The Theory of Moral Sentiments

f the origin of ambition, and of the distinction of ranks.

It is because mankind are disposed to sympathize

more entirely with our joy than with our sorrow,

that we make parade of our riches, and conceal

our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying as to

75be obliged to expose our distress to the view of the

public, and to feel, that though our situation is

open to the eyes of all mankind, no mortal conceives

for us the half of what we suffer. Nay, it

is chiefly from this regard to the sentiments of

mankind, that we pursue riches and avoid poverty.

For to what purpose is all the toil and bustle of

this world? what is the end of avarice and ambition,

of the pursuit of wealth, of power, and pre-eminence?

Is it to supply the necessities of nature?

The wages of the meanest labourer can

supply them. We see that they afford him food

and clothing, the comfort of a house, and of a family.

If we examine his œconomy with rigor, we

should find that he spends a great part of them upon

conveniences, which may be regarded as superfluities,

and that, upon extraordinary occasions, he

can give something even to vanity and distinction.

What then is the cause of our aversion to his situation,

and why should those who have been educated

in the higher ranks of life, regard it as worse than

death, to be reduced to live, even without labour,

upon the same simple fare with him, to dwell under

the same lowly roof, and to be clothed in the

same humble attire? Do they imagine that their

stomach is better, or their sleep sounder in a palace

than in a cottage? the contrary has been so often

observed, and, indeed, is so very obvious, though it

had never been observed, that there is no body ignorant

of it. From whence, then, arises that emulation

which runs through all the different ranks

of men, and what are the advantages which we

propose by that great purpose of human life which

we call bettering our condition? To be observed,

76to be attended to, to be taken notice of with sympathy,

complacency, and approbation, are all the

advantages which we can propose to derive from

it. It is the vanity, not the ease, or the pleasure,

which interests us. But vanity is always founded

upon the belief of our being the object of attention

and approbation. The rich man glories in

his riches, because he feels that they naturally draw

upon him the attention of the world, and that

mankind are disposed to go along with him in all

those agreeable emotions with which the advantages

of his situation so readily inspire him. At

the thought of this, his heart seems to swell

and dilate itself within him, and he is fonder of

his wealth upon this account, than for all the

other advantages it procures him. The poor man,

on the contrary, is ashamed of his poverty. He

feels that it either places him out of the sight of

mankind, or, that, if they take any notice of him,

they have, however, scarce any fellow-feeling with

the misery and distress which he suffers. He is

mortified upon both accounts; for though to be

overlooked, and to be disapproved of, are things

entirely different, yet as obscurity covers us from

the daylight of honour and approbation, to feel

that we are taken no notice of necessarily damps

the most agreeable hope, and disappoints the most

ardent desire, of human nature. The poor man

goes out and comes in unheeded, and when in the

midst of a croud is in the same obscurity as if shut

up in his own hovel. Those humble cares and

painful attentions which occupy those in his situation,

afford no amusement to the dissipated and the

gay. They turn away their eyes from him, or if

the extremity of his distress forces them to look

77at him, it is only to spurn so disagreeable an object

from among them. The fortunate and the proud

wonder at the insolence of human wretchedness,

that it should dare to present itself before them,

and with the loathsome aspect of its misery, presume

to disturb the serenity of their happiness. The

man of rank and distinction, on the contrary, is

observed by all the world. Every body is eager to

look at him, and to conceive, at least by sympathy,

that joy and exultation with which his

circumstances naturally inspire him. His actions

are the objects of the public care. Scarce a word,

scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether

neglected. In a great assembly he is the person

upon whom all direct their eyes; it is upon him that

their passions seem all to wait with expectation,

in order to receive that movement and direction

which he shall impress upon them; and if his

behaviour is not altogether absurd, he has, every

moment, an opportunity of interesting mankind,

and of rendering himself the object of

the observation and fellow-feeling of every body

about him. It is this, which notwithstanding the

restraint it imposes, notwithstanding the loss of liberty

with which it is attended, renders greatness

the object of envy, and compensates in the opinion

of mankind, all that toil, all that anxiety, all

those mortifications which must be undergone in

the pursuit of it; and what is of yet more consequence,

all that leisure, all that ease, all that

careless security, which are forfeited for ever by the

acquisition.

When we consider the condition of the great,

in those delusive colours in which the imagination

is apt to paint it, it seems to be almost the abstract

78idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the

very state which, in all our waking dreams and

idle reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves as

the final object of all our desires. We feel, therefore,

a peculiar sympathy with the satisfaction of

those who are in it. We favour all their inclinations,

and forward all their wishes. What

pity, we think, that any thing should spoil and

corrupt so agreeable a situation! We could even

wish them immortal; and it seems hard to us,

that death should at last put an end to such perfect

enjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature,

to compel them from their exalted stations

to that humble, but hospitable home, which she

has provided for all her children. Great King,

live for ever! is the compliment, which after the

manner of eastern adulation, we should readily

make them, if experience did not teach us its

absurdity. Every calamity that befalls them, every

injury that is done them, excites in the breast of

the spectator ten times more compassion and resentment

than he would have felt, had the same

things happened to other men. It is the misfortunes

of Kings only which afford the proper subjects

for tragedy. They resemble, in this respect,

the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations

are the chief which interest us upon the

theatre; because, in spite of all that reason and

experience can tell us to the contrary, the prejudices

of the imagination attach to these two

states a happiness superior to any other. To disturb,

or to put an end to such perfect enjoyment,

seems to be the most atrocious of all injuries.

The traitor who conspires against the life

of his monarch, is thought a greater monster than

79any other murderer. All the innocent blood that

was shed in the civil wars, provoked less indignation

than the death of Charles I. A stranger

to human nature, who saw the indifference of

men about the misery of their inferiors, and the

regret and indignation which they feel for the

misfortunes and sufferings of those above them,

would be apt to imagine, that pain must be more

agonizing, and the convulsions of death more terrible

to persons of higher rank, than to those of

meaner stations.

Upon this disposition of mankind, to go along

with all the passions of the rich and the powerful,

is founded the distinction of ranks, and the order

of society. Our obsequiousness to our superiors

more frequently arises from our admiration for

the advantages of their situation, than from any

private expectations of benefit from their good-will.

Their benefits can extend but to a few;

but their fortunes interest almost every body. We

are eager to assist them in compleating a system

of happiness that approaches so near to perfection;

and we desire to serve them for their own

sake, without any other recompense but the vanity

or the honour of obliging them. Neither is

our deference to their inclinations founded chiefly,

or altogether, upon a regard to the utility of such

submission, and to the order of society, which is

best supported by it. Even when the order of society

seems to require that we should oppose them,

we can hardly bring ourselves to do it. That kings

are the servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted,

deposed, or punished, as the public conveniency

may require, is the doctrine of reason

and philosophy; but it is not the doctrine of

80Nature. Nature would teach us to submit to

them, for their own sake, to tremble and bow

down before their exalted station, to regard their

smile as a reward sufficient to compensate any

services, and to dread their displeasure, though

no other evil was to follow from it, as the severest

of all mortifications. To treat them in

any respect as men, to reason and dispute with

them upon ordinary occasions, requires such resolution,

that there are few men whose magnanimity

can support them in it, unless they are

likewise assisted by familiarity and acquaintance.

The strongest motives, the most furious passions,

fear, hatred, and resentment, are scarce sufficient

to balance this natural disposition to respect them:

and their conduct must, either justly or unjustly,

have excited the highest degree of all those passions,

before the bulk of the people can be brought

to oppose them with violence, or to desire to see

them either punished or deposed. Even when

the people have been brought this length, they

are apt to relent every moment, and easily relapse

into their habitual state of deference to those

whom they have been accustomed to look upon

as their natural superiors. They cannot stand the

mortification of their monarch. Compassion soon

takes the place of resentment, they forget all past

provocations, their old principles of loyalty revive,

and they run to re-establish the ruined authority

of their old master, with the same violence

with which they had opposed it. The death

of Charles I. brought about the Restoration of the

royal family. Compassion for James II. when he

was seized by the populace in making his escape

on ship-board, had almost prevented the Revolution,

81and made it go on more heavily than

before.

Do the great seem insensible of the easy price

at which they may acquire the public admiration;

or do they seem to imagine that to them,

as to other men, it must be the purchase either of

sweat or of blood? By what important accomplishments

is the young nobleman instructed to

support the dignity of his rank, and to render

himself worthy of that superiority over his fellow-citizens,

to which the virtue of his ancestors had

raised them? Is it by knowledge, by industry,

by patience, by self-denial, or by virtue of any

kind? As all his words, as all his motions are

attended to, he learns an habitual regard to every

circumstance of ordinary behaviour, and studies to

perform all those small duties with the most exact

propriety. As he is conscious how much he

is observed, and how much mankind are disposed

to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon the

most indifferent occasions, with that freedom and

elevation which the thought of this naturally

inspires. His air, his manner, his deportment, all

mark that elegant and graceful sense of his own

superiority, which those who are born to inferior

stations can hardly ever arrive at: these are the

arts by which he proposes to make mankind more

easily submit to his authority, and to govern their

inclinations according to his own pleasure: and

in this he is seldom disappointed. These arts,

supported by rank and pre-eminence, are, upon

ordinary occasions, sufficient to govern the world.

Lewis XIV. during the greater part of his reign,

was regarded, not only in France, but over all

82Europe, as the most perfect model of a great

prince. But what were the talents and virtues by

which he acquired this great reputation? Was it

by the scrupulous and inflexible justice of all his

undertakings, by the immense dangers and difficulties

with which they were attended, or by

the unwearied and unrelenting application with

which he pursued them? Was it by his extensive

knowledge, by his exquisite judgment, or by his

heroic valour? It was by none of these qualities.

But he was, first of all, the most powerful prince

in Europe, and consequently held the highest rank

among kings; and then, says his historian, “he

surpassed all his courtiers in the gracefulness of

his shape, and the majestic beauty of his features.

The sound of his voice, noble and affecting,

gained those hearts which his presence intimidated.

He had a step and deportment which

could suit only him and his rank, and which

would have been ridiculous in any other person.

The embarrassment which he occasioned

to those who spoke to him, flattered that secret

satisfaction with which he felt his own superiority.

The old officer, who was confounded

and faultered in asking him a favour, and not

being able to conclude his discourse, said to him,

Sir, your majesty, I hope, will believe that I

do not tremble thus before your enemies: had

no difficulty to obtain what he demanded.”

These frivolous accomplishments, supported by his

rank, and, no doubt, too, by a degree of other

talents and virtues, which seems, however, not

to have been much above mediocrity, established

this prince in the esteem of his own age, and

have drawn, even from posterity, a good deal of

83respect for his memory. Compared with those

of his own times, and in his own presence, no

other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit.

Knowledge, industry, valour, and beneficence,

trembled, were abashed, and lost all dignity before

them.

But it is not by accomplishments of this kind,

that the man of inferior rank must hope to distinguish

himself. Politeness is so much the virtue

of the great, that it will do little honour to any

body but themselves. The coxcomb, who imitates

their manner, and affects to be eminent by

the superior propriety of his ordinary behaviour,

is rewarded with a double share of contempt for his

folly and presumption. Why should the man, whom

nobody thinks it worth while to look at, be very

anxious about the manner in which he holds up his

head, or disposes of his arms while he walks through

a room? He is occupied surely with a very superfluous

attention, and with an attention too that

marks a sense of his own importance, which no

other mortal can go along with. The most perfect

modesty and plainness, joined to as much negligence

as is consistent with the respect due to

the company, ought to be the chief characteristics

of the behaviour of a private man. If ever

he hopes to distinguish himself, it must be by

more important virtues. He must acquire dependants

to balance the dependants of the great,

and he has no other fund to pay them from,

but the labour of his body, and the activity of

his mind. He must cultivate these therefore: he

must acquire superior knowledge in his profession,

and superior industry in the exercise of it. He

84must be patient in labour, resolute in danger, and

firm in distress. These talents he must bring into

public view, by the difficulty, importance, and, at

the same time, good judgment of his undertakings,

and by the severe and unrelenting application

with which he pursues them. Probity and prudence,

generosity and frankness, must characterize

his behaviour upon all ordinary occasions;

and he must, at the same time, be forward to

engage in all those situations in which it requires

the greatest talents and virtues to act with propriety,

but in which the greatest applause is to

be acquired by those who can acquit themselves

with honour. With what impatience does the man

of spirit and ambition, who is depressed by his

situation, look round for some great opportunity

to distinguish himself? No circumstances,

which can afford this, appear to him undesirable.

He even looks forward with satisfaction to the

prospect of foreign war, or civil dissension; and,

with secret transport and delight, sees through

all the confusion and bloodshed which attend them,

the probability of those wished for occasions presenting

themselves, in which he may draw upon himself

the attention and admiration of mankind. The

man of rank and distinction, on the contrary,

whose whole glory consists in the propriety of his

ordinary behaviour, who is contented with the

humble renown which this can afford him, and

has no talents to acquire any other, is unwilling

to embarrass himself with what can be attended

either with difficulty or distress. To figure at a

ball is his great triumph, and to succeed in

an intrigue of gallantry, his highest exploit. He

has an aversion to all public confusions, not from

85the love of mankind, for the great never look

upon their inferiors as their fellow-creatures; nor

yet from want of courage, for in that he is seldom

defective; but from a consciousness that he

possesses none of the virtues which are required

in such situations, and that the public attention

will certainly be drawn away from him by others.

He may be willing to expose himself to some

little danger, and to make a campaign when it

happens to be the fashion. But he shudders with

horror at the thought of any situation which demands

the continual and long exertion of patience,

industry, fortitude, and application of thought.

These virtues are hardly ever to be met with in

men who are born to those high stations. In all governments

accordingly, even in monarchies, the

highest offices are generally possessed, and the whole

detail of the administration conducted by men who

were educated in the middle and inferior ranks of

life, who have been carried forward by their own

industry and abilities, though loaded with the

jealousy, and opposed by the resentment of all those

who were born their superiors, and to whom the

great, after having regarded them first with contempt,

and afterwards with envy, are at last contented

to truckle with the same abject meanness

with which they desire that the rest of mankind

should behave to themselves.

It is the loss of this easy empire over the affections

of mankind which renders the fall from

greatness so insupportable. When the family of

the King of Macedon was led in triumph by

Paulus Æmilius, their misfortunes, it is said, made

them divide with their conqueror the attention

86of the Roman people. The sight of the royal

children, whose tender age rendered them insensible

of their situation, struck the spectators, amidst

the public rejoicings and prosperity, with

the tenderest sorrow and compassion. The King

appeared next in the procession; and seemed like

one confounded and astonished, and bereft of all

sentiment, by the greatness of his calamities. His

friends and ministers followed after him. As they

moved along, they often cast their eye upon their

fallen sovereign, and always burst into tears at the

sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating that

they thought not of their misfortunes, but were

occupied entirely by the superior greatness of his.

The generous Romans, on the contrary, beheld

him with disdain and indignation, and regarded

as unworthy of all compassion the man who could

be so mean-spirited as to bear to live under such

calamities. Yet what did those calamities amount

to? According to the greater part of historians,

he was to spend the remainder of his days under

the protection of a powerful and humane

people, in a state which in itself should seem

worthy of envy, a state of plenty, ease, leisure, and

security, from which it was impossible for him

even by his own folly to fall. But he was no

longer to be surrounded by that admiring mob

of fools, flatterers, and dependants, who had formerly

been accustomed to attend upon all his

motions. He was no longer to be gazed upon

by multitudes, nor to have it in his power to

render himself the object of their respect, their

gratitude, their love, their admiration. The passions

of nations were no longer to mould themselves

87upon his inclinations. This was that insupportable

calamity which bereaved the King of all

sentiment; which made his friends forget their own

misfortunes; and which the Roman magnanimity

could scarce conceive how any man could be so

mean-spirited as to bear to survive.

“Love, says my Lord Rochefoucault, is commonly

succeeded by ambition; but ambition

is hardly ever succeeded by love.” That passion

when once it has got entire possession of

the breast, will admit neither a rival nor a successor.

To those who have been accustomed to

the possession, or even to the hope of public admiration,

all other pleasures sicken and decay. Of

all the discarded statesmen who for their own

ease have studied to get the better of ambition,

and to despise those honours which they could no

longer arrive at, how few have been able to succeed?

The greater part have spent their time in

the most listless and insipid indolence, chagrined

at the thoughts of their own insignificancy, incapable

of being interested in the occupations

of private life, without enjoyment except when

they talked of their former greatness, and without

satisfaction except when they were employed

in some vain project to recover it. Are you in

earnest resolved never to barter your liberty for

the lordly servitude of a Court, but to live free,

fearless, and independent? There seems to be one

way to continue in that virtuous resolution; and

perhaps but one. Never enter the place from

whence so few have been able to return; never

come within the circle of ambition; nor even bring

yourself into comparison with those masters of the

88earth who have already engrossed the attention of

half mankind before you.

Of such mighty importance does it appear to be,

in the imaginations of men, to stand in that situation

which sets them most in the view of general sympathy

and attention. And thus, place, that great object

which divides the wives of aldermen, is the end

of half the labours of life; and is the cause of all the

tumult and bustle, all the rapine and injustice, which

avarice and ambition have introduced into this world.

People of sense, it is said, indeed despise place; that

is, they despise sitting at the head of the table, and

are indifferent who it is that is pointed out to the

company by that frivolous circumstance, which the

smallest advantage is capable of overbalancing. But

rank, distinction, pre-eminence, no man despises,

unless he is either raised very much above, or sunk

very much below, the ordinary standard of human

nature; unless he is either so confirmed in wisdom

and real philosophy, as to be satisfied that, while the

propriety of his conduct renders him the just object

of approbation, it is of little consequence though he

be neither attended to, nor approved of; or so habituated

to the idea of his own meanness, so sunk in

slothful and sottish indifference, as entirely to have

forgot the desire, and almost the very wish, for superiority.

89