effects of the other; and, by changing virtue for vice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from the former, into the disagreeable one which proceeds from the latter. The effect still answers expectation. Vice, when placed on another, excites, by means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of love, which, for the same reason, arises from virtue. To continue the experiment, I change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice to belong to myself. What follows? What is usual. A subsequent change of the passion from hatred to humility. This humility I convert into pride by a new change of the impression; and find, after all, that I have completed the round, and have by these changes brought back the passion to that very situation in which I first found it.

But to make the matter still more certain, I alter the object; and, instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity, riches and poverty, power and servitude. Each of these objects runs the circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their relations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride, love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride, the experiment is not in the least diversified. Esteem and contempt, indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these are, at the bottom, the same passions, only diversified by some causes, which we shall explain afterwards.

_Fifth experiment_. To give greater authority to these experiments, let us change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the passions and objects in all the different positions of which they are susceptible. Let us suppose, beside the relations above mentioned, that the person, along with whom I make all these experiments, is closely connected with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar acquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion acquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and let us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions and relations.

Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'Tis plain, that, according as the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or hatred must arise towards the person who is thus connected to the cause of the impression by these double relations which I have all along required. The virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice or infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge only from the situation of affairs, I should not expect that the affections would rest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression. As there is here a person, who, by means of a double relation, is the object of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the passion will be carried farther. The person has a relation of ideas to myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which he is the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of impressions to pride or humility. 'Tis evident, then, that one of these passions must arise from the love or hatred.

This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am pleased to find, upon trial, that every thing answers exactly to my expectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites love or hatred, but, by a new transition from similar causes, gives rise to pride or humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any shining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than their vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis upon which we reason.

_Sixth experiment_. This evidence will be still augmented if we reverse the experiment, and, preserving still the same relations, begin only with a different passion. Suppose that, instead of the virtue or vice of a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards pride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, without any immediate connexion with the person who is related to us, experience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the whole chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to another, as in the preceding instance. We never love or hate a son or brother for the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though 'tis evident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or humility. The transition from pride or humility to love or hatred, is not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This may at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the same. Pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred. Myself am related to the person. It should therefore be expected, that like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise from the double relation, as in all other cases. This difficulty we may easily solve by the following reflections.

'Tis evident that, as we are at all times intimately conscious of ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of any other person. But every thing that strikes upon us with vivacity, and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, into our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest hint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when it is once present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other objects, however strong may be their relation to our first object. The imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from lively to obscure. In the one case the relation is aided by another principle; in the other case, 'tis opposed by it.

Now, I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the imagination and passions, assist each other in their operation when their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object. The mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the one passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur with each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy. But if it should happen, that, while the relation of ideas, strictly speaking, continues the same, its influence in causing a transition of the imagination should no longer take place, 'tis evident its influence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely on that transition. This is the reason why pride or humility is not transfused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter passions are changed into the former. If a person be my brother, I am his likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal, they have very different effects on the imagination. The passage is smooth and open from the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself, of whom we are every moment conscious. But when the affections are once directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from that object to any other person, how closely soever connected with us. This easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the passions, and facilitates or retards their transition; which is a clear proof that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are connected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence upon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that prove this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any particular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an association or transition of ideas is prevented, its usual effect upon the passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner prevented.

Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phenomenon and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea of ourselves to that of any other object related to us. But this difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person is not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing that fixes our attention on ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed to be actuated, with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of the perception of every other object, is in reality nothing; for which reason we must turn our view to external objects, and 'tis natural for us to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or resemble us. But when self is the object of a passion, 'tis not natural to quit the consideration of it till the passion be exhausted, in which case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer operate.

_Seventh experiment_. To put this whole reasoning to a farther trial, let us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects of related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of passions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the effects of this new situation. 'Tis evident a transition of the passions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be expected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, and an identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion, than the most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. If a double relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas, is able to produce a transition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions with a relation of ideas. Accordingly, we find, that when we either love or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous objects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or hate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on account of our friendship for another, without any farther examination of his character. A quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the whole family, though entirely innocent of that which displeases us. Instances of this kind are every where to be met with.

There is only one difficulty in this experiment which it will be necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. 'Tis evident, that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related to it, yet this transition is made with greater facility where the more considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows it, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the precedence. Thus, 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant for the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the prince, than the prince for the subject. In like manner we more readily contract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel is with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or servant, or some inferior member. In short, our passions, like other objects, descend with greater facility than they ascend.

That we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty of explaining this phenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise to change with more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for the less. Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of; and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily to the imagination. We are more apt to overlook in any subject what is trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially if the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention. Thus, if any accident makes us consider the satellites of Jupiter, our fancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if we first reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of any empire conveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns not with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces. The idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the subject carries our view to the prince. But the same relation has not an equal influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded that reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed she should be more known by the title of the daughter of Scipio, than by that of the mother of the Gracchi. This was, in other words, exhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their grandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her who was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would always leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and of greater moment. On the same principle is founded that common custom of making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to those whom we honour and respect. We might find many other instances to confirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident.

Now, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not this easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in the former case as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend or brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case the imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its propensity. Our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to a friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the love or hatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion to the superior, though that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior, contrary to its propensity. In short, the same facility of transition operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon contiguous and remote. These two phenomena appear contradictory, and require some attention to be reconciled.

As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by some stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever present to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must necessarily lie in the impressions. Now, it has been observed, that impressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and that where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty in the transition of the passions. But, 'tis observable, that this repugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind; nor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a small degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to a great degree of either of these affections. A man, when calm or only moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself, when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other, without a considerable interval betwixt them.

The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in passing from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to the strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the other, and they do not both of them exist at once. But the case is entirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the mind at the same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes not so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when added to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the great degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great.

The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object a person we esteem of less consequence. Here then, the contradiction betwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays itself. When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great, than from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater difficulty: and, as the affections are a more powerful principle than the imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to their side. In spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of great to that of little, a passion directed to the former produces always a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and little are related together. The idea of the servant conveys our thought most readily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces with greater facility anger or good will to the servant. The strongest passion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the weaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is by that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them.

As, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation of ideas, which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to operate on the passions; so, in the present experiment, we find the same property of the impressions. Two different degrees of the same passion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first present, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and that because the addition of the great to the little produces a more sensible alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to the great. These phenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing proofs of this hypothesis.

And these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which the mind here reconciles the contradiction I have observed betwixt the passions and the imagination. The fancy passes with more facility from the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less. But, on the contrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble than that does a violent. In this opposition, the passion in the end prevails over the imagination: but 'tis commonly by complying with it, and by seeking another quality, which may counterbalance that principle from whence the opposition arises. When we love the father or master of a family, we think of his children or servants. But when these are present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them, the nearness and contiguity in this case increases their magnitude, or at least removes that opposition which the fancy makes to the transition of the affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in passing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing from remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and leaves the way open from the one passion to the other.

_Eighth experiment_. I have observed, that the transition from love or hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility to love or hatred; and that the difficulty which the imagination finds in passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have any instance of the latter transition of the affections. I must, however, make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride and humility is placed in some other person. For, in that case, the imagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly confine its view to ourselves. Thus, nothing more readily produces kindness and affection to any person than his approbation of our conduct and character; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with a stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. Here, 'tis evident, that the original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and that this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is some other person, notwithstanding the rule I have already established, _that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to remote_. But the transition in this case is not made merely on account of the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very person is the real cause of our first passion, and, of consequence, is intimately connected with it. 'Tis his approbation that produces pride, and disapprobation humility. No wonder, then, the imagination returns back again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. This is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception that arises from the same reason with the rule itself.

Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments I have explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of them, and that 'tis by means of a transition arising from a double relation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred are produced. An object without a relation,[1] or with but one,[2] never produces either of these passions; and 'tis found[3] that the passion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay we may observe, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has not its usual effect of producing a transition either of ideas or of impressions,[4] it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives rise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find still to hold good, even under the appearance of its contrary;[5] and as relation is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance that prevents the transition; so, even in instances where that circumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, 'tis found to arise from some other circumstance which counterbalances it. Thus, not only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle, but even the variations of these variations.

[1] First experiment.

[2] Second and third experiments.

[3] Fourth experiment.

[4] Sixth experiment.

[5] Seventh and eighth experiments.

SECTION III.

DIFFICULTIES SOLVED.

After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience and observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular examination of all the causes of love and hatred. I shall therefore employ the sequel of this part, _first_, in removing some difficulties concerning particular causes of these passions; _secondly_, in examining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love and hatred with other emotions.

Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the sensations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the means, either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections; as, on the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite our anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other, we detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and violent; but always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. If the general of our enemies be successful, 'tis with difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is a sorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is reported of Oliver Cromwell and the Duke of Luxembourg; he is bloody-minded, and takes a pleasure in death and destruction. But if the success be on our side, our commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call policy; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short, every one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with the name of that virtue which approaches it. 'Tis evident the same method of thinking rims through common life.

There are some who add another condition, and require not only that the pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. A man who wounds and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor do we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one who does us any service after the same manner. By the intention we judge of the actions; and, according as that is good or bad, they become causes of love or hatred.

But here we must make a distinction. If that quality in another, which pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and character, it will cause love or hatred, independent of the intention: but otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give rise to these passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or folly, is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain, than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these qualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an action, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, 'tis necessary, in order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently with the person, that it be derived from a particular forethought and design. 'Tis not enough that the action arise from the person, and have him for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone is too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. It reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from any thing _durable_ in him, nor leaves any thing behind it, but passes in a moment, and is as if it had never been. On the other hand, an intention shows certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition of ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him without reflecting on these qualities, unless repentance and a change of life have produced an alteration in that respect; in which case the passion is likewise altered. This, therefore, is one reason why an intention is requisite to excite either love or hatred.

But we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. For 'tis observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt and hatred which it shows in the person that injures us; and without that, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our vanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who performs it. The removal of the intention removes the mortification in the one case, and vanity in the other; and must of course cause a remarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred.

I grant, that these effects of the removal of design, hatred, in diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor able to remove every degree of these relations. But then I ask, if the removal of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and hatred? Experience, I am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there any thing more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger for injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance, but still is sufficient to show, that there is a natural connexion betwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will operate upon a very small relation of ideas. But when the violence of the impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation begins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom happens that on their account we entertain a lasting enmity.

To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe, that not only the uneasiness which proceeds from another by accident, has but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises from an acknowledged necessity and duty. One that has a real design of harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill will, but from justice and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing cause, of our sufferings. Let us examine a little this phenomenon.

'Tis evident, in the first place, that this circumstance is not decisive; and though it may be able to diminish the passions, 'tis seldom it can entirely remove them. How few criminals are there who have no ill will to the person that accuses them, or to the judge that condemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts! In like manner our antagonist in a lawsuit, and our competitor for any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though we must acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is entirely as justifiable as our own.

Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person, we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty we allow of his justice and innocence. This is a clear proof that, independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here the idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it.

Nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury; since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the passions avoid as much as possible. The removal of injury may remove the anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. The harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that either of the objects prevails and excites its proper passion.

SECTION IV.

OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS.

Having given a reason why several actions that cause a real pleasure or uneasiness excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of love or hatred towards the actors, 'twill be necessary to show wherein consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects which we find by experience to produce these passions.

According to the preceding system, there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in order to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally true, 'tis remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by only one _relation_ of a different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and the object; or, more properly speaking, that this relation is always attended with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, without inquiring into his other qualities. Thus, the relation of blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection as the relation lessens. Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but any other relation without exception. We love our countrymen, our neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with ourselves. Every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives a title to a share of our affection.

There is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that _acquaintance_, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and kindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any person, though in frequenting his company we have not been able to discover any very valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we cannot forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit we are fully convinced. These two phenomena of the effects of relation and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both explained from the same principle.

Those who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature have observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself, and that, when you loosen all the holds which he has of external objects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and despair. From this, say they, proceeds that continual search after amusement in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state into which they fall when not sustained by some brisk and lively emotion. To this method of thinking I so far agree, that I own the mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that it naturally seeks after foreign objects which may produce a lively sensation, and agitate the spirits. On the appearance of such an object it awakes, as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide; the heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour which he cannot command in his solitary and calm moments. Hence company is naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects, viz. a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates to us all the actions of his mind, makes us privy to his inmost sentiments and affections, and lets us see, in the very instant of their production, all the emotions which are caused by any object. Every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more sensible agitation to the mind than any other image or conception.

This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company of strangers is agreeable to us for _a short time_, by enlivening our thought, so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree, and is of more _durable_ influence. Whatever is related to us is conceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related object. Custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the entrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. The first case is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to education. And as reasoning and education concur only in producing a lively and strong idea of any object, so is this the only particular which is common to relation and acquaintance. This must therefore be the influencing quality by which they produce all their common effects; and love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the force and liveliness of conception that the passion is derived. Such a conception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate regard for every thing that produces it, when the proper object of kindness and good will.

'Tis obvious that people associate together according to their particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers naturally love the gay, as the serious bear an affection to the serious. This not only happens where they remark this resemblance betwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the disposition, and by a certain sympathy which always arises betwixt similar characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates after the manner of a relation by producing a connexion of ideas. Where they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a confirmation of the foregoing reasoning.

The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object to which we are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real impression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the same, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But this change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural temper gives us a propensity to the same impression which we observe in others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case resemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means of the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from the least spark. And as in both cases a love or affection from the resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are alone common to _relation, acquaintance_, and _resemblance_.

The great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another similar phenomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived a considerable time in any city, however at first it might be disagreeable to us, yet as we become familiar with the objects, and contract an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite passion. The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view of objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to others, which, though perhaps in themselves more valuable, are less known to it. By the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a good opinion of ourselves, and of all objects that belong to us. They appear in a stronger light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter subjects of pride and vanity than any other.

It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phenomena which attend it. 'Tis easy to remark in common life, that children esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same eye as if she had continued in her state of widowhood. Nor does this happen only when they have felt any inconveniences from her second marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part of another family. This also takes place with regard to the second marriage of a father, but in a much less degree; and 'tis certain the ties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the marriage of a mother. These two phenomena are remarkable in themselves, but much more so when compared.

In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the other, by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. If one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily resemble the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second object is effect to its cause. 'Tis the same with contiguity; and therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, that the return of the imagination from the second to the first must also, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first to the second. But upon farther examination we shall easily discover our mistake. For supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third object; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the second, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation continues the same, but is readily carried on to the third object, by means of the new relation which presents itself, and gives a new impulse to the imagination. This new relation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and second objects. The fancy is, by its very nature, wavering and inconstant, and considers always two objects as more strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy both in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in one of these motions. The double motion is a kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner.

The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself to her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination is arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with so many other relations which challenge its regard, that it knows not which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. The ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent that return of the fancy from her to myself which is necessary to support the union. The thought has no longer the vibration requisite to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change. It goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that interruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be were the passage open and easy on both sides.

Now, to give a reason why this effect follows not in in the same degree upon the second marriage of a father; we may reflect on what has been proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view of a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the same facility from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his second wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, but as continuing the head of that family of which I am myself a part. His superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him to his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself along the same relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force and influence.

A mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because 'tis shared with her husband; nor a son his with a parent, because 'tis shared with a brother. The third object is here related to the first as well as to the second: so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them with the greatest facility.

SECTION V.

OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL.

Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person than his power and riches, or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness: and as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and hatred, 'twill be proper in this place to explain these phenomena.

Here it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is, not to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, but to chuse the chief and predominant among several that present themselves. The _satisfaction_ we take in the riches of others, and the _esteem_ we have for the possessors, may be ascribed to three different causes. _First_, to the objects they possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages, which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or surveys them. _Secondly_, to the expectation of advantage from the rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. _Thirdly_, to sympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one that approaches us. All these principles may concur in producing the present phenomenon. The question is, to which of them we ought principally to ascribe it.

'Tis certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on agreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first sight, we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much, in our common indolent way of thinking, 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation, to discover them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any objects but such as are of the same nature. Mr Philips has chosen _Cider_ for the subject of an excellent poem. Beer would not have been so proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. But he would certainly have preferred wine to either of them, could his native country have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from thence, that every thing which is agreeable to the senses, is also, in some measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to the bodily organs.

But, though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy of the imagination among the causes of the respect which we pay the rich and powerful, there are many other reasons that may keep us from regarding it as the sole or principal. For, as the ideas of pleasure can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them approach impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas should have that influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions and sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles ourselves, and, by that means, has an advantage above any other object in operating on the imagination.

Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to the related objects, and, in particular, to the person who possesses them. And this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image, produces here a passion towards the person by means of his relation to the object; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must enter into the original conception, since he makes the object of the derivative passion. But if he enters into the original conception, and is considered as enjoying these agreeable objects, 'tis _sympathy_ which is properly the cause of the affection; and the _third_ principle is more powerful and universal than the _first_.

Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed, naturally cause esteem and respect; and, consequently, these passions arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis true money implies a kind of representation of such objects by the power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise to the passion. But as this prospect is very distant, 'tis more natural for us to take a contiguous object, viz. the satisfaction which this power affords the person who is possessed of it. And of this we shall be farther satisfied, if we consider that riches represent the goods of life only by means of the will which employs them; and therefore imply, in their very nature, an idea of the person, and cannot be considered without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments.

This we may confirm by a reflection which to some will perhaps appear too subtile and refined. I have already observed that power, as distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is nothing but a possibility or probability of existence, by which any object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind. I have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy, appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the power than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the former case, the objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey almost an equal satisfaction as if actually in our possession. Now I assert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we must enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without such a sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon us. An avaricious man is respected for his money, though he scarce is possessed of a _power_; that is, there scarce is a _probability_ or even _possibility_ of his employing it in the acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. To himself alone this power seems perfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his sentiments by sympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, or esteem him upon account of them.

Thus we have found, that the _first_ principle, viz. _the agreeable idea of those objects which riches afford the enjoyment of_, resolves itself in a great measure into the _third_, and becomes a _sympathy_ with the person we esteem or love. Let us now examine the _second_ principle, viz. _the agreeable expectation of advantage_, and see what force we may justly attribute to it.

'Tis obvious, that, though riches and authority undoubtedly give their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be considered as on the same footing with that which they afford him of pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love approaches the power and exercise very near each other in the latter case; but in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. Without that circumstance 'tis difficult to conceive on what we can found our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there is nothing more certain than that we naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before we discover in them any such favourable disposition towards us.

But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the rich and powerful where they show no inclination to serve us, but also when we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they cannot even be supposed to be endowed with that power. Prisoners of war are always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and 'tis certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any person. If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us an argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth, but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom we esteem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected in some measure on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind of expectation.

But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe, with a little attention, those phenomena that occur to us in common life and conversation. A man who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different fortunes and conditions; though 'tis impossible he can ever propose, and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is always admitted into company, and meets with civility in proportion as his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. In short, the different ranks of men are in a great measure regulated by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors, strangers as well as acquaintance.

There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the influence of _general rules_. It may be pretended, that, being accustomed to expect succour and protection from the rich and powerful, and to esteem them upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to those who resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any advantage. The general rule still prevails, and, by giving a bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner as if its proper object were real and existent.

But that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear, if we consider that, in order to establish a general rule, and extend it beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity in our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which are conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is quite otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, there is not perhaps one from whom I can expect advantage, so that 'tis impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.

Upon the whole, there remains nothing which can give us an esteem for power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the pride of _sympathy_, by which we enter into the sentiments of rich and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling the original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of love. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the passion arises according to my hypothesis.

The best method of reconciling us to this opinion, is to take a general survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from one thinking being to another. In all creatures that prey not upon others, and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remarkable desire of company, which associates them together, without any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is still more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. We can form no wish which has not a reference to society. A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions we may be actuated by, pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust, the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of nature conspire to serve and obey one man; let the sun rise and set at his command; the sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him; he will still be miserable, till you give him some one person at least with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy.

This conclusion, from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable. Most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, 'tis seldom we rest there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational creatures. A man who shows us any house or building, takes particular care, among other things, to point out the convenience of the apartments, the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost in the stairs, anti-chambers and passages; and indeed 'tis evident the chief part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation of convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after what manner does it give pleasure? 'Tis certain our own interest is not in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by our sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction that the objects naturally occasion in him.

This observation extends to tables, chairs, scrutoires, chimneys, coaches, saddles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their utility, and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are destined. But this is an advantage that concerns only the owner, nor is there any thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator.

'Tis evident that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will be able to equal this beauty. 'Tis the same case with particular trees and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful as a hill covered with vines or olive trees, though it will never appear so to one who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is a beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to the senses. Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and that to riches, joy, and plenty, in which, though we have no hope of partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and share them in some measure with the proprietor.

There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of balancing the figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper centre of gravity.

A figure which is not justly balanced is disagreeable; and that because it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain; which ideas are painful when by sympathy they acquire any degree of force and vivacity.

Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises strength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but by sympathy.

In general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions, may be often reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. Thus, the pleasure which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again being perceived and sympathized with, increase the pleasure of the possessor, and, being once more reflected, become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original satisfaction in riches derived from that power which they bestow of enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and essence, it must be the first source of all the passions which arise from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is that of love or esteem in others, which, therefore, proceeds from a sympathy with the pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also a secondary satisfaction in riches, arising from the love and esteem he acquires by them; and this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflection of that original pleasure which proceeded from himself. This secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations of riches, and is the chief reason why we either desire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others. Here then is a third rebound of the original pleasure, after which 'tis difficult to distinguish the images and reflections, by reason of their faintness and confusion.

SECTION VI.

OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER.

Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter and impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells, and other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but are endowed with a kind of impenetrability by which they exclude each other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are susceptible of an entire union, and, like colours, may be blended so perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute only to vary that uniform impression which arises from the whole. Some of the most curious phenomena of the human mind are derived from this property of the passions.

In examining those ingredients which are capable of uniting with love and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune that has attended every system of philosophy with which the world has been yet acquainted. 'Tis commonly found, that in accounting for the operations of nature by any particular hypothesis, among a number of experiments that quadrate exactly with the principles we would endeavour to establish, there is always some phenomenon which is more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need not be surprised that this should happen in natural philosophy. The essence and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, I have always hoped to keep clear of those contradictions which have attended every other system. Accordingly, the difficulty which I have at present in my eye is no wise contrary to my system, but only departs a little from that simplicity which has been hitherto its principal force and beauty.

The passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather conjoined with, benevolence and anger. 'Tis this conjunction which chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion which they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery: as hatred produces a desire of the misery, and an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each other, merits our attention.

The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may be accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love and hatred have not only a _cause_ which excites them, viz. pleasure and pain, and an _object_ to which they are directed, viz. a person or thinking being, but likewise an _end_ which they endeavour to attain, viz. the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which views, mixing together, make only one passion. According to this system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, and hatred that of misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very nature of love and hatred. They are not only inseparable, but the same.

But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though 'tis certain we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by the imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. They are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, but not the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred ways, and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves that these desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential part of them.

We may therefore infer, that benevolence and anger are passions different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them by the original constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body certain appetites and inclinations, which she increases, diminishes, or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids, she has proceeded in the same manner with the mind. According as we are possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the happiness or misery of the person who is the object of these passions, arises in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite passions. This order of things, abstractedly considered, is not necessary. Love and hatred might have been unattended with any such desires, or their particular connexion might have been entirely reversed. If nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect as hatred, and hatred as love. I see no contradiction in supposing a desire of producing misery annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. If the sensation of the passion and desire be opposite, nature could have altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that means made them compatible with each other.

SECTION VII.

OF COMPASSION.

But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. _Pity_ is a concern for, and _malice_ a joy in, the misery of others, without any friendship or enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity even strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: and if our ill-will to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine these affections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be secondary ones, arising from original affections, which are varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination.

'Twill be easy to explain the passion of _pity_, from the precedent reasoning concerning _sympathy_. We have a lively idea of every thing related to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance. Their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains and pleasures, must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an emotion similar to the original one, since a lively idea is easily converted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be more so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment.

A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror, indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the persons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator must sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well as every other passion. Unless therefore it be asserted, that every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy above explained, it must be allowed that all of them arise from that principle. To except any one in particular must appear highly unreasonable. As they are all first present in the mind of one person, and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every case the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. I am at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as certain, either in natural philosophy or common life.

Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity, and even sight of the object, which is a proof that 'tis derived from the imagination; not to mention that women and children are most subject to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The same infirmity, which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those whom they find in any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who derive this passion from I know not what subtile reflections on the instability of fortune, and our being liable to the same miseries we behold, will find this observation contrary to them among a great many others, which it were easy to produce.

There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phenomenon of this passion, which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and even arises by a transition from affections which have no existence. Thus, when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and indifference he shows in its enjoyment. In like manner, a man who is not dejected by misfortunes is the more lamented on account of his patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all sense of uneasiness, it still farther increases our compassion. When a person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune, we form a notion of his condition; and, carrying our fancy from the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of his sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, entirely overlooking that greatness of mind which elevates him above such emotions, or only considering it so far as to increase our admiration, love, and tenderness for him. We find from experience, that such a degree of passion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and though there be an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected by the _general rule_, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the passion, or rather feel the passion itself in the same manner as if the person were really actuated by it. From the same principles we blush for the conduct of those who behave themselves foolishly before us, and that though they show no sense of shame, nor seem in the least conscious of their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy, but 'tis of a partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without considering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would entirely destroy that emotion which arises from the first appearance.

We have also instances wherein an indifference and insensibility under misfortune increases our concern for the misfortunate, even though the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. 'Tis an aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any infant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable condition. As we ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched situation of the person, it gives us a lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion that _generally_ attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security and indifference which we observe in the person himself. A contrast of any kind never fails to effect the imagination, especially when presented by the subject; and 'tis on the imagination that pity entirely depends.[6]

[6] To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I oppose the imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that presents our fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it is opposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probable reasonings.

SECTION VIII.

OF MALICE AND ENVY.

We must now proceed to account for the passion of _malice_, which imitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love, and gives us a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or injury on their part.

So little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions, that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their intrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed to any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really estimable, has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as what is defective and ill. This is an _original_ quality of the soul, and similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. Let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will at the same time seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition of the different organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces the same sensation as if less than it really is, and even sometimes as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain that follows a violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as, on the other hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous and uneasy.

This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. But there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and objects. When an object augments or diminishes to the eye or imagination, from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the object are still the same, and are equally extended in the _retina_, and in the brain or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very same manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does even the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of a comparison with others. The question then is, how, from the same impression, and the same idea, we can form such different judgments concerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at another despise its littleness? This variation in our judgments must certainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object, it must lie in some other impression that accompanies it.

In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress of this Treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is accompanied with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned to it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation, and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be easy, by careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them. For, to instance only in the cases of extension and number, 'tis evident that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous collection of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which arises on the appearance of such objects is one of the most lively pleasures which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now, as this admiration increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of the objects, we may conclude, according to our foregoing principles,[7] that 'tis a compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several effects which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then, of extension, and every unite of number, has a separate emotion attending it when conceived by the mind; and though that emotion be not always agreeable, yet, by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of admiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with an evident emotion.

The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence to _general rules_; which has such a mighty influence on the actions and understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an object is found by experience to be always accompanied with another, whenever the first object appears, though changed in very material circumstances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had inferred its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion of our understanding. Nothing can undeceive us, not even our senses, which, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem to authorize its errors.

The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the influence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. Every object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great object with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. A great _object_, therefore, succeeding a small one, makes a great _emotion_ succeed a small one. Now, a great emotion succeeding a small one becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. But as there is a certain degree of an emotion which commonly attends every magnitude of an object, when the emotion increases, we naturally imagine that the object has likewise increased. The effect conveys our view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may change the emotion without changing any thing in the object. Those who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics, and know how we transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the senses, will easily conceive this whole operation.

But leaving this new discovery of an impression that secretly attends every idea, we must at least allow of that principle from whence the discovery arose, _that objects appear greater or less by a comparison with others_. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible we can dispute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle I derive the passions of malice and envy.

'Tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances, in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. Now, as we seldom judge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of them from a comparison with other objects, it follows, that according as we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others, we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or pleasure. The misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our happiness, and his happiness of our misery. The former, therefore, produces delight, and the latter uneasiness.

Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person whom he considers. In general we may observe, that, in all kinds of comparison, an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey. A small object makes a great one appear still greater. A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of itself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure by its contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as, on the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us receive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity it augments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and misery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. His pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure.

Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from the happiness and misery of others, since we find the same comparison may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus, the prospect of past pain is agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition; as, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we enjoy nothing at present equal to them. The comparison being the same as when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with the same effects.

Nay, a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, and increase his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions. _First_, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to him. _Secondly_, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime of which he has been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of comparison that both these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person who indulges himself in any pleasure while his friend lies under affliction, feels the reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison with the original pleasure which he himself enjoys. This contrast, indeed, ought also to enliven the present pleasure. But as grief is here supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to that side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least upon the contrary affection. 'Tis the same case with those penances which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. When a criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is magnified by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction, which forces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable a contrast.

This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of malice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which, by comparison, diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the unprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from the comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to overshade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to augment still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes, the comparison is, less to our advantage, and consequently gives us less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of envy which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or overtaking them in the pursuit of glory or happiness. In this envy we may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison; and when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a new comparison with its preceding condition.

'Tis worthy of observation concerning that envy which arises from a superiority in others, that 'tis not the great disproportion betwixt ourself and another, which produces it; but, on the contrary, our proximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as to his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with so great jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors that more nearly approach him. It may indeed be thought, that the greater the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the comparison. But we may consider on the other hand, that the great disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing ourselves, with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of the comparison. Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may bring two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting quality to join them in the imagination, 'tis impossible they can remain long united, or have any considerable influence on each other.

I have observed, in considering the nature of ambition, that the great feel a double pleasure in authority, from the comparison of their own condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a double influence, because 'tis natural, and presented by the subject. When the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from the one object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great measure broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, as it were, upon a new footing. The impression which attends every object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the same kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their distinct effects, without any communication together. The want of relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by such a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence.

To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be assisted by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or a different age. All these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and consequently the passion.

This too is the reason why all objects appear great or little, merely by a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and a Welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other less, then when viewed apart.

From the same principle we may account for that remark of historians, that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard, rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority, which may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a less sensible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives its several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to be most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations, seeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and by breaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison so much more natural and efficacious. When it cannot break the association, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority; and this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their praises to the Chinese and Persians, at the same time that they depreciate those neighbouring nations which may stand upon a foot of rivalship with their native country.

These examples from history and common experience are rich and curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less remarkable. Should an author compose a treatise, of which one part was serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would condemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect of all rules of art and criticism. These rules of art are founded on the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature, which requires a consistency in every performance, is that which renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and disposition to a quite different one. Yet this makes us not blame Mr Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in the same volume; though that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the reader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why? but because he considers these performances as entirely different, and, by this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other.

An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or difficulty.

In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together by some relation which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and consequently of the emotions or impressions attending the ideas, and may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination to the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, because it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the _understanding_ and the _passions_. Suppose two objects to be presented to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that each of these objects separately produces a passion, and that these two passions are in themselves contrary; we find from experience, that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their opposition. 'Tis the same case with comparison; and from both these phenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must forward the transition of impressions, since its absence alone is able to prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated upon each other. When the absence of an object or quality removes any usual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its presence contributes to the production of the effect.

[7] Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.

SECTION IX.

OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER

WITH COMPASSION AND MALICE.

Thus we have endeavoured to account for _pity_ and _malice_. Both these affections arise from the imagination, according to the light in which it places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. On the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are only the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other passions are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture of love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. But it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be contradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in all other cases, produce hatred, and malice, love. This contradiction I endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner.

In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient to produce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this double relation, we must consider, that 'tis not the present sensation alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the preceding cases, but also when their impulses or directions are similar and correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and humility, because these are only pure sensations, without any direction or tendency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are attended with a certain appetite or desire, such as those of love and hatred.

Benevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery, as anger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery of the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire, therefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happiness, are correspondent to anger. Now, pity is a desire of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence, and malice to anger; and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred, 'tis by this chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and hatred.

This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who, from any motives, has entertained a resolution of performing an action, naturally runs into every other view or motive which may fortify that resolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm us in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from honour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice and anger, being the same desires arising from different principles, should so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to the connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being _original_ and primary, it admits of no difficulty.

We may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevolence and anger, and, consequently, love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery have any dependence on the happiness or misery of another person, without any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.

Suppose that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a town that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the success of one is perfectly incompatible with that of the other; and that whatever is for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and so _vice versa_. Suppose, again, that two merchants, though living in different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership together, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the advantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily attends both. Now, 'tis evident, that, in the first case, hatred always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second, love arises from their union. Let us consider to what principle we can ascribe these passions.

'Tis plain they arise, not from the double relations of impressions and ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For, taking the first case of rivalship, though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet, to counterbalance this, his pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and, supposing him to be unsuccessful, I may, by this means, receive from him a superior degree of satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal proportion; and 'tis easy to imagine that the latter sentiment may, in some cases, preponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner be good or bad, I always hate the former and love the latter.

This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion betwixt us, in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For, as the pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The connexion, then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and if, in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther relation of resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal.

The only explication, then, we can give of this phenomenon, is derived from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our concern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a sensation correspondent to those which appear in any person who is present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the pain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of sentiments as arises from comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel direction of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to benevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived from sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect.

In general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good to others, from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and good will towards them; as the injuries we do not only cause hatred in the person who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phenomena, indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.

But here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill be necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured to prove that power and riches, or poverty and meanness, which give rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or uneasiness, operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce in the person who possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. But 'tis a maxim which I have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary to the explication of the phenomena of pity and malice, "That 'tis not the present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end." For this reason, pity or a sympathy with pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation correspondent to the primary, in which it has the same influence with love and benevolence. Since, then, this rule holds good in one case, why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness ever produce any passion beside good will and kindness? Is it becoming a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one principle to its contrary, according to the particular phenomenon which he would explain?

I have mentioned two different causes from which a transition of passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and impressions, and, what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction of any two desires which arise from different principles. Now I assert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love or tenderness by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on such evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even though it were not necessary to the explication of any phenomenon.

'Tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present moment, but that we often feel, by communication, the pains and pleasures of others which are not in being, and which we only anticipate by the force of imagination. For, supposing I saw a person perfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under foot by horses, I should immediately run to his assistance; and in this I should be actuated by the same principle of sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a stranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, 'tis evident that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it our own concern, and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any real existence.

But however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon our sense of his present condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as to feel these very sentiments; but 'tis impossible we could extend this sympathy to the future without being aided by some circumstance in the present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or future; possible, probable, or certain. By means of this lively notion I am interested in them, take part with them, and feel a sympathetic motion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at the fountain. By this diminution I destroy the future prospect which is necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and never transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the related objects. If it be another's misery which is presented in this feeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all the passions related to it: but as I am not so much interested as to concern myself in his good fortune as well as his bad, I never feel the extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to _it_.

Now, in order to know what passions are related to these different kinds of sympathy, we must consider that benevolence is an original pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain proceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain. In order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, 'tis requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspondent to those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one of them alone sufficient for that purpose. When we sympathize only with one impression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as the extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first sympathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred depends upon the same principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a double tendency of the passions, which is related to benevolence and love by a similarity of direction, however painful the first impression might have been. A weak impression that is painful is related to anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence, therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly sympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly sympathized with; which is the principle I intended to prove and explain.

Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but also experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but a degree beyond causes compassion and good will. We may undervalue a peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very great, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him in his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions, according to its different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The increase of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase of the misery.

A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy with the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, which is disagreeable. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel their adversity.

But though the force of the impression generally produces pity and benevolence, 'tis certain that, by being carried too far, it ceases to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its acquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune; and from that complete sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But 'twill easily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than ordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that double sympathy above mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one, but especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals who go to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome and well-shaped; yet one who is present at the cruel execution of the rack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any opposite sympathy.

But the instance which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is that wherein, by a change of the objects, we separate the double sympathy even from a middling degree of the passion; in which case we find that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives rise to the contrary affection. When we observe a person in misfortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now, for what reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person who suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person who causes it; unless it be because, in the latter case, the author bears a relation only to the misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are sensible of his affliction?

I shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this phenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, may contribute to the production of the kindness which we naturally bear our relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter deeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose to attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and operates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that affection.

SECTION X.

OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT.

There now remains only to explain the passions of _respect_ and _contempt_, along with the _amorous_ affection, in order to understand all the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin with respect and contempt.

In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these two methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and, from the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their bad qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or contempt, according to the light in which we survey them.

That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or appearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture arises from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with ourselves, is no less evident. The same man may cause either respect, love, or contempt, by his condition and talents, according as the person who considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or superior. In changing the point of view, though the object may remain the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the cause of an alteration in the passions. These passions, therefore, arise from our observing the proportion, that is, from a comparison.

I have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles of human nature, to assign a cause for this phenomenon. Whether my reasoning be received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears in many instances. Among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a much greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortified with the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible: Whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouses at the least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it exert itself.

But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of pride when transferred to ourselves; and consequently ought to be causes of humility as well as love while they belong to others, and are only compared to those which we ourselves possess. In like manner every quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought always to give rise to pride by comparison, and, by a mixture of these passions of hatred and pride, ought to excite contempt or scorn. The difficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt.

I have supposed all along that the passions of love and pride, and those of humility and hatred, are similar in their sensations, and that the two former are always agreeable, and that the two latter painful. But though this be universally true, 'tis observable, that the two agreeable as well as the two painful passions, have some differences, and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and enfeeble it. The same difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and shame deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions, 'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember that pride and hatred invigorate the soul, and love and humility enfeeble it.

From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be excited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason why they are excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are _pleasant_ and _magnificent_ objects, and by both these circumstances are adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by their pleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are _disagreeable_ and _mean_, which in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility, and a single one with hatred. We may, therefore, consider it as certain, that though the same object always produces love and pride, humility and hatred, according to its different situations, yet it seldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions in the same proportion.

'Tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility or pride. No quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison, unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; and, _vice versa_, no object excites pride by comparison, unless it would have produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident, objects always produce by _comparison_ a sensation directly contrary to their _original_ one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be presented, which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite pride, this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison; and consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert the love into respect. This is the case with good nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other qualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others; but not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which reason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure love, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. 'Tis easy to extend the same reasoning to the opposite passions.

Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a pretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a distance such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near even in place and situation. It has already been observed, that almost every kind of ideas is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of number and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed of consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with entire indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must feel some faint touches, at least, of respect in the former case, and of contempt in the latter. These two passions are contrary to each other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must be someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and distinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy at seeing such disproportioned objects as a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and a porter, in that situation.

This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the inferior is regarded as a piece of ill breeding, and shows that he is not sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A sense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble the marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach him; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof they are not sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any great _difference_ in the degrees of any quality is called a _distance_ by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded on natural principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines us to produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are, therefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for each other; and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we shall have occasion to observe afterwards.

SECTION XI.

OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES.

Of all the compound passions which proceed from a mixture of love and hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, than that love which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for which it affords us an uncontestable argument. 'Tis plain that this affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction of three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous kindness or good will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be explained from the foregoing reasoning. The question is, how the bodily appetite is excited by it.

The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with all the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness, are all incentives to this desire, as well as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. On the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are destructive of it. From this quality, 'tis easily conceived why it should be connected with the sense of beauty.

But there is another principle that contributes to the same effect. I have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real relation, and, no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces a connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of this relation, we must consider that any principal desire may be attended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to which, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to the principal one. Thus, hunger may oft be considered as the primary inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the secondary one, since 'tis absolutely necessary to the satisfying that appetite. If an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines us to approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as on the contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now, 'tis plain, that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second; which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable to the appetite for generation.

From these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel desire, there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable; and we find from experience, that 'tis indifferent which of them advances first, since any of them is almost sure to be attended with the related affections. One who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who begin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person, and advance from that to the other passions. But the most common species of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. Kindness or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the soul, the other the most gross and vulgar. The love of beauty is placed in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures; from whence it proceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both.

This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable on any hypothesis. The three affections which compose this passion are evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. 'Tis certain, therefore, that 'tis only by their relation they produce each other. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. 'Tis likewise necessary there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty of one person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From one instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest.

This may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions, and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone be the causes of the passions, as having each of them a relation to two contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy each other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already described it. It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a certain object. But this not being sufficient to produce the passion, there is required some other emotion, which, by a double relation of impressions and ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow on them their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object, but also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it, when actuated by that appetite, but the reflecting on it suffices to excite the appetite. But as this cause loses its force by too great frequency, 'tis necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse; and that impulse we find to arise from the _beauty_ of the _person_; that is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this double relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct cause and object, how much more so where it has only a distinct object without any determinate cause!

SECTION XII.

OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS.

But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same affections as they display themselves in brutes, we may observe, not only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation, but likewise that their causes, as above explained, are of so simple a nature that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. There is no force of reflection or penetration required. Every thing is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man, or any one species of animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in favour of the foregoing system.

Love, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every sensible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection.

As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible good or evil which they produce, and from _that_ must regulate their affections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that, by feeding and cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will.

Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our species; and that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations, except in very obvious instances. Yet 'tis easy to remark, that on some occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus, acquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces love in animals, either to men or to each other. For the same reason, any likeness among them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a park with horses, will naturally join their company, if I may so speak, but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the choice of both.

The affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar instinct in animals, as well as in our species.

'Tis evident that _sympathy_, or the communication of passions, takes place among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage, and other affections, are frequently communicated from one animal to another, without their knowledge of that cause which produced the original passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy, and produces almost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions, as in our species. The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible concern in his fellows. And 'tis remarkable, that though almost all animals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; a lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws; an ox, his horns; a dog, his teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid harming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his resentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each other's pain and pleasure.

Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt in a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and 'tis evident this can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. 'Tis also well known to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in too great a degree, where too packs that are strangers to each other are joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this phenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves.

Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and imagination.