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Part ISections I - VII.
Sections I - VII.
Section I.
Novelty
The first and the simplest emotion which we discover in the human mind,
is Curiosity. By curiosity, I mean whatever desire we have for, or whatever
pleasure we take in, novelty. We see children perpetually running from place
to place, to hunt out something new: they catch with great eagerness, and with
very little choice, at whatever comes before them; their attention is engaged
by everything, because everything has, in that stage of life, the charm of
novelty to recommend it. But as those things, which engage us merely by their
novelty, cannot attach us for any length of time, curiosity is the most
superficial of all the affections; it changes its object perpetually, it has
an appetite which is very sharp, but very easily satisfied; and it has always
an appearance of giddiness, restlessness, and anxiety. Curiosity, from its
nature, is a very active principle; it quickly runs over the greatest part of
its objects, and soon exhausts the variety which is commonly to be met with
in nature; the same things make frequent returns, and they return with less
and less of any agreeable effect. In short, the occurrences of life, by the
time we come to know it a little, would be incapable of affecting the mind
with any other sensations than those of loathing and weariness, if many things
were not adapted to affect the mind by means of other powers besides novelty
in them, and of other passions besides curiosity in ourselves. These powers
and passions shall be considered in their place. But whatever these powers
are, or upon what principle soever they affect the mind, it is absolutely
necessary that they should not be exerted in those things which a daily and
vulgar use have brought into a stale unaffecting familiarity. Some degree
of novelty must be one of the materials in every instrument which works upon
the mind; and curiosity blends itself more or less with all our passions.
Sect. II.
Pain And Pleasure
It seems then necessary towards moving the passions of people advanced
in life to any considerable degree, that the objects designed for that
purpose, besides their being in some measure new, should be capable of
exciting pain or pleasure from other causes. Pain and pleasure are simple
ideas, incapable of definition. People are not liable to be mistaken in
their feelings, but they are very frequently wrong in the names they give
them, and in their reasonings about them. Many are of the opinion, that pain
arises necessarily from the removal of some pleasure; as they think pleasure
does from the ceasing or diminution of some pain. For my part, I am rather
inclined to imagine, that pain and pleasure, in their most simple and
natural manner of affecting, are each of a positive nature, and by no means
necessarily dependent on each other for their existence. The human mind is
often, and I think it is for the most part, in a state neither of pain nor
pleasure, which I call a state of indifference. When I am carried from this
state into a state of actual pleasure, it does not appear necessary that I
should pass through the medium of any sort of pain. If in such a state of
indifference, or ease, or tranquillity, or call it what you please, you were
to be suddenly entertained with a concert of music; or suppose some object
of a fine shape, and bright, lively colours, to be presented before you; or
imagine your smell is gratified with the fragrance of a rose; or if without
any previous thirst you were to drink of some pleasant kind of wine, or to
taste of some sweetmeat without being hungry; in all the several senses,
of hearing, smelling and tasting, you undoubtedly find a pleasure; yet if
I inquire into the state of your mind previous to these gratifications, you
will hardly tell me that they found you in any kind of pain; or, having
satisfied these several senses with their several pleasures, will you say
that any pain has succeeded, though the pleasure is absolutely over? Suppose
on the other hand, a man in the same state of indifference, to receive a
violent blow, or to drink of some bitter potion, or to have his ears wounded
with some harsh and grating sound; here is no removal of pleasure; and yet
here is felt in every sense which is affected, a pain very distinguishable.
It may be said, perhaps, that the pain in these cases had its rise from the
removal of the pleasure which the man enjoyed before, though that pleasure
was of so low a degree as to be perceived only by the removal. But this
seems to me a subtilty that is not discoverable in nature. For if, previous
to the pain, I do not feel any actual pleasure, I have no reason to judge
that any such thing exists; since pleasure is only pleasure as it is felt.
The same may be said of pain, and with equal reason. I can never persuade
myself that pleasure and pain are mere relations, which can only exist as they
are contrasted; but I think I can discern clearly that there are positive
pains and pleasures, which do not at all depend upon each other. Nothing is
more certain to my own feelings than this. There is nothing which I can
distinguish in my mind with more clearness than the three states, of
indifference, of pleasure, and of pain. Every one of these I can perceive
without any sort of idea of its relation to anything else. Caius is afflicted
with a fit of the colic; this man is actually in pain; stretch Caius upon
the rack, he will feel a much greater pain: but does this pain of the rack
arise from the removal of any pleasure? or is the fit of the colic a pleasure
or a pain, just as we are pleased to consider it?
Sect. III.
The Difference Between The Removal Of Pain, And Positive Pleasure
[Footnote 1: Mr. Locke [Essay on the Human Understanding, 1 ii. c. 20, sect.
16] thinks that the removal or lessening of a pain is considered and operates
as a pleasure, and the loss or diminishing of pleasure as a pain. It is this
opinion which we consider here.]
We shall carry this proposition yet a step farther. We shall venture
to propose, that pain and pleasure are not only not necessarily dependent
for their existence on their mutual diminution or removal, but that, in
reality, the diminution or ceasing of pleasure does not operate like positive
pain; and that the removal or diminution of pain, in its effect, has very
little resemblance to positive pleasure.^1 The former of these propositions
will, I believe, be much more readily allowed than the latter; because
it is very evident that pleasure, when it has run its career, sets us down
very nearly where it found us. Pleasure of every kind quickly satisfies; and
when it is over, we relapse into indifference, or rather we fall into a soft
tranquillity, which is tinged with the agreeable colour of the former
sensation. I own it is not at first view so apparent, that the removal of a
great pain does not resemble positive pleasure; but let us recollect in what
state we have found our minds upon escaping some imminent danger, or on being
released from the severity of some cruel pain. We have on such occasions
found, if I am not much mistaken, the temper of our minds in a tenor very
remote from that which attends the presence of positive pleasure; we have
found them in a state of much sobriety, impressed with a sense of awe, in a
sort of tranquillity shadowed with horror. The fashion of the countenance and
the gesture of the body on such occasions is so correspondent to this state
of mind, that any person, a stranger to the cause of the appearance, would
rather judge us under some consternation, than in the enjoyment of anything
like positive pleasure.
`Ms d` or "av avdp` "arn nuklvn` XaBn, "obr` `evl` narpn
pwra karakteivas, "aXXwv eEiketo dnmov,
`Avodpbs es apvelou, OamBos d exel eiboPowvras.
Iliad. M. 480.
As when a wretch, who, conscious of his crime,
Pursued for murder from his native clime,
Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amazed;
All gaze, all wonder!
This striking appearance of the man whom Homer supposes to have just escaped
an imminent danger, the sort of mixed passion of terror and surprise, with
which he affects the spectators, paints very strongly the manner in which we
find ourselves affected upon occasions any way similar. For when we have
suffered from any violent emotion, the mind naturally continues in something
like the same condition, after the cause which first produced it has ceased to
operate. The tossing of the sea remains after the storm; and when this remain
of horror has entirely subsided, all the passion, which the accident raised,
subsides along with it; and the mind returns to its usual state of
indifference. In short, pleasure (I mean anything either in the inward
sensation, or in the outward appearance, like pleasure from a positive cause)
has never, I imagine, its origin from the removal of pain or danger.
Sect. IV.
Of Delight And Pleasure As Opposed To Each Other
But shall we therefore say, that the removal of pain or its diminution is
always simply painful? or affirm that the cessation or the lessening of
pleasure is always attended itself with a pleasure? By no means. What I
advance is no more than this; first, that there are pleasures and pains of a
positive and independent nature; and, secondly, that the feeling which results
from the ceasing or diminution of pain does not bear a sufficient resemblance
to positive pleasure, to have it considered as of the same nature, or to
entitle it to be known by the same name; and, thirdly, that upon the same
principle the removal or qualification of pleasure has no resemblance to
positive pain. It is certain that the former feeling (the removal or
moderation of pain) has something in it far from distressing or disagreeable
in its nature. This feeling, in many cases so agreeable, but in all so
different from positive pleasure, has no name which I know; but that hinders
not its being a very real one, and very different from all others. It is most
certain that every species of satisfaction or pleasure, how different soever
in its manner of affecting, is of a positive nature in the mind of him who
feels it. The affection is undoubtedly positive; but the cause may be, as in
this case it certainly is, a sort of Privation. And it is very reasonable that
we should distinguish by some term two things so distinct in nature, as a
pleasure that is such simply, and without any relation, from that pleasure
which cannot exist without a relation, and that too a relation to pain. Very
extraordinary it would be, if these affections, so distinguishable in their
causes, so different in their effects, should be confounded with each other,
because vulgar use has ranged them under the same general title. Whenever I
have occasion to speak of this species of relative pleasure, I call it
Delight; and I shall take the best care I can to use that word in no other
sense. I am satisfied the word is not commonly used in this appropriated
signification; but I thought it better to take up a word already known, and to
limit its signification, than to introduce a new one, which would not perhaps
incorporate so well with the language. I should never have presumed the least
alteration in our words, if the nature of the language, framed for the
purposes of business rather than those of philosophy, and the nature of my
subject, that leads me out of the common track of discourse, did not in a
manner necessitate me to it. I shall make use of this liberty with all
possible caution. As I make use of the world Delight to express the sensation
which accompanies the removal of pain or danger; so when I speak of positive
pleasure, I shall for the most part call it simply Pleasure.
Sect. V.
Joy And Grief
It must be observed that the cessation of pleasure affects the mind
three ways. If it simply ceases, after having continued a proper time, the
effect is indifference; if it be abruptly broken off, there ensues an uneasy
sense called disappointment; if the object be so totally lost that there is no
chance of enjoying it again, a passion arises in the mind, which is called
grief. Now there is none of these, not even grief, which is the most violent,
that I think has any resemblance to positive pain. The person who grieves,
suffers his passion to grow upon him; he indulges it, he loves it: but this
never happens in the case of actual pain, which no man ever willingly endured
for any considerable time. That grief should be willingly endured, though far
from a simply pleasing sensation, is not so difficult to be understood. It is
the nature of grief to keep its object perpetually in its eye, to present it
in its most pleasurable views, to repeat all the circumstances that attend it,
even to the last minuteness; to go back to every particular enjoyment, to
dwell upon each, and to find a thousand new perfections in all, that were not
sufficiently understood before; in grief, the pleasure is still uppermost; and
the affliction we suffer has no resemblance to absolute pain, which is always
odious, and which we endeavor to shake off as soon as possible. The Odyssey
of Homer, which abounds with so many natural and affecting images, has none
more striking than those which Menelaus raises of the calamitous fate of his
friends, and his own manner of feeling it. He owns, indeed, that he often
gives himself some intermission from such melancholy reflections; but he
observes, too, that, melancholy as they are, they give him pleasure.
`AXX` emnNs navras mev OduPOevos kal axeuwv,
IIoXXakls ev meyaPolbl kaONmevos NmerePolblv,
"AXXore mev re yow pPeva repnomal, "aXXore d` avre
IIavomal aiyNpos de koPos kPuePlo yoolo.
Hom. Od. D IOO
Still in short intervals of pleasing woe,
Regardful of the friendly dues I owe,
I to the glorious dead, for ever dear,
Indulge the tribute of a grateful tear.
On the other hand, when we recover our health, when we escape an imminent
danger, is it with joy that we are affected? The sense on these occasions is
far from that smooth and voluptuous satisfaction which the assured prospect of
pleasure bestows. The delight which arises from the modifications of pain
confesses the stock from whence it sprung, in its solid, strong, and severe
nature.
Sect. VI.
Of The Passions Which Belong To Self-Preservation
Most of the ideas which are capable of making a powerful impression on
the mind, whether simply of Pain or Pleasure, or of the modifications of
those, may be reduced very nearly to these two heads, self-preservation and
society; to the ends of one or the other of which all our passions are
calculated to answer. The passions which concern self-preservation, turn
mostly on pain or danger. The ideas of pain, sickness, and death, fill the
mind with strong emotions of horror; but life and health, though they put us
in a capacity of being affected with pleasure, make no such impression by the
simple enjoyment. The passions therefore which are conversant about the
preservation of the individual turn chiefly on pain and danger, and they are
the most powerful of all the passions.
Sect. VII.
Of The Sublime
Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger,
that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about
terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of
the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the
mind is capable of feeling. I say the strongest emotion, because I am
satisfied the ideas of pain are much more powerful than those which enter on
the part of pleasure. Without all doubt, the torments which we may be made to
suffer are much greater in their effect on the body and mind, than any
pleasure which the most learned voluptuary could suggest, or than the
liveliest imagination, and the most sound and exquisitely sensible body, could
enjoy. Nay, I am in great doubt whether any man could be found, who would earn
a life of the most perfect satisfaction, at the price of ending it in the
torments, which justice inflicted in a few hours on the late unfortunate
regicide in France. But as pain is stronger in its operation than pleasure, so
death is in general a much more affecting idea than pain; because there are
very few pains, however exquisite, which are not preferred to death: nay,
what generally makes pain itself, if I may say so, more painful, is, that it
is considered as an emissary of this king of terrors. When danger or pain
press too nearly, they are incapable of giving any delight, and are simply
terrible; but at certain distances, and with certain modifications, they may
be, and they are, delightful, as we every day experience. The cause of this I
shall endeavour to investigate hereafter.
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