ents we can employ to assist the imagination in conceiving the situation of the sufferer.

But, abstracting from these considerations, and granting the second proposition in all its extent, the third proposition is by no means a necessary consequence of it; for, even in those cases in which we endeavour to awaken our compassion for the sufferings of our neighbour by conceiving ourselves placed in his situation, our compassion is not founded on a belief that the sufferings are ours. So long as we conceive ourselves in distress, we feel a certain degree of uneasiness; but this is not the uneasiness of compassion. In order to excite this we must apply to our neighbour the result of what we have experienced in ourselves; or in other words, having formed an idea of what he suffers by bringing his case home to ourselves, we must carry our attention back to him before he becomes the object of our pity. Nor is there any thing mysterious or wonderful in this process of the mind. That we are so formed as to expect that the operation of the same cause, in similar circumstances, will be attended with the same result, might be shown from a thousand instances. It is thus, that, having tried a physical experiment on certain substances, I take for granted that the result of a similar experiment, on similar substances, will be the same. It is thus that I conclude with the most perfect confidence, that a wound given to my body in a particular organ would be instantly fatal; although it is worthy of remark, that in this case I have no direct evidence from experience that the internal structure of my body is similar to those of the bodies which anatomists have hitherto examined. Now, I apprehend, it is in the same manner, that, having once experienced the pain produced by an instrument of torture applied to myself, I take for granted that the effect will be the same when it is applied to another. In consequence of this application the sentiment of compassion arises in my mind, during the continuance of which my attention is completely engrossed, not about myself, but about the real sufferer.

And indeed, if the case were otherwise, compassion

would be ultimately resolvable into a selfish principle, and those men would be most ready to feel the distresses of others who are most impatient of their own. A remark similar to this (as I already observed) is made by Dr. Butler, with respect to a theory of Hobbes, who defines pity to be the fiction of future calamity to ourselves from the sight of the present calamity of another. "Were this the case," says Butler," the most fearful tempers would be the most compassionate." According to Mr. Smith, pity arises from the fiction, not of future, but of present calamity to ourselves. The two theories approach very nearly to each other, and the same answer is applicable to both.*

In further proof that the distress produced by the sufferings of others arises from a conception that these distresses are our own, Mr. Smith mentions a variety of facts which he thinks establish his doctrine with demonstrative evidence. "When we see a stroke aimed and just ready to fall on the leg or arm of another person, we naturally shrink and draw back our own leg or our own arm, and when it does fall we feel it in some measure, and are hurt by it as well as the sufferer. The mob, when they are gazing at a dancer on the slack rope, naturally writhe and twist and balance their own bodies as they see him do, and as they feel that they must themselves do, if in his situation."—" In general," he observes, "that as to be in pain or distress of any kind excites the most excessive sorrow, so to conceive or to imagine that we are in it, excites some degree of the same emotion, in proportion to the vivacity or dulness of the conception."

•So far indeed is it from being true that those who are most impatient under their personal distresses are the most prone to commiserate the sorrows of others, that I apprehend the reverse of this supposition will be found agreeable to universal experience. The most unfeeling characters I have ever known have been men not only tremblingly alive to the slightest evil which affected themselves, but whose whole attention seemed manifestly to be engrossed with their own comforts and luxuries. On the other hand, the nearest approaches I have happened to witness to stoical patience and fortitude under severe suffering have been invariably accompanied with a peculiarly strong disposition to social tenderness and sympathy. Gray alludes to this contrast in his Hymn to Adversity :

"To each his sufferings; all are men
Condemned alike to groan;

The feeling for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own."

The facts here appealed to by Mr. Smith are indeed extremely curious, and I do not pretend to explain them. They are not, however, singular facts in our constitution, but belong to that class of phenomena, which medical writers refer to what they call the Principle of Imitation.* Of this kind are the contagious effects of hysterics—of yawning of laughter-of crying, &c. In these last cases Mr. Smith would suppose, if he were to apply the same reasoning he uses in analogous instances, that the effect arises from our conceiving ludicrous or sorrowful ideas similar to those by which these emotions are produced. But the primary effect seems to be produced on the body, and the secondary effect on the mind; somewhat in the same manner in which we can excite a sensible degree of the passion of anger in our own breast by imitating the looks and gestures which are expressive of rage. It does not appear to me that this bodily contagion of the expression of passion has any immediate connexion with our fellow feeling with distress. If it had, those would be most liable to it who felt the most deeply for the sorrows of others,-a conclusion which is certainly not agreeable to fact. During the madness of Belvidera, those who are most powerfully affected by the representation are not the nervous ladies who catch from the actress something similar to a hysteric paroxysm; but they who, retaining their own reason, reflect on the train of misfortunes which have unhinged her mind, and who weep for her madness, not so much as a misfortune in itself, as an indication of that conflict of passions by which it was produced. The effect in the former case depends on a peculiar irritability and mobility of the bodily frame altogether unconnected with any of the moral sympathies or sensibilities of our nature.

* In the Philosophy of the Human Mind, Vol. III. I have distinguished this law of our nature by the more precise and unequivocal title of the principle of Sympathetic Imitation.

SECTION VI.

Of Resentment and the various other angry Affections grafted upon it, (commonly considered by Ethical Writers as Malevolent Affections.)

THE names which are given to these affections in common discourse are various, Hatred, Jealousy, Envy, Revenge, Misanthropy; but it may be doubted if there be any principle of this kind implanted by nature in the mind, excepting the principle of Resentment, the others being grafted on this stock by our erroneous opinions and criminal habits.

Emulation, indeed, (which is unquestionably an original principle of action) is treated of by Dr. Reid under the title of the Malevolent Affections. But I formerly gave my reasons for classing this principle with the desires, and not with the affections. I acknowledged, indeed, that emulation is often accompanied with ill will to our rival; but the malevolent affection is only a concomitant circumstance; and it is not the affection, but the desire of superiority, which can be justly regarded as the active principle.

Nor is this sentiment of ill will a necessary concomitant of the desire of superiority; for there is unquestionably a solid distinction between emulation and envy, the latter of which is a corruption of the former, disgraceful to the character, and ruinous to the happiness of whoever indulges it. In the case of envy the malevolent affection arises, I believe, generally from some error of the judgment, or some illusion of the imagination, leading us to refer the cause of our own want of success either to some injustice on the part of our rival, or to an unjust partiality in the world which overrates his merits and undervalues ours. In both of these cases the desire of superiority generates malevolent affections, by first leading us to apprehend injustice, and thus exciting the natural passion of resentment.

Before proceeding to consider this principle of action, it may be proper again to remark, that, when the epithet malevolent is appled to it, that word must not be

understood to imply any thing criminal, at least so long as resentment is restrained within proper bounds, after having been originally excited by real injustice. The epithet malevolent is used only to express that temporary ill will towards the author of the apprehended injustice with which resentment is necessarily accompanied till it begins to subside.

One of the first authors who examined with success this part of our constitution, and illustrated the important purposes to which it is subservient, was Bishop Butler, in an excellent discourse printed among his Sermons. The hints he has thrown out have evidently been of great use both to Lord Kames and Mr. Smith in their speculations concerning the principles of morals.

To Butler we are indebted for the illustration of a very important distinction (which had been formerly hinted at by Hobbes) between instinctive and deliberate resentment. Instinctive resentment operates in men exactly as in the lower animals, arising necessarily from any feeling of pain excited by external objects, and prompting us to a retaliation upon the cause of our suffering without any exercise whatever of reflection and reason. It is thus that a child beats the ground after it has hurt itself by a fall, and that we sometimes see a passionate man wreak his vengeance on inanimate objects by dashing them to pieces. This species of resentment, however, subsides instantly, and we are ready next moment to smile at the absurdity of our conduct.

Deliberate resentment is excited only by intentional injury, and therefore implies a sense of justice, or of moral good or evil. It is plainly peculiar to a rational nature, and perhaps it is not very distinguishable from instinctive or animal resentment in the ruder state of our own species. It is observed by Dr. Robertson, that "the desire of vengeance which takes possession of the heart of savages resembles the instinctive rage of an animal rather than the passion of a man, and that it turns with undiscerning fury even against inanimate objects." He adds, "that, if struck with an arrow in battle, they will tear it from the wound, break and bite it with their teeth, and dash it on the ground."*

America, Vol. I. pp. 351, 352.