The Dynamics of Sympathy

When we sympathize only with a painful impression, this sympathy is related to anger and hatred because of the uneasiness it conveys to us.

But the extensive or limited sympathy depends on the force of the first sympathy.

It follows that love or hatred depends on the same principle.

When a strong impression is communicated, it gives a double tendency of the passions.

This double tendency is related to benevolence and love by a similarity of direction, no matter how painful the first impression might have been.

A painful weak impression is related to anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations.

Therefore, benevolence arises from any degree of misery which we strongly sympathize with.

Hatred or contempt arises from any degree of misery we weakly sympathize with.

This is the principle I intended to explain.

We have both our reason and experience to trust this principle to.

A certain degree of poverty produces contempt.

But a degree beyond that, causes compassion and goodwill.

We may undervalue a peasant or servant.

But when a beggar’s misery appears very great or is painted in very lively colours, we:

• sympathize with him in his afflictions
• feel touches of pity and benevolence in our heart.

The same object causes contrary passions according to its different degrees.

Therefore, the passions must depend on principles that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis.

The increase of the sympathy has the same effect as the increase of the misery.

A barren or desolate country:

• always seems ugly and disagreeable
• commonly inspires us with contempt for its inhabitants.

However, this deformity proceeds largely from a sympathy with the inhabitants.

But it:

• is only a weak one
• reaches no farther than the immediate disagreeable sensation.

The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments.

Because there, we enter so deeply into the interests of the miserable inhabitants, as to:

• wish for their prosperity
• feel their adversity.

The impression’s force generally produces pity and benevolence.

By being carried too far, it ceases to have that effect.

Perhaps, this may be worth our notice.

When the uneasiness is either small in itself or remote from us, it:

• does not engage the imagination
• is unable 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 person’s concerns, as to be sensible of his good and bad fortune.

From that complete sympathy, pity and benevolence arises.

When the present evil strikes with more than ordinary force, it may:

• entirely engage our attention
• prevent that above-mentioned double sympathy.

Everyone, especially women, are apt to:

• have a kindness for criminals who go to the scaffold
• readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome and well-shaped.

Yet the criminal at the rack feels no such tender emotions.

Instead, he:

• is overcome with horror
• 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 when 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 misfortunes, we are affected with pity and love.

The author of that misfortune:

• becomes the object of our strongest hatred.
• is the more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion.

Why does pity produce love to the sufferer and hatred to the person causing it?

Is it because our consideration for the author bears a relation only to the misfortune, whereas in considering the sufferer we:

• carry our view on every side
• wish for his prosperity
• are sensible of his affliction?

This phenomenon of the double sympathy and its tendency to cause love, may contribute to producing the kindness we naturally have for our relations and acquaintances.

Custom and relation make us enter deeply into the sentiments of others.

Whatever fortune we suppose to attend them:

• is rendered present to us by the imagination
• 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.

This correspondence of sentiments is the natural attendant of love.

• It readily produces that affection.