Hide TOC
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Preface
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Key to Abbreviations and References
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Works of Adam Smith
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Introduction
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1.: Formation of the Theory of Moral Sentiments
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2.: Evolution
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3.: Reception
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4.: The Text
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Editorial Policy
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Part I: Of the Propriety of Action Consisting of Three
Sections
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Section I: Of the Sense of Propriety
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Chap. I: Of Sympathy
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A Chap. II: Of the Pleasure of Mutual Sympathy
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Chap. III: Of the Manner In Which We Judge of the
Propriety Or Impropriety of the Affections of Other Men,
By Their Concord Or Dissonance With Our Own
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Chap. IV: The Same Subject Continued
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Chap. V: Of the Amiable and Respectable Virtues
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Section II: Of the Degrees of the Different Passions
Which Are Consistent With Propriety
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Introduction
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Chap. I: Of the Passions Which Take Their Origin From
the Body
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Chap. II: Of Those Passions Which Take Their Origin From
a Particular Turn Or Habit of the Imagination
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Chap. III: Of the Unsocial Passions
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Chap. IV.: Of the Social Passions
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Chap. V: Of the Selfish Passions
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Section III: Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity
Upon the Judgment of Mankind With Regard to the
Propriety of Action; and Why It Is More Easy to Obtain
Their Approbation In the One State Than In the Other
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Chap. I: That Though Our Sympathy With Sorrow Is
Generally a More Lively Sensation Than Our Sympathy With
Joy, It Commonly Falls Much More Short of the Violence
of What Is a Naturally a Felt By the Person Principally
Concerned
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Chap. II: Of the Origin of Ambition, and of the
Distinction of Ranks
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A Chap. III: Of the Corruption of Our Moral Sentiments,
Which Is Occasioned By This Disposition to Admire the
Rich and the Great, and to Despise Or Neglect Persons of
Poor and Mean Condition
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Part II: Of Merit and Demerit; Or, of the Objects of
Reward and Punishment Consisting of Three Sections
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Section I: Of the Sense of Merit and Demerit
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Introduction
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Chap. I 1: That Whatever Appears to Be the Proper Object
of Gratitude, Appears to Deserve Reward; and That, In
the Same Manner, Whatever Appears to Be the Proper
Object of Resentment, Appears to Deserve Punishment
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Chap. II: Of the Proper Objects of Gratitude and
Resentment
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Chap. III: That Where There Is No Approbation of the
Conduct of the Person Who Confers the Benefit, There Is
Little Sympathy With the Gratitude of Him Who Receives
It: and That, On the Contrary, Where There Is No
Disapprobation of the Motives of the Perso
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Chap. IV: Recapitulation of the Foregoing Chapters
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Chap. V: The Analysis of the Sense of Merit and Demerit
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Section II: Of Justice and Beneficence
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Chap. I: Comparison of Those Two Virtues
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Chap. II: Of the Sense of Justice, of Remorse, and of
the Consciousness of Merit
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Chap. III: Of the Utility of This Constitution of Nature
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Section III: Of the Influence of Fortune Upon the
Sentiments of Mankind, With Regard to the Merit Or
Demerit of Actions
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Introduction
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Chap. I: Of the Causes of This Influence of Fortune
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Chap. II: Of the Extent of This Influence of Fortune
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Chap. III: Of the Final Cause of This Irregularity of
Sentiments
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Part III: Of the Foundation of Our Judgments Concerning
Our Own Sentiments and Conduct, and of the Sense of Duty
a Consisting of One Section a
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B Chap. I B: C of the Principle of Self–approbation and
of Self–disapprobation C
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A Chap II: Of the Love of Praise, and of That of
Praise–worthiness; and of the Dread of Blame, and of
That of Blame–worthiness
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A Chap. III: Of the Influence and Authority of
Conscience
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A Chap. IV: Of the Nature of Self–deceit, and of the
Origin and Use of General Rules
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A Chap. V A: of the Influence and Authority of the
General Rules of Morality, and That They Are Justly
Regarded As the Laws of the Deity
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A Chap. Vi A: In What Cases the Sense of Duty Ought to
Be the Sole Principle of Our Conduct; and In What Cases
It Ought to Concur With Other Motives
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Part IV: Of the Effect of Utility Upon the Sentiment of
Approbation a Consisting of One Section a
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B Chap. I B: of the Beauty Which the Appearance of
Utility Bestows Upon All the Productions of Art, and of
the Extensive Influence of This Species of Beauty
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A Chap. Ii A: of the Beauty Which the Appearance of
Utility Bestows Upon the Characters and Actions of Men;
and How Far the Perception of This Beauty May Be
Regarded As One of the Original Principles of
Approbation
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Part V: Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion Upon the
Sentiments of Moral Approbation and Disapprobation a
Consisting of One Section a
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B Chap. 1 B: of the Influence of Custom and Fashion Upon
Our Notions of Beauty and Deformity
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A Chap. Ii A: of the Influence of Custom and Fashion
Upon Moral Sentiments
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A Part VI: Of the Character of Virtue Consisting of
Three Sections
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Introduction
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A a Section I: Of the Character of the Individual, So
Far As It Affects His Own Happiness; Or of Prudence a
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Section II: Of the Character of the Individual, So Far
As It Can Affect the Happiness of Other People
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Introduction
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Chap. I.: Of the Order In Which Individuals Are
Recommended By Nature to Our Care and Attention
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Chap. II: Of the Order In Which Societies Are By Nature
Recommended to Our Beneficence
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Chap. III: Of Universal Benevolence
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Section III: Of Self–command
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Conclusion of the Sixth Part
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Part VII: Of Systems of Moral Philosophy Consisting of
Four Sections
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Section I: A of the Questions Which Ought to Be Examined
In a Theory of Moral Sentiments a
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Section II: A of the Different Accounts Which Have Been
Given of the Nature of Virtue a
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Introduction
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Chap. I: Of Those Systems Which Make Virtue Consist In
Propriety
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Chap. II: Of Those Systems Which Make Virtue Consist In
Prudence
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Chap. III: Of Those Systems Which Make Virtue Consist In
Benevolence
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Chap. IV: Of Licentious Systems
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Section III: Of the Different Systems Which Have Been
Formed Concerning the Principle of Approbation
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Introduction
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Chap. I: Of Those Systems Which Deduce the Principle of
Approbation From Self–love
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Chap. II: Of Those Systems Which Make Reason the
Principle of Approbation
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Chap. III: Of Those Systems Which Make Sentiment the
Principle of Approbation
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Section IV: Of the Manner In Which Different Authors
Have Treated of the Practical Rules of Morality
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Appendix I: Minor Variants
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Appendix II: The Passage On Atonement, and a Manuscript
Fragment On Justice
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Addendum to Introduction, Pp. 32–3
[Back to Table of Contents]
Preface
This is the first volume of a
new edition of the works of Adam Smith undertaken by the
University of Glasgow. In editing The Theory of Moral
Sentiments we have received a great deal of help from
the introduction and notes to Walther Eckstein’s German
translation of the book, published in 1926. Dr. Eckstein
kindly added one or two further facts in private
correspondence and showed a warm interest in this project of
the University of Glasgow. We were sad to learn of his death
a few years ago.
We are indebted to a number of other scholars who have
given us information or suggestions. They include the late
H. B. Acton, W. R. Brock, J. C. Bryce, the late C. J.
Fordyce, L. Davis Hammond, K. H. Hennings, Nicholas M. Hope,
I. D. Lloyd–Jones, the late W. G. Maclagan, J. C. Maxwell,
Ronald L. Meek, W. G. Moore, Ernest C. Mossner, Sylvia
Raphael, James Ritchie, Ian Ross, Andrew S. Skinner, Peter
Stein, David M. Walker, Derek A. Watts, and W. Gordon
Wheeler. All of them were most generous in responding to
questions, but a special word of appreciation is due to J.
C. Bryce and Andrew Skinner.
D. D. Raphael is grateful to the Warden and Fellows of
All Souls College, Oxford, and to the University Court of
the University of Glasgow for enabling him to spend more
time on editorial work, first as a Visiting Fellow of All
Souls for six months in 1967–8, and then as the Stevenson
Lecturer in Citizenship at Glasgow in the autumn of 1972.
He also wishes to thank Mrs. Anne S. Walker, his
secretary at Glasgow University, and Miss Hilary Burgess,
his secretary at Imperial College, for the care with which
they have typed the editorial matter.
Appendix II, always intended for this edition, has been
published previously, with some minor changes, as an article
by D. D. Raphael under the title ‘Adam Smith and “the
infection of David Hume’s society” ’, in Journal of the
History of Ideas, xxx (1969), 225–48. (The article
contained an error on p. 245, saying that Smith refers to
Hume in TMS II.ii.1.5. The reference is in fact to Kames.)
D.D.R.
A.L.M.
1974
[Back to Table of Contents]
Key to Abbreviations and
References
[Back to Table of Contents]
WORKS OF ADAM SMITH
Corr. |
Correspondence |
EPS |
Essays on Philosophical Subjects,
included among which are: |
Astronomy |
‘The History of Astronomy’ |
Ancient Logics |
‘The History of the Ancient Logics and
Metaphysics’ |
English and Italian Verses |
‘Of the Affinity between certain English and
Italian Verses’ |
External Senses |
‘Of the External Senses’ |
Stewart |
Dugald Stewart, ‘Account of the Life and
Writings of Adam Smith’ |
LJ(A) |
Lectures on Jurisprudence, Report of
1762–3 |
LJ(B) |
Lectures on Jurisprudence, Report
dated 1766 |
LRBL |
Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres |
TMS |
The Theory of Moral Sentiments |
WN |
The Wealth of Nations |
References to Corr. give the number of the letter (as
listed in the volume of Smith’s Correspondence in the
present edition), the date, and the name of Smith’s
correspondent.
References to LJ and to LRBL give the volume (where
applicable) and page number of the manuscript (shown in the
printed texts of the present edition). References to LJ(B)
add the page number in Edwin Cannan (ed.), Lectures on
Justice, Police, Revenue and Arms by Adam Smith (Oxford,
1896); and references to LRBL add the page number in John M.
Lothian (ed.), Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
by Adam Smith (London, etc., 1963).
References to the other works listed above locate the
relevant paragraph, not the page, in order that any edition
may be consulted. (In the present edition, the paragraph
numbers are printed in the margin.) Thus:
Astronomy, II.4 = |
‘History of Astronomy’, Sect.II, § 4 |
Stewart, I.12 = |
Dugald Stewart, ‘Account of the Life and
Writings of Adam Smith’, Sect.I, § 12 |
TMS I.i.5.5 = |
The Theory of Moral Sentiments Part
I, Sect.i, Chap.5, § 5 |
WN V.i.f.26 = |
The Wealth of Nations, Book V,
Chap.i, sixth division, § 26 |
OTHER WORKS |
|
Bonar, Catalogue 1 [or] 2 |
James Bonar, A Catalogue of the Library
of Adam Smith, ed. 1 (London, 1894) [or] ed.
2 (London, 1932) |
Eckstein |
Adam Smith, Theorie der ethischen
Gefühle, translated and edited by Walther
Eckstein, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1926) |
Rae, Life |
John Rae, Life of Adam Smith (London,
1895) |
Scott, ASSP |
William Robert Scott, Adam Smith as
Student and Professor (Glasgow, 1937) |
[Back to Table of Contents]
Introduction
[Back to Table of Contents]
1.
formation ofThe
Theory of Moral Sentiments
(a)
Adam Smith’s
lectures on ethics
The Theory of Moral Sentiments, Adam Smith’s first
book, was published in 1759 during his tenure of the Chair
of Moral Philosophy at the University of Glasgow. A second,
revised edition appeared in 1761. Smith left Glasgow at the
beginning of 1764. Editions 3 (1767), 4 (1774), and 5 (1781)
of TMS differ little from edition 2. Edition 6, however,
published shortly before Smith’s death in 1790, contains
very extensive additions and other significant changes. The
original work arose from Smith’s lectures to students. The
revisions in edition 2 were largely the result of criticism
from philosophically minded friends. The new material in
edition 6 was the fruit of long reflection by Smith on his
wide knowledge of public affairs and his equally wide
reading of history.
Adam Smith was appointed to the Chair of Logic at Glasgow
in 1751 and moved to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in 1752.
His predecessor as Professor of Moral Philosophy, Thomas
Craigie, was already ill in 1751, and Smith was asked to
substitute for him with lectures on natural jurisprudence
and politics
in addition to taking the Logic class. Thereafter Smith gave
the whole of the Moral Philosophy course, in which he was
expected to deal with natural theology and ethics before
proceeding to law and government. In view of the speed with
which Smith had to prepare his extensive range of teaching
at Glasgow, it was inevitable that he should make use of
material already available from a series of public lectures
which he had delivered in Edinburgh during the years
1748–50. These lectures were sponsored especially by Lord
Kames. Both Dugald Stewart in a biography of Smith and A. F.
Tytler in one of Kames describe the subject–matter of the
Edinburgh lectures simply as rhetoric and belles lettres,
but it seems that by 1750 Smith also included political and
economic theory, presumably under the title of jurisprudence
or civil law.
In a later part of his biography (IV.25), Dugald Stewart
refers to a short manuscript written by Adam Smith in 1755,
listing ‘certain leading principles, both political and
literary, to which he was anxious to establish his exclusive
right’. Stewart says that they included ‘many of the most
important opinions in The Wealth of Nations’, and
then quotes a few sentences from the manuscript itself.
These end with a statement from Smith that ‘a great part of
the opinions enumerated in this paper’ had formed ‘the
constant subjects of my lectures since I first taught Mr.
Craigie’s class, the first winter I spent in Glasgow, down
to this day, without any considerable variation’ and that
they had also ‘been the subjects of lectures which I read at
Edinburgh the winter before I left it’.
A report of the content and character of the early
Glasgow lectures, both in the Logic and in the Moral
Philosophy class, was given to Stewart by John Millar,
Professor of Law at Glasgow, originally a pupil and
afterwards a close friend of Smith. In his Logic course
Smith despatched the traditional logic rather briskly and
then ‘dedicated all the rest of his time to the delivery of
a system of rhetoric and belles lettres’.
His Moral Philosophy course could not rely so heavily on the
Edinburgh lectures but it will certainly have drawn on them
in its latter sections. Millar’s report to Dugald Stewart
gives a detailed description of it.
His course of lectures on this subject [Moral
Philosophy] was divided into four parts. The first
contained Natural Theology. . . . The second
comprehended Ethics strictly so called, and consisted
chiefly of the doctrines which he afterwards published
in his Theory of Moral Sentiments. In the third part, he
treated at more length of that branch of morality which
relates to justice, . . .
Upon this subject he followed the plan that seems to
be suggested by Montesquieu; endeavouring to trace the
gradual progress of jurisprudence, both public and
private, from the rudest to the most refined ages, . . .
This important branch of his labours he also intended to
give to the public; but this intention, which is
mentioned in the conclusion of the Theory of Moral
Sentiments, he did not live to fulfil.
In the last part of his lectures, he examined those
political regulations which are founded, not upon the
principle of justice, but that of expediency,
and which are calculated to increase the riches, the
power, and the prosperity of a State. . . . What he
delivered on these subjects contained the substance of
the work he afterwards published under the title of An
Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of
Nations.
There is no evidence to suggest that the Edinburgh
lectures included ethical theory proper, and we must
therefore presume that Smith’s composition of the
subject–matter of TMS began in 1752 at Glasgow.
Millar’s statement that both of Smith’s books arose from
his lectures on Moral Philosophy is confirmed by the
evidence of James Wodrow, writing (probably in 1808) to the
eleventh Earl of Buchan.
Adam Smith, whose lectures I had the benefit of
hearing for a year or two . . . made a laudable attempt
at first to follow Hut[cheso]ns animated manner,
lecturing on Ethics without papers, walking up and down
his class rooms but not having the same facility in this
that Hutn. had, . . . Dr. Smith soon
relinquished the attempt, and read with propriety, all
the rest of his valuable lectures from the desk. His
Theory of Moral Sentiment founded on sympathy, a very
ingenious attempt to account for the principal phenomena
in the moral world from this one general principle, like
that of gravity in the natural world, did not please
Hutcheson’s scholars so well as that to which they had
been accustomed. The rest of his lectures were admired
by them and by all especially those on Money and
Commerce, which contained the substance of his book on
the Wealth of Nations. . . .
Francis Hutcheson was Professor of Moral Philosophy from
1730 to 1746. Smith was his pupil in the late 1730s, Wodrow
in the 1740s. Wodrow remained at the University as Keeper of
the Library from 1750 to 1755.
It seems, then, that the first published version of TMS
was prepared or worked up from the final form of the second
part of Smith’s lectures on Moral Philosophy. No doubt there
was steady development between 1752 and 1758. Although no
copy of a student’s notes of Smith’s lectures on ethics has
as yet appeared, there is some evidence from which we can
reconstruct his method of improving what he had written. In
Appendix II we give reasons for thinking that a fragmentary
manuscript of philosophical considerations on justice is a
part of Smith’s lectures on ethics. Revisions within the
manuscript itself and detailed comparison with corresponding
passages in TMS show that Smith tended to work over previous
composition rather than write a new version. He made minor
corrections both of style and of content, he inserted
substantial additions, and (when it came to preparing a text
for publication) he shuffled passages about like pieces in a
jigsaw puzzle. Exactly the same methods of development can
be seen in the changes that Smith made when revising the
printed book for edition 2 and for edition 6. There is far
more evidence for tracing the genesis of The Wealth of
Nations; we have two Reports by students, apparently
from successive sessions, of Smith’s lectures on
jurisprudence, a fairly long manuscript that has been called
‘An early draft of part of The Wealth of Nations’,
and two fragmentary manuscripts that come much nearer to the
text of WN itself. From this material Professor Ronald L.
Meek and Mr. Andrew S. Skinner have been able to give an
extraordinarily precise account of the development of
Smith’s thought on a central topic of his economic theory.
The picture of Smith’s working methods that emerges from a
comparison of these documents with one another and with WN
is similar to that gathered from the more limited evidence
for TMS.
The printed text at times betrays its origin in lectures.
At several points Smith refers back to something he has said
on a former ‘occasion’, whereas it would be more natural, in
a book, to write of an earlier ‘place’. Then again, in the
final paragraph of the work he promises to treat of the
general theory of jurisprudence in another ‘discourse’.
One other piece of internal evidence seems to match part
of the description of the original Glasgow lectures given to
Dugald Stewart by Millar: ‘Each discourse consisted commonly
of several distinct propositions, which he successively
endeavoured to prove and illustrate.’
Much of Part II of TMS can be said to fit this account in a
general way, but the first chapter, II.i.1, illustrates it
quite strikingly and would seem, if unrelated to Millar’s
account and the lecture form, a rather odd way of continuing
from the more natural mode of discussion in Part I. If this
chapter does indeed retain Smith’s original method of
procedure in his lectures, it is almost unique in this
respect and shows that Smith must have commonly recast the
actual structure of his lectures for the book, even though
he kept most of the words and phrases.
The printed text allows a further conjecture about the
lectures. The last part of the book seems to
originate from material that formed the first part of
the lectures on ethics in their earliest version. Why
otherwise should Smith set out here (VII.i.2) the two main
problems of ethical theory, as if by way of introduction,
when in fact most of his task is already done? It seems
probable (and it would accord with his usual method of
approaching a subject) that at first he entered upon ethics
with a survey of its history in dealing with the two topics
of moral motive and moral judgement. Having carried the
history up to the thinkers of his own day, he will have
reflected upon the differences between the two theories that
impressed him most, those of his teacher Hutcheson and his
friend Hume. Whether or not he already had definite views of
his own on these matters in 1752, it is impossible to say;
in any event his account of sympathy and its place in moral
judgement will have developed as he gave more attention to
the subject. Once it had developed it became the focus of
Smith’s own distinctive theory of ethics, and at this stage
(if our conjecture about the original form of the lectures
is correct) Smith will have recast his thoughts, starting
off with sympathy, building up his theory from that base,
and making the historical survey a sort of appendix.
An examination of changes in style might perhaps give
some guidance about alterations from the original lecture
notes. There is a clear difference in style between much of
what Smith wrote for edition 1 and the considerable
additions, including the whole of Part VI, which he composed
late in life for edition 6. The earlier matter tends to be
rhetorical, in tune with the style accepted for lectures in
the mid–eighteenth century, while the later writing is in
the more urbane style of WN. Both WN and the additions to
TMS were of course written with a direct view to
publication. When one remembers the type of classes that
Smith addressed as a Professor in Glasgow, the style of the
original material can be better understood. Most of the
students were of the age of secondary schoolboys today. The
number attending the class of public lectures on Moral
Philosophy in Smith’s time was probably about eighty, many
of them being destined for the Church. To hold the attention
of his class Smith used rhetorical language and made
humorous references to manners of the day in a way likely to
interest young people.
Of the lectures that Smith delivered in his last four
years at Glasgow after the publication of TMS, Stewart
(III.1) writes:
During that time, the plan of his lectures underwent
a considerable change. His ethical doctrines, of which
he had now published so valuable a part, occupied a
smaller portion of the course than formerly: and
accordingly, his attention was naturally directed to a
more complete illustration of the principles of
jurisprudence and of political oeconomy.
The last statement appears to be borne out by the two
surviving Reports of the lectures on jurisprudence as
delivered in sessions 1762–3 and 1763–4. It would be wrong,
however, to infer from Stewart’s account that Smith’s
thought on ethics stood still at this time. There is
substantial development of his theory in edition 2 of TMS,
especially of his notion of the impartial spectator. He can
also be seen to apply that concept in the lectures on
jurisprudence, so that there is a continuity in his
thinking, as indeed Smith himself makes plain at the end of
TMS.
(b)
Influence of Stoic
philosophy
Stoic philosophy is the primary influence on Smith’s
ethical thought. It also fundamentally affects his economic
theory. Like other scholars of his day Smith was well versed
in ancient philosophy, and in TMS he often refers as a
matter of course to Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero (the last
sometimes, but not always, as a source of information about
Stoicism). In his survey of the history of moral philosophy
in Part VII, however, Stoicism is given far more space than
any other ‘system’, ancient or modern, and is illustrated by
lengthy passages from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. (The
Discourses of Epictetus seem to have been chiefly
responsible for Smith’s early fascination with Stoicism.) In
editions 1–5 of TMS some of this material on the Stoics
appears separately in Part I, but the separation does not
produce a lesser impact on the reader; on the contrary, it
shows up more clearly the pervasive character of Stoic
influence. Even in edition 6 there remain in the earlier
Parts of the book enough direct references to and quotations
from Stoic doctrine to indicate this. Stoicism never lost
its hold over Smith’s mind. When revising his book for
edition 6 in his last years, he not only moved two of the
earlier passages on ‘that famous sect’ (as he calls it in
the Advertisement) to the historical survey in Part VII. He
also added further reflections, especially on the Stoic view
of suicide, stimulated no doubt by the posthumous
publication of an essay by Hume arguing that suicide was
sometimes admirable.
More important, however, is the influence of Stoic
principles on Smith’s own views, again something that
persisted to his latest writings. In the fresh material
added to edition 6 of TMS, Smith’s elaboration of his
account of Stoicism in Part VII is less significant than the
clearly Stoic tone of much that he wrote for Part III on the
sense of duty and for the new Part VI on the character of
virtue. Part VI deals with the three virtues of prudence,
beneficence, and self–command. The third of these, which
also figures in the additions to Part III, is distinctively
Stoic. The first, though common to many systems of ethics,
is interpreted by Smith in a Stoic manner. He departs from
Stoicism in his views on beneficence, but even there, when
he comes to discuss universal benevolence in VI.ii.3, he
introduces Stoic ideas and Stoic language to a remarkable
degree.
Smith’s ethical doctrines are in fact a combination of
Stoic and Christian virtues—or, in philosophical terms, a
combination of Stoicism and Hutcheson. Hutcheson resolved
all virtue into benevolence, a philosophical version of the
Christian ethic of love. At an early stage in TMS, Adam
Smith supplements this with Stoic self–command.
And hence it is, that to feel much for others and
little for ourselves, that to restrain our selfish, and
to indulge our benevolent affections, constitutes the
perfection of human nature; . . . As to love our
neighbour as we love ourselves is the great law of
Christianity, so it is the great precept of nature to
love ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or what
comes to the same thing, as our neighbour is capable of
loving us.
(I.i.5.5)
Smith emphasizes self–command again when supplementing
for edition 6 his treatment of the sense of duty in Part
III. He there repeats the dual character of his ideal. ‘The
man of the most perfect virtue . . . is he who joins, to the
most perfect command of his own original and selfish
feelings, the most exquisite sensibility both to the
original and sympathetic feelings of others’ (II.3.34). In
Part VI Smith goes farther, making self–command a necessary
condition for the exercise of other virtues. Great merit in
the practice of any virtue presupposes that there has been
temptation to the contrary and that the temptation has been
overcome; that is to say, it presupposes self–command.
‘Self–command is not only itself a great virtue, but from it
all the other virtues seem to derive their principal lustre’
(VI.iii.11). For Adam Smith, self–command has come to
permeate the whole of virtue, an indication of the way in
which Stoicism permeated his reflection over the whole range
of ethics and social science.
When Smith sets Stoic self–command beside Christian love
in the first of the quotations given above, he calls it ‘the
great precept of nature’. Life according to nature was the
basic tenet of Stoic ethics, and a Stoic idea of nature and
the natural forms a major part of the philosophical
foundations of TMS and WN alike. The Stoic doctrine went
along with a view of nature as a cosmic harmony. Phrases
that occur in Smith’s account of this Stoic conception are
echoed when he expresses his own opinions. The
correspondence is most striking in the chapter on universal
benevolence, where Marcus Aurelius is recalled by name as
well as in phrase: ‘the great Conductor’ whose ‘benevolence
and wisdom have . . . contrived and conducted the immense
machine of the universe’ (in the new material of edition 6
at VI.ii.3.4–5) is a recollection of the ‘all–wise Architect
and Conductor’ of ‘one immense and connected system’, ‘the
whole machine of the world’, (quoted from Marcus Aurelius in
VII.ii.1.37). Essentially similar turns of speech are to be
found in a number of passages, both early and late, of TMS.
Indeed, the frequency of such phrases leads one to think
that commentators have laid too much stress on the
‘invisible hand’, which appears only once in each of Smith’s
two books. On both occasions the context is the Stoic idea
of harmonious system, seen in the working of society.
The Stoics themselves applied the notion to society no
less than to the physical universe, and used the Greek word
sympatheia (in the sense of organic connection) of
both. This is not the sympathy that figures in Adam Smith’s
ethics. Sympathy and the impartial spectator, as Smith
interprets them, are the truly original features of his
theory. Yet it is quite likely that in his own mind each of
these two ideas was intimately related to the Stoic outlook.
Like the Stoics he thought of the social bond in terms of
‘sympathy’, and he describes the Stoic view of world
citizenship and self–command as if it implied the impartial
spectator.
Man, according to the Stoics, ought to regard himself
. . . as a citizen of the world, a member of the vast
commonwealth of nature. . . . We should view ourselves .
. . in the light in which any other citizen of the world
would view us. What befalls ourselves we should regard
as what befalls our neighbour, or, what comes to the
same thing, as our neighbour regards what befalls us.
(III.3.11)
In WN the Stoic concept of natural harmony appears
especially in ‘the obvious and simple system of natural
liberty’ (IV.ix.51). We should remember that the three
writers on whom Smith chiefly draws for Stoic
doctrine—Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, and Cicero—were all
Roman, and that the practical bent of the Romans closely
connected men’s moral duties with their legal obligations as
citizens. The universalist ethic of Stoicism became
enshrined in the ‘law’ of nature. This tradition Smith
accepted, understandably in his setting. Ethics for him
implied a ‘natural jurisprudence’, and his economic theories
arose out of, indeed were originally part of, his lectures
on jurisprudence.
The Stoic concept of social harmony, as Smith understood
it, did not mean that everyone behaved virtuously. Stoic
ethics said it was wrong to injure others for one’s own
advantage, but Stoic metaphysics said that good could come
out of evil.
The ancient stoics were of opinion, that as the world
was governed by the all–ruling providence of a wise,
powerful, and good God, every single event ought to be
regarded, as making a necessary part of the plan of the
universe, and as tending to promote the general order
and happiness of the whole: that the vices and follies
of mankind, therefore, made as necessary a part of this
plan as their wisdom or their virtue; and by that
eternal art which educes good from ill, were made to
tend equally to the prosperity and perfection of the
great system of nature.
(I.ii.3.4)
This doctrine anticipates the better–known statement of
Smith’s own opinion that the selfish rich ‘are led by an
invisible hand’ to help the poor and to serve the interest
of society at large (IV.1.10). Smith has added the idea of a
‘deception’ by nature and the phrase ‘an invisible hand’.
The famous phrase may have sprung from an uneasiness about
the reconciliation of selfishness with the perfection of the
system. In itself the idea of deception by an invisible hand
is unconvincing. It gains its plausibility from the
preceding account of aesthetic pleasure afforded by power
and riches, a pleasure that is reinforced by the admiration
of spectators. Smith himself clearly set most store by the
psychological explanation. But the invisible hand, through
its reappearance in WN, has captured the attention,
especially of economists.
In the TMS passage Smith writes disparagingly of the
‘natural selfishness and rapacity’ of the rich, but this
does not mean that he regards all self–interested action as
bad in itself and redeemable only by the deception of
nature. He does not even accept the view of Hutcheson that
self–love is morally neutral. Smith follows the Stoics once
again in holding that self–preservation is the first task
committed to us by nature and that prudence is a virtue so
long as it does not injure others. His explicit account of
Stoicism in Part VII begins with the doctrine that ‘every
animal was by nature recommended to its own care, and was
endowed with the principle of self–love’, for the sake of
preserving its existence and perfection (VII.ii.1.15). This
is echoed by an expression of Smith’s own view in Part II,
‘Every man is, no doubt, by nature, first and principally
recommended to his own care’ (II.ii.2.1), and then again in
the new Part VI, where it is reaffirmed with
acknowledgement, ‘Every man, as the Stoics used to say, is
first and principally recommended to his own care’
(VI.ii.1.1).
Smith does appear to give rather more scope to prudence
in the new Part VI than in the earlier material, no doubt
reflecting a change of emphasis in the thought of the more
mature man who had written WN. Essentially, however, TMS and
WN are at one. For example, Smith writes in TMS of ‘that
great purpose of human life which we call bettering our
condition’ (I.iii.2.1). This reappears in WN in vivid form:
‘But the principle which prompts to save, is the desire of
bettering our condition, a desire which, though generally
calm and dispassionate, comes with us from the womb, and
never leaves us till we go into the grave’ (II.iii.28).
In WN this is of course worked out in its economic aspect,
as the drive to employ one’s stock and industry to one’s
best advantage. In TMS the desire to better our condition is
related to class distinction and is attributed to ‘vanity’,
the desire ‘to be observed, to be attended to, to be taken
notice of with sympathy, complacency, and approbation’.
There is a difference of tone, but both books treat the
desire to better our condition as natural and proper.
The consistency and the Stoic character of Smith’s views
of prudence may be brought out by comparing two passages,
one written for edition 6, the other for edition 1. In
VI.i.11 Smith says: ‘In the steadiness of his industry and
frugality, in his steadily sacrificing the ease and
enjoyment of the present moment for the probable expectation
of the still greater ease and enjoyment of a more distant
but more lasting period of time, the prudent man is always
both supported and rewarded by the entire approbation of the
impartial spectator. . . .’ The reference to industry and
frugality immediately recalls WN. The other passage, in
IV.2.8, written thirty years earlier, contains a similar
reference when discussing self–command: from the spectator’s
approval of self–command ‘arises that eminent esteem with
which all men naturally regard a steady perseverance in the
practice of frugality, industry, and application, though
directed to no other purpose than the acquisition of
fortune’. The passage in Part VI appears to take a more
charitable view of prudence as such, but in fact there is no
real change of doctrine, for in the Part VI passage Smith
goes on to explain that the approval of the impartial
spectator is really directed at ‘that proper exertion of
self–command’ which enables the prudent man to attach almost
as much importance to future enjoyment as to present. There
is no reason to suppose that Smith departs in any way from
this view when he gives similar praise to industry and
frugality in WN. The moral quality of prudence depends on
its association with the Stoic virtue of self–command.
Smith’s respect for Stoicism was not unqualified, and he
ends his account of it, as of other ‘systems’, with some
firm criticisms. Apart from the particular question of
suicide, which he says is contrary to nature ‘in her sound
and healthful state’, Smith finds fault with two features of
the Stoic philosophy. First, he rejects the Stoic
‘paradoxes’ that all virtuous actions are equally good and
all failings equally bad. Second, while accepting the idea
of world citizenship, he rejects the Stoic view that this
should obliterate stronger ties of feeling for smaller
groups. On the contrary, Smith argues, it is nature that
teaches us to put family, friends, and nation first, while
also providing us with the judgements of the impartial
spectator to check any excessive attachment. Despite the
criticisms, however, it is not too much to say that Adam
Smith’s ethics and natural theology are predominantly Stoic.
(c)
Influence of
contemporary thinkers
Among contemporary thinkers Hume had the greatest
influence on the formation of Smith’s ethical theory. Smith
rejects or transforms Hume’s ideas far more often than he
follows them, but his own views would have been markedly
different if he had not been stimulated to disagreement with
Hume. Second in order of importance is the influence of
Hutcheson, whose teaching directed Smith’s general approach
to moral philosophy and enabled him to appreciate the
progress in that approach made by Hume. The particular
doctrines of TMS, however, owe little to Hutcheson’s actual
theory, which Smith probably took to be superseded by Hume’s
more complex account.
The relation of Smith’s ethics to the thought of
Hutcheson and Hume needs to be described in some detail, but
first let us note the extent to which Smith was influenced
by other moral philosophers of his time. It is remarkably
small. Smith was well informed about ancient philosophy,
keenly interested in the history of science and the
evolution of society, and widely read in the culture of his
own time, especially its literature, history, and nascent
social science. He was anything but insular: his reading of
recent books was almost as extensive in French as in
English, and it was not negligible in Italian. Yet he was
not closely acquainted with much of the ethical theory of
the eighteenth century. Perhaps the very breadth of his
interests and outlook was responsible for this. In his
‘Letter to the Editors of the Edinburgh Review’, July
1755, Smith could describe, from his own reading, not only
Rousseau’s Discourse on Inequality but also ‘the
Theory of agreeable sentiments by Mr. De Pouilly’; yet his
ignorance of recent works in English comparable with the
latter is shown by his remark that the characteristic
English approach to philosophy, taken over by France, ‘now
seems to be intirely neglected by the English themselves’.
In fact there were several English contributions to mental
and moral philosophy in the 1740s and early 1750s at least
as valuable as Lévesque de Pouilly’s little book on the
psychology of pleasure. Smith’s statement in the ‘Letter’
that England had until then been pre–eminent for originality
in philosophy is simply a repetition of what Hume had said
in the Introduction to the Treatise of Human Nature,
and Smith’s list of ‘English’ thinkers (Hobbes, Locke,
Mandeville, Shaftesbury, Butler, Clarke, Hutcheson) differs
little from Hume’s. It follows Hume in including Hutcheson,
although the point of the ‘Letter’, unlike that of Hume’s
Introduction, is to urge the Edinburgh Review to look
beyond Scotland.
There are a few particular issues on which Smith was
affected by contemporary thinkers other than Hutcheson and
Hume. When he distinguishes justice from beneficence he
refers to the work of Lord Kames, ‘an author of very great
and original genius’ (II.ii.1.5), but perhaps Smith’s view
of the distinction was reinforced rather than suggested by
that of Kames since the theories of the two men do not have
much in common. (The tone of homage in Smith’s allusion to
Kames may owe something to gratitude for promoting the
Edinburgh lectures, which in turn led to the Glasgow
appointment.) At I.iii.1.1 Smith refers, rather
inaccurately, to a passage of Bishop Butler about sympathy,
though not so as to suggest any indebtedness. In another
place, III.5.5–6, Smith unconsciously recalls some of
Butler’s phrases about the authority of conscience. Here
Smith is as much influenced by Hutcheson as by Butler
himself, for Hutcheson’s lectures (posthumously published as
A System of Moral Philosophy) had adopted Butler’s
language on this topic. The passage in TMS probably survives
from the earliest version of Smith’s lectures, in which he
will have followed the example of Hutcheson more closely
than in later years when he had developed his own theory of
conscience as the imagined impartial spectator. The
unconscious repetition of phrases, both from his own earlier
work and from that of other writers who had moved him to
agreement or disagreement, is a characteristic feature of
Adam Smith’s writings, and Butler is not the only
contemporary philosopher to leave such traces in his mind.
Faint echoes of Mandeville and of Rousseau can be heard in
the passage about the deception of nature (IV.1.8 and 10).
But all these are nothing to the echoes of Stoicism and of
Hume that appear so often in both the language and the
doctrine of TMS.
In Part VII of the book Smith discusses recent as well as
ancient philosophy. Apart from Hutcheson, the only
contemporary philosopher who is considered at length is
Mandeville in VII.ii.4. (In editions 1–5 his name was
coupled with that of La Rochefoucauld, but Smith’s actual
exposition and criticism of ‘licentious systems’ in this
chapter were always confined to the work of Mandeville.)
There are short accounts of Hume’s views in VII.ii.3.21 and
in VII.iii.3.3 and 17. There are references to Hobbes in
VII.iii.1 and 2, a glance at Clarke, Wollaston, and
Shaftesbury in VII.ii.1.48, a perfunctory mention of the
Cambridge Platonists in VII.ii.3.3, and a more definite
reference in VII.iii.2.4 to one of them, Cudworth, as a
representative of ethical rationalism.
The ethical writings of both Hutcheson and Hume contain
important criticism of opposing views. Hutcheson attacked
egoistic theory, notably as expounded by Mandeville, and
theories of ethical rationalism, especially those of Samuel
Clarke and William Wollaston. Hume redoubled the assault on
rationalism with a veritable barrage of subtle argument, but
he did not repeat Hutcheson’s criticism of egoism, doubtless
thinking that this was now dead. Adam Smith evidently felt
the same about ethical rationalism. His chapter on the
rationalists (VII.iii.2) is brief and summary. He takes it
for granted that moral rules are inductive generalizations
and that moral concepts must arise in the first place from
feeling. In the last paragraph of the chapter he refers to
Hutcheson’s criticism of ethical rationalism in
Illustrations upon the Moral Sense as being quite
decisive. (It is noteworthy that he does not explicitly
mention Hume’s more finely directed series of arguments in
the Treatise of Human Nature, though there is
presumably an implicit reference to Hume in the statement
that Hutcheson was ‘the first’ to distinguish ‘with any
degree of precision’ the respective roles of reason and
feeling in morals.) Smith writes as if he had little
knowledge or appreciation of the carefully argued
counter–attacks on Hutcheson in writers such as John Balguy
and Richard Price. Unlike Hume, however, Smith evidently
thought that egoistic theory was still a force to be
reckoned with, as is shown by the length of his chapter on
Mandeville. Perhaps this was because he had seen the
strength of Mandeville’s position in economic affairs. At
any rate he treats it more seriously than ethical
rationalism. Mandeville’s system, he says, could not have
‘imposed upon’ so many people or have caused ‘alarm’ to so
many others ‘had it not in some respects bordered upon the
truth’ (VII.ii.4.14).
Hutcheson held (against egoism) that moral action and
moral judgement are both disinterested, and (against
rationalism) that they both depend on natural feelings.
Moral action is motivated by the disinterested feeling of
benevolence, and moral judgement expresses the disinterested
feeling of approval or disapproval that Hutcheson called
‘the moral sense’. Since benevolence aims at producing
happiness or preventing unhappiness, and since a wide
benevolence is approved more than a narrow, the morally best
action is that which ‘procures the greatest happiness for
the greatest numbers’.
The approval of virtue is like the appreciation of beauty, a
feeling aroused in a spectator.
Hume agreed with Hutcheson that benevolence is a motive
natural to man and that it naturally evokes approval. But he
did not agree that benevolence is the sole motive of
virtuous action or that moral approval is an innate basic
feeling. He distinguished natural from artificial virtue;
benevolence is the chief example of the former, justice of
the latter. Moral approval can be explained by sympathy. The
spectator takes sympathetic pleasure in the happiness that
natural virtue, such as benevolence, tends to produce, and
his approval is an expression of that sympathetic pleasure.
Artificial virtue depends indirectly on utility, the utility
of its rules, and the approval of artificial virtue depends
ultimately on sympathy with the happiness of society. Hume
therefore retained the view that all virtue is connected
with beneficial effects. He also retained from Hutcheson the
analogy between ethics and aesthetics and an emphasis on the
role of the spectator in moral judgement.
Hume’s theory is superior to Hutcheson’s in explaining
more. It recognizes a complexity in moral motivation and
tries to account for our adherence to moral rules. It is not
satisfied with the bare existence of disinterested approval
and gives an explanation in terms of sympathy. Adam Smith
follows up Hume’s advance by pointing out a greater
complexity and offering different explanations. Sympathy is
central in Smith’s account but is itself more complex than
Hume’s concept of sympathy. For Hume, sympathy is a sharing
of the pleasure or pain produced in a person affected by an
action. For Smith, sympathy can be a sharing of any
feeling and its first role in moral approbation concerns the
motive of the agent. The spectator who sympathizes with the
agent’s motive approves of the action as proper. Sympathy
with the feelings of the person affected by the action comes
in to help form the more complex judgement of merit. A
benevolent action is not only proper but meritorious. The
judgement of merit expresses a double sympathy, both with
the benevolent motive of the agent and with the gratitude
felt by the person benefited. The second element in double
sympathy has some affinity with Hume’s concept but is not
quite the same. Hume thinks of the spectator as sharing by
sympathy the pleasure of the benefit itself; Smith thinks of
the spectator as sharing by sympathy the gratitude that the
benefit evokes.
This difference points to a sharper difference between
the two philosophers on justice and on the place of utility
in moral judgement. Although Hume distinguishes justice from
benevolence, he connects both with utility and relates the
approval of both to sympathy with beneficial effects.
Smith’s explanation of justice is built in the first
instance on sympathy with resentment for harm (as merit is
built on sympathy with gratitude for benefit). Smith
continually insists that considerations of utility are the
last, not the first, determinants of moral judgement. Our
basic judgement of right and wrong is concerned with the
agent’s motive, not with the effect of his action. Our more
complex judgements of merit and demerit, justice and
injustice, depend on the reactions of gratitude and
resentment to benefit and harm respectively, not simply on
the benefit and harm themselves. And even though the
pleasant or painful effects of action are relevant to the
moral judgement passed upon it, they are primarily the
effects of this particular action upon particular
individuals, not the more remote effects upon society at
large. Considerations of general social utility are an
afterthought, not a foundation.
This is not to say that utility is of little importance
in Smith’s thought. It is of course crucial for his economic
theory. One feature that comes out more clearly in TMS is
the place of aesthetic pleasure in the value attached to
utility. Useful means are valued first for the ends at which
they aim, but then we are charmed by the beauty of their own
sheer efficiency, and this pleasure, Smith believes, plays a
major part in sustaining economic activity and political
planning. Smith legitimately took pride in his originality
on this last point (IV.1.3) but derived the more general
idea from Hume. Both Hume and Smith learned from Hutcheson
to keep aesthetics in mind when thinking about ethics. In
Treatise of Human Nature, II.ii.5, Hume wrote of the
effect of sympathy in forming esteem for the rich and
powerful (a thesis followed by Smith in TMS I.iii.2), and
then went on to compare with this the role of sympathy in
the communication of aesthetic pleasure, including the
aesthetic pleasure afforded by convenience or utility. Smith
seized on the last remark and emphasized its social
importance.
It seems likely that the title of Lévesque de Pouilly’s
book, Théorie des sentiments agréables, suggested to
Smith that a suitable name for the philosophy of morals, as
he understood it, would be the theory of moral sentiments.
This is a description of the subject, not of Smith’s
individual theory (for which the word ‘sympathy’ is
virtually essential). Smith took it as established by
Hutcheson and Hume that morals depend on ‘sentiment’ or
feeling. He differed from them, however, in insisting upon
the plurality of moral feelings. Hutcheson postulated a
single ‘moral sense’ or capacity to feel approval, analogous
to the sense of beauty and the sense of honour. Hume
likewise wrote in the Treatise of Human Nature
(III.i.2) of approbation as a ‘particular’ or ‘peculiar’
kind of pleasant feeling, but in the Enquiry concerning
the Principles of Morals (appendix iv) he distinguished
different kinds of approbation for different kinds of
virtue. Smith followed the distinction drawn by Hume in the
Enquiry between the ‘amiable’ and the ‘awful’
virtues, each arousing a different type of approval. For
Smith this meant that there are different forms of the
‘sense of propriety’. He then further distinguished the
sense of propriety from the sense of merit and the sense of
duty. Smith accordingly took the view that there are several
kinds of moral approbation, a variety of moral feelings or
sentiments. The philosophy of morals may therefore be called
the theory of moral sentiments. Nothing of all this can be
found in Lévesque de Pouilly’s book, which is mainly
concerned with the psychology of pleasant feeling in
general. The content of TMS owes nothing to it, but Smith
seems to have adapted Lévesque de Pouilly’s title to suit
his own more specific subject. Lévesque de Pouilly’s book
appeared in English translation in 1749 as The Theory of
Agreeable Sensations, but Smith’s reference to it as the
‘Theory of agreeable sentiments’ shows that he had read the
original French version, first published in 1747 and then
reprinted in 1749 and 1750 (the 1750 edition in London). His
use of the phrase ‘the Theory of moral Sentiments’ as a name
for the subject of ethics appears already in the manuscript
fragment of his lecture on justice, presumably written in
the early 1750s (see Appendix II).
[Back to Table of Contents]
2.
evolution
(a)
Development between
editions
Smith made substantial changes
to TMS in editions 2 and 6. The most important feature of
these changes is a development of his concept of the
impartial spectator. An account of this is given by D. D.
Raphael in the volume of Essays on Adam Smith (edited
by Andrew S. Skinner and Thomas Wilson) accompanying the
present edition of Smith’s Works. A summary of salient
points will therefore suffice here.
Both Hutcheson and Hume gave prominence, in their ethical
theories, to the approval of ‘a spectator’ or of ‘every
spectator’, even of ‘a judicious spectator’. This conception
helps to bring out the disinterested character of the moral
standpoint; the spectator is not personally involved, as is
the agent or a person affected by the action. A spectator
theory of moral judgement implies impartiality, even though
Hutcheson and Hume did not use the adjective ‘impartial’
in this connection. The originality of Adam Smith’s
impartial spectator lies in his development of the idea so
as to explain the source and nature of conscience, i.e. of a
man’s capacity to judge his own actions and especially of
his sense of duty. On this aspect of ethics the theories of
Hutcheson and Hume were undoubtedly lame, as was clear to
their rationalist critics. Hutcheson himself must have seen
the force of the criticism when he accepted, in his later
work, the view of Bishop Butler that conscience has
‘authority’, though he did not attempt to explain this in
terms of his theory of approval. Smith did, in terms of his
own theory.
According to Smith, conscience is a product of social
relationship. Our first moral sentiments are concerned with
the actions of other people. Each of us judges as a
spectator and finds himself judged by spectators. Reflection
upon our own conduct begins later in time and is inevitably
affected by the more rudimentary experience. ‘Reflection’ is
here a live metaphor, for the thought process mirrors the
judgement of a hypothetical observer. ‘We suppose ourselves
the spectators of our own behaviour, and endeavour to
imagine what effect it would, in this light, produce upon
us. This is the only looking–glass by which we can, in some
measure, with the eyes of other people, scrutinize the
propriety of our own conduct’ (III.1.5). The looking–glass
requires imagination; Smith’s impartial spectator is not the
actual ‘man without’ but an imagined ‘man within’. When I
judge my own conduct I do not simply observe what an actual
spectator has to say; I imagine what I should feel if I
myself were a spectator of the proposed action.
There is an important difference between this view and
the more straightforward idea that conscience reflects the
feelings of real external spectators. If I imagine myself as
a spectator, I may on the one hand fail to overcome my
natural partiality for myself as the actual agent, and in
this respect ‘the man within’ may be an inferior witness.
But on the other hand ‘the man without’ is liable to lack
relevant information that I possess, and in that way the
judgement of conscience can be superior to that of actual
spectators.
This feature of Smith’s account was not made sufficiently
clear in edition 1 of TMS. Smith was led to clarify it for
his readers, and perhaps also for himself, as the result of
an objection put to him by Sir Gilbert Elliot. Elliot’s
letter has not survived but we can infer the point of it
from Smith’s reply,
which was accompanied by a draft of a revision that was
introduced (with some changes of detail) in edition 2.
Elliot’s objection must have come to this: if conscience is
a reflection of social attitudes, how can it ever differ
from, or be thought superior to, popular opinion? In the
revision for edition 2 Smith showed how the imagined
impartial spectator can reach a more objective opinion than
actual spectators, who are liable to be misled by ignorance
or the distortions of perspective. Imagination can conjure
up a spectator free from those limitations, just as it can
enable us to reach objective judgements of perception.
At this stage Smith still retained the view that
conscience begins with popular opinion. He says, in the
revision for edition 2, that the jurisdiction of conscience
‘is in a great measure derived from the authority of that
very tribunal, whose decisions it so often and so justly
reverses’. But by the time he came to revise the work again
for edition 6, Smith had become even more sceptical of
popular opinion and replaced the passage just quoted by the
statement that ‘the jurisdictions of those two tribunals are
founded upon principles which, though in some respects
resembling and akin, are, however, in reality different and
distinct’ (III.2.32). The judgement of the real spectator
depends on the desire for actual praise, that of the
imagined impartial spectator on the desire for
praiseworthiness. Smith maintains the distinction in other
parts of the new material added to edition 6, especially in
his treatment of self–command.
Although Smith’s special concept of the impartial
spectator was developed to explain a man’s moral judgements
about himself, the general idea is of course used for other
moral judgements too. In Smith’s view, the main stream of
ethical theory, which holds that virtue consists in
‘propriety’, has offered only two suggestions for a firm
criterion of right action; one is utility, the other is the
impartial spectator. Throughout the work he gives reasons
for preferring the second. Its central importance for him is
underlined by his adding to edition 6 a short paragraph in
criticism of modern theories of propriety (VII.ii.1.49).
None of those systems either give, or even pretend to
give, any precise or distinct measure by which this
fitness or propriety of affection can be ascertained or
judged of. That precise and distinct measure can be
found nowhere but in the sympathetic feelings of the
impartial and well–informed spectator.
Sir Gilbert Elliot was not the only critic to be answered
in edition 2. Smith also deals, at I.iii.1.9, with an
objection put to him by Hume in Letter 36, dated 28 July
1759. Hume’s objection concerned sympathy and approval.
According to Hume’s own theory, the feeling of approval is a
special sort of pleasure and arises from sympathy with the
pleasure produced by a virtuous action. Smith likewise
connected approbation with sympathy but did not limit this
to sympathy with pleasure. He wrote of sympathizing with
grief and thereby approving it as proper in the
circumstances. Sympathy with grief is of course a sharing of
a painful feeling. But Smith also wrote, in I.i.2.6, that we
are always pleased when we can sympathize. Hume thought
there was an inconsistency here. In his reply Smith makes
clearer the relation between sympathetic feeling and the
feeling of approval. Sympathetic feeling can be either
pleasurable or painful. When a spectator does sympathize, in
either way, he can also note the correspondence between his
own feeling and that of the person observed, and this
perception of correspondence is always pleasurable. The
sentiment of approval is the second, necessarily
pleasurable, feeling, not the first.
A distinction between sympathy and approval is all the
more necessary for a passage added to edition 6. As has
already been mentioned in section 1(c) above (p.
14), Smith followed Hume in using sympathy to explain
‘the distinction of ranks’ (I.iii.2). We admire the rich and
the great because we take sympathetic pleasure in their
enjoyments. The admiration or respect is perfectly natural
and contributes to the stability of society. By 1789,
however, when revising the book for edition 6, Smith was
less complacent and followed that discussion with a new
chapter (I.iii.3) on ‘the corruption of our moral
sentiments’ by the disposition to admire the rich and the
great. In it he says that while wealth and power commonly
receive respect, they do not deserve it, as do wisdom and
virtue. Yet he still thinks that the respect for the rich
and the great is both natural and useful. In VI.ii.1.20,
again a passage written for edition 6, Smith returns briefly
to the rich and the great as contrasted with the wise and
the virtuous. He there commends ‘the benevolent wisdom of
nature’ in leading us to admire the former so much, his
reason being the old one that our natural tendency to
respect wealth and power helps to maintain social order.
Despite the connection with sympathy and utility, Smith does
not wish to class this respect as a form of moral
approbation. It is, he says, similar to and apt to be
mistaken for the moral respect that we feel for wisdom and
virtue, but nonetheless it is not the same (I.iii.3.3).
A major change in edition 6 was the inclusion of an
entirely new Part VI. In general this rounds out and
clarifies, rather than changes, Smith’s ethical theory. It
describes a division of virtue into three categories:
prudence; benevolence and justice (both of which concern the
effects of conduct on other people); and self–command. Smith
always included all of these in his idea of virtue, but the
earlier version of his views did not set out so clearly
their relative place in the scheme of things and did not say
much about prudence. The increased attention to prudence in
edition 6 is natural from the more mature Adam Smith who had
pondered on economics for so long. The prudent man of TMS
VI.i. is the frugal man of WN.II.iii. The Stoic virtue of
self–command was highlighted even in edition 1. Edition 6
devotes a substantial section (iii) to self–command in the
new Part VI and also adds further reflections in III.3,
where self–command is compared with conscience in the fully
developed concept of the impartial spectator. The more
extensive treatment given to self–command in edition 6
suggests that Smith had now acquired an even warmer regard
for Stoicism than he felt in earlier days. This is confirmed
both by the more elaborate treatment of Stoic philosophy as
such, in VII.ii.1, and by the account of universal
benevolence, in VII.ii.3, in terms of Stoic rather than of
Christian doctrine.
Other features of the new Part VI reflect the interests
and experience of an older man. Descriptions of different
characters—the prudent man, the man of system, the
magnanimous, the proud, the vain man—follow the model of
Aristotle and Theophrastus but also declare Smith’s own
scale of values. Unlike Aristotle he did not think that
theorizing was necessarily the best form of human life.
Indeed he despised the pure theorist who pursued dogma with
no regard for practice, and he seems to have admired heroic
characters most.
In his strictures on civil faction and the spirit of
system (VI.ii.2.12–18), Smith appears to be reacting to the
French Revolution. This has led Walther Eckstein, in the
Introduction (xlii f.) to his edition of TMS, to attribute
to Smith’s old age a conservatism that was not there before.
If we did not know from other evidence that Smith was a
lifelong Whig, Eckstein says, we might suppose from this
section of TMS that he was a Tory. It seems to us, however,
that Eckstein’s interpretation is dubious. Most men grow
more cautious with advancing years, and Smith was no
exception. But his general position in politics does not
seem to have changed substantially. He was always a staunch
republican in spirit (as Eckstein agrees). There is at first
sight some substance in a specific point made by Eckstein.
In VI.ii.2.16 Smith commends ‘the divine maxim of Plato’
that a man should not ‘use violence’ against his country any
more than against his parents. Eckstein notes (xliii) that
this is recalled in LJ(B) 15 (Cannan ed., 11), where Smith
says the Tory principle of authority declares that ‘to
offend’ against government is as bad as ‘to rebel’ against a
parent. (LJ(A) v.124 contains a similar statement.) There
is, however, a difference between the two formulations; one
does not have to be a Tory to take the TMS view that it is
wrong to use ‘violence’ against the state. Eckstein also
cites as evidence Smith’s view in VI.ii.1.20 that respect
for rank contributes to social stability, and his comparable
statements in VI.ii.2.9–10 that attachment to one’s own
particular order also helps stability and ‘checks the spirit
of innovation’. But such support for the existing social
structure is nothing new in Smith. We have already noted
that he approved of the respect for rank even more warmly
(i.e. without qualification) in edition 1. Further, his
approval is on grounds of utility, which in the LJ passage
is said to be the principle of Whig, as contrasted with
Tory, politics. Smith believed in a careful balance between
order and innovation. There is a strong conservative strain
in his thinking, but it is not markedly stronger in the
edition 6 material of TMS than in the earlier writing. That
he should be shocked by the events of 1789 is entirely what
we would expect.
There is more of a case for Eckstein’s further suggestion
(intro. xlv ff.) that a change in Smith’s religious views
can be inferred from revisions in edition 6, especially from
the omission of a passage on the Atonement and from the
sceptical sound of a single dry sentence that took its place
(II.ii.3.12). Less striking indications of such a change can
in fact be seen in earlier revisions of the passage. This
matter is dealt with fully in Appendix II. Other passages
added in edition 6 show that Smith was still imbued with a
religious spirit (as Eckstein notes), but it seems
reasonable to conclude that he had moved away from orthodox
Christianity. There is additional evidence pointing in the
same direction, e.g. Letter 163 addressed to Alexander
Wedderburn, dated 14 August 1776, which says: ‘Poor David
Hume is dying very fast, but with great chearfulness and
good humour and with more real resignation to the necessary
course of things, than any Whining Christian ever dyed with
pretended resignation to the will of God.’ Smith did not,
however, follow Hume into scepticism. All the evidence
points rather to a trend towards natural religion, an
attitude shown also in the sympathy with which he rearranged
and expanded the Stoic passages of TMS.
(b)
Relation of TMS to
WN
In the light of what has been said in the preceding
section about changes in edition 6, there is no need to add
much to discussions in the past about the relation of TMS to
WN. The so–called ‘Adam Smith problem’ was a pseudo–problem
based on ignorance and misunderstanding. Anybody who reads
TMS, first in one of the earlier editions and then in
edition 6, will not have the slightest inclination to be
puzzled that the same man wrote this book and WN, or to
suppose that he underwent any radical change of view about
human conduct. Smith’s account of ethics and of human
behaviour is basically the same in edition 6 of 1790 as in
edition 1 of 1759. There is development but no fundamental
alteration. It is also perfectly obvious that TMS is not
isolated from WN (1776). Some of the content of the new
material added to edition 6 of TMS clearly comes from the
author of WN. No less clearly, a little of the content of
edition 1 of TMS comes from the potential author of WN. Of
course WN is narrower in scope and far more extensive in the
working out of details than is TMS. It is largely, though by
no means wholly, about economic activity and so, when it
refers to motivation, concentrates on self–interest. There
is nothing surprising in Adam Smith’s well known statement
(WN I.ii.2): ‘It is not from the benevolence of the butcher,
the brewer, or the baker, that we expect our dinner, but
from their regard to their own interest.’ Who would suppose
this to imply that Adam Smith had come to disbelieve in the
very existence or the moral value of benevolence? Nobody
with any sense. But this does not necessarily exclude
scholars, some of whom have adopted the
Umschwungstheorie, the hypothesis that the moral
philosopher who made sympathy the basis of social behaviour
in TMS did an about–turn from altruistic to egoistic theory
in WN owing to the influence of the French ‘materialist’
thinkers whom he met in Paris in 1766.
The charge of ‘materialism’ (meaning an egoistic theory
of human nature) in WN was made by Bruno Hildebrand as early
as 1848 in Die Nationalökonomie der Gegenwart und Zukunft
(Frankfurt). It was followed up by Carl G. A. Knies in
Die Politische Oekonomie vom Standpunkte der geschichtlichen
Methode (Braunschweig, 1853), where the suggestion was
first made that Smith changed his views between writing TMS
and WN, and that the change was a result of his visit to
France. The full–blown version of the Umschwungstheorie,
however, was produced by Witold von Skarżyński in Adam
Smith als Moralphilosoph und Schoepfer der Nationaloekonomie
(Berlin, 1878). Skarżyński’s ideas were sparked off by those
of H. T. Buckle in vol. ii of his History of Civilization
in England (London, 1861). Buckle put forward a theory
of a peculiar relationship between Smith’s two books.
Skarżyński saw that this was questionable, but in reacting
against it (and against Buckle’s high praise of Smith) he
adopted one of Buckle’s chief errors and then added some of
his own. Buckle’s view needs to be considered first.
Buckle’s interpretation of Adam Smith is in Chapter 6 of
his book, dealing with Scottish thought in the eighteenth
century. Buckle had a curious obsession with methodology,
and in this chapter he insists that all Scottish
philosophers of that period proceeded by the method of
deduction and would have nothing to do with induction. Adam
Smith conformed to the pattern, according to Buckle, except
for one thing; he followed ‘a peculiar form of deduction’
(p. 437) in arguing from premisses that deliberately left
out part of the relevant data. The procedure, based on the
method of geometry (so Buckle says), was to select one set
of premisses and reason from them in one context, and then
to take the remaining data as another set of premisses for
inference in a different context. Each piece of reasoning,
Buckle continues, is incomplete on its own; they need to be
seen as supplementing each other. That is how we must view
TMS and WN.
To understand the philosophy of this, by far the
greatest of all the Scotch thinkers, both works must be
taken together, and considered as one; since they are,
in reality, the two divisions of a single subject. In
the Moral Sentiments, he investigates the
sympathetic part of human nature; in the Wealth of
Nations, he investigates its selfish part. And as
all of us are sympathetic as well as selfish . . . and
as this classification is a primary and exhaustive
division of our motives to action, it is evident, that
if Adam Smith had completely accomplished his vast
design, he would at once have raised the study of human
nature to a science, . . .
(432–3)
The general theme of this passage has point, but it is
distorted by Buckle’s assumption that sympathy and
selfishness can be set side by side as motives, indeed as an
‘exhaustive division’ of motives. After asserting that Smith
‘soon perceived that an inductive investigation was
impossible’ and therefore adopted his ‘peculiar form of
deduction’, Buckle repeats his view of how Smith proceeded
in the two books.
In the Moral Sentiments, he ascribes our
actions to sympathy; in his Wealth of Nations, he
ascribes them to selfishness. A short view of these two
works will prove the existence of this fundamental
difference, and will enable us to perceive that each is
supplementary to the other; so that, in order to
understand either, it is necessary to study both.
(437)
It is indeed true that the two books complement each
other and that the understanding of either is helped by
studying both. But Buckle has not taken his own advice. He
cannot have ‘studied’ TMS if he thinks that it ‘ascribes our
actions to sympathy’. Sympathy is the core of Smith’s
explanation of moral judgement. The motive to action
is an entirely different matter. Smith recognizes a variety
of motives, not only for action in general but also for
virtuous action. These motives include self–interest or, to
use the eighteenth–century term, self–love. It is this, not
‘selfishness’, that comes to the fore in WN. Smith
distinguished the two expressions, using ‘selfishness’ in a
pejorative sense for such self–love as issues in harm or
neglect of other people. While Smith is ready to couple
selfishness with ‘rapacity’ (TMS IV.1.10), he also insists,
against Hutcheson, that a proper ‘regard to our own private
happiness and interest’ is a necessary element in virtue
(VII.ii.3.16). It is therefore impossible to accept the view
that there is any difference of substance between TMS and WN
on self–interest as a motive.
As for methodology, Buckle may have been misled by WN
V.i.f.26, the one paragraph about logic in that work. In
describing the divisions of ancient philosophy, Smith says
that logic arose from considering ‘the difference between a
probable and a demonstrative argument, between a fallacious
and a conclusive one’. Buckle may have taken this to imply
that probable or inductive argument should be wholly
rejected. Smith has something more to say about methodology
in LRBL and in the essay on the History of Astronomy in EPS.
In LRBL ii.133–5 (Lothian ed., 139–40) he prefers the
‘Newtonian’ method of ‘didactic’ discourse to ‘that of
Aristotle’. The first connects together all the relevant
phenomena and their explanatory principles, while the
latter, ‘the unconnected method’, explains each phenomenon
ad hoc. But it is not at all clear that this is a
distinction between deduction and induction. For in
Astronomy. II.12, Smith represents scientific explanation,
including that of Newton, as addressing itself to the
imagination by showing regularities in the apparently
irregular, and here he is following Hume’s view of
inductive reasoning. There is no good reason to suppose
that Smith thought ‘inductive investigation was impossible’,
let alone that he pursued a special form of deduction, with
a ‘peculiar artifice’, derived from geometry. His own habits
of reasoning include both deduction and induction, as one
would expect. Buckle’s suggestion that he followed the
analogy of geometry is particularly inept because it allies
Smith with the method of rationalism. Smith was in fact a
firm empiricist and had little sympathy with rationalist
philosophy. The ‘peculiar artifice’ of distorting the
premisses of an argument is Buckle’s own invention, designed
to explain the existence of two allegedly inconsistent
accounts of human nature.
Skarżyński rightly rejected the idea that an artifice of
logic could make inconsistency consistent, but he mistakenly
accepted Buckle’s assumption that Smith’s two books gave
contrary accounts of conduct. He therefore was led to the
conclusion that Smith changed his views between writing
them. To this was added the conviction that Smith was not an
original thinker: according to Skarżyński, Smith learned all
his moral philosophy from Hutcheson and Hume, and all his
economics from French scholars. So Smith’s change of mind
between 1759 and 1776 was attributed to his visit to France
in 1764–6.
Skarżyński knew Dugald Stewart’s ‘Account of the Life and
Writings of Adam Smith’, which contains two important pieces
of evidence against the thesis that Smith learned all his
economics in France. We have already noted these in section
1(a) above. First, Stewart gives us the report of
John Millar that Smith’s lectures on Moral Philosophy
included a section on economics that ‘contained the
substance’ of WN; and second, Stewart describes a manuscript
of 1755 in which Smith claims to have dictated before 1749,
and to have delivered from 1750 onwards, lectures that
incorporated certain of his leading principles in political
economy. For Skarżyński, however, this is not evidence. How
unfortunate, he says ironically, that ‘these valuable
lectures’ were burned shortly before Smith’s death; mere
assertion without written evidence is worthless (pp. 6–7).
And when he quotes Millar’s statement that the lectures
contained the substance of WN, he adds two exclamation marks
to show his incredulity (53).
What Skarżyński would have called genuine evidence came
to light eighteen years after the appearance of his book. A
Report, copied in 1766, of Adam Smith’s lectures on
jurisprudence was brought to the attention of Edwin Cannan
and published by him in 1896. We can now say with some
certainty that it relates to lectures given in 1763–4. A
further Report of the lectures given in 1762–3 has been
discovered more recently. Skarżyński would (or should) have
found these Reports even more effective than the original
notes that Adam Smith asked his friends to burn as he lay
dying. If Smith’s manuscripts had not been burned,
Skarżyński might have said that they were not necessarily
the same as the manuscripts used for lectures in the 1760s;
and indeed they may well have been altered. The Reports that
we now have are less authentic in one sense, but there is no
question of their having been revised by Smith after his
visit to France.
A comparison of the two Reports shows that Smith was
actively developing and varying his treatment of the
subject–matter in the period 1762–4. We also have a
manuscript that W. R. Scott called ‘An early draft of part
of The Wealth of Nations’ and published in his
Adam Smith as Student and Professor. It must have been
written before April 1763.
These documents show that Smith had gone a considerable way
in his economic thinking by the time he left Scotland for
France in 1764, and that this early material provided a
sound foundation for developments which were certainly
stimulated by the visit to France but which occupied his
mind throughout the period 1764–76. What he took from the
Physiocrats is clear, as are his criticisms.
Although Skarżyński did not have access to the
manuscripts known today, he could have informed himself more
adequately of facts that were available. He says on p. 166
of his book, truly enough, that Smith did not publish
anything on political economy before 1776, but he then goes
on to assert, in defiance of the testimony of Dugald
Stewart, that Smith had ‘probably not once applied himself
definitely to the study of political economy’ before his
visit to France. Skarżyński evidently had no notion that
lectures on economic matters were a recognized part of Moral
Philosophy as taught in the Scottish Universities at that
time. The tradition stemmed from the treatment of natural
law by Roman and medieval writers, and more immediately from
the jurisprudence of Grotius and Pufendorf. At Glasgow,
Hutcheson’s predecessor in the Chair of Moral Philosophy,
Gerschom Carmichael, used his own annotated edition of
Pufendorf’s De Officio Hominis et Civis. Hutcheson
continued the practice. Smith draws on Grotius in TMS (and
on both Grotius and Pufendorf in LJ, though Skarżyński could
not have known that). The tradition is common to all the
Scottish teachers of Moral Philosophy in the eighteenth
century. Skarżyński’s study of TMS seems to have been
concentrated on noting Smith’s indebtedness to Hume. He
treats the book as merely reproducing from Hume and at times
doing it badly (76–7, 94–5). He even says (88) that Smith’s
‘twists and turns’, ‘sophistries and confusions’, could
serve very well to obtain for TMS ‘the approval of three
bishops and numerous literati’ (Schöngeister), an
ironic reference to Hume’s teasing account (Letter 31, dated
12 April 1759) of the success of the book. If Skarżyński had
studied TMS more thoroughly, he might have learned that
Smith’s ethical theory differs substantially from Hume’s,
despite indebtedness. He might even have come to see that
Buckle’s interpretation of it was mistaken.
Smith himself provides the best evidence against any idea
that there is a conflict between his two works. In the
Advertisement to edition 6 of TMS he refers to the final
paragraph of the book, which promises another one on law and
government, and says that he has ‘partly executed this
promise’ in WN. Clearly therefore he regards WN as
continuing the sequence of thought set out in TMS. Moreover,
as we have said at the beginning of this section, any reader
can see that the new material in edition 6 is simply a
development of Smith’s earlier position and at the same time
reflects some of the interests of WN. Skarżyński was
presumably unaware of the Advertisement and the additional
matter in edition 6 of TMS. The references on pp. 36 and 48
of his book show that he used the Rautenberg translation
(1770) of edition 3, although the main additions to edition
6 were in fact available in the later German translation by
Kosegarten (1791–5).
Commentators who have taken the trouble to read TMS with
more care reject the view that there was a ‘swing’ or that
there is any radical inconsistency between TMS and WN. The
scholars who show the most thorough knowledge of the book
and of its Scottish background are: Wilhelm Hasbach,
Untersuchungen über Adam Smith und die Entwicklung der
Politischen Ökonomie (Leipzig, 1891); Ludovico
Limentani, La morale della simpatia (Genoa, 1914);
Walther Eckstein in the Introduction to his translation
(1926); and T. D. Campbell, Adam Smith’s Science of
Morals (London, 1971). To these can be added, for acute
treatment of the Umschwungstheorie: Richard Zeyss,
Adam Smith und der Eigennutz (Tübingen, 1889); and
August Oncken, ‘The Consistency of Adam Smith’, Economic
Journal, vii (London, 1897), 443–50, and in more detail,
‘Das Adam Smith–Problem’, Zeitschrift für
Socialwissenschaft, ed. Julius Wolf, I Jahrgang (Berlin,
1898), 25–33, 101–8, 276–87. See also A. L. Macfie, The
Individual in Society (London, 1967).
[Back to Table of Contents]
3.
reception
(a)
Early comment and
foreign translations
Smith’s reputation in Scotland
was already established before 1759. The publication of TMS
made him known and esteemed both in England and abroad. The
immediate success of the book is delightfully described by
Hume, writing from London in Letter 31, dated 12 April 1759.
After a teasing tale of alleged interruptions to his letter,
he finally reaches the point, prefacing it with a reminder
that popular opinion is worthless, as if to console Smith
for a coming disappointment.
Supposing, therefore, that you have duely prepard
yourself for the worst by all these Reflections; I
proceed to tell you the melancholy News, that your Book
has been very unfortunate: For the Public seem disposed
to applaud it extremely. It was looked for by the
foolish People with some Impatience; and the Mob of
Literati are beginning already to be very loud in its
Praises. Three Bishops calld yesterday at Millar’s
Shop in order to buy Copies, and to ask Questions about
the Author: The Bishop of Peterborough said he had
passed the Evening in a Company, where he heard it
extolld above all Books in the World. You may conclude
what Opinion true Philosophers will entertain of it,
when these Retainers to Superstition praise it so
highly. The Duke of Argyle is more decisive than he uses
to be in its Favour: . . . Lord Lyttleton says, that
Robertson and Smith and Bower are the Glories of English
Literature. Oswald
protests he does not know whether he has reap’d more
Instruction or Entertainment from it: . . . Millar
exults and brags that two thirds of the Edition are
already sold, and that he is now sure of Success. . . .
Charles Townsend, who passes for the cleverest Fellow
in England, is so taken with the Performance, that he
said to Oswald he wou’d put the Duke of Buccleugh under
the Authors Care, and woud endeavour to make it worth
his while to accept of that Charge. . . .
At the beginning of the letter Hume says that he sent
copies of the book to the Duke of Argyll, Lord Lyttelton,
Horace Walpole, Soame Jenyns, and Edmund Burke (‘an Irish
Gentleman, who wrote lately a very pretty Treatise on the
Sublime’). Their names, and also those of Charles Townshend
and ‘Mr. Solicitor General’ (i.e. Charles Yorke, referred to
in Hume’s second letter below), are included in a list of
recipients of complimentary copies that heads Letter 33,
sent by Andrew Millar to Adam Smith on 26 April 1759. Hume
wrote again to Smith on 28 July (Letter 36) to report
further reactions.
I am very well acquainted with Bourke, who was much
taken with your Book. He got your Direction from me with
a View of writing to you, and thanking you for your
Present: For I made it pass in your Name. I wonder he
has not done it: . . . I am not acquainted with Jennyns;
but he spoke very highly of the Book to Oswald, . . .
Millar show’d me a few days ago a Letter from Lord
Fitz–maurice; where he tells him, that he had carryd
over a few Copies to the Hague for Presents. Mr. Yorke
was much taken with it as well as several others who had
read it.
I am told that you are preparing a new Edition, and
propose to make some Additions and Alterations, in order
to obviate Objections.
Hume then proceeds to give Smith his own objection about
sympathy, which we have discussed in section 2(a)
above. The contemplation by Smith (and presumably Millar) of
a second edition so soon after the publication of the first
is a further mark of the book’s success.
Burke did write to Smith, but not until the autumn.
Meanwhile Smith had received additional testimony of the
warm reception in London. William Robertson wrote to him
from Edinburgh on 14 June (Letter 34):
Our friend John Home arrived here from London two
days ago. Tho’ I dare say you have heard of the good
reception of the Theory from [m]any different
people, I must acquaint you with the intelligence Home
brings. He assures me that it is in the hands of all
persons of the best fashion; that it meets with great
approbation both on account of the matter and stile; and
that it is impossible for any book on so serious a
subject to be received in a more gracious manner. It
comforts the English a good deal to hear that you were
bred at Oxford, they claim some part of you on that
account.
In July 1759 a notice of the book appeared in the
Monthly Review (xxi.1–18). It was unsigned, as was
customary, but it has been identified as the work of William
Rose.
After some general introductory remarks on moral philosophy,
he writes:
The Author of the work now before us, however, bids
fairer for a favourable hearing than most other moral
Writers; his language is always perspicuous and
forcible, and often elegant; his illustrations are
beautiful and pertinent; and his manner lively and
entertaining. Even the superficial and careless Reader,
though incapable of forming a just judgment of our
Author’s system, and entering into his peculiar notions,
will be pleased with his agreeable manner of
illustrating his argument, by the frequent appeals he
makes to fact and experience; and those who are judges
of the subject, whatever opinion they may entertain of
his peculiar sentiments, must, if they have any
pretensions to candor, readily allow, that he has
supported them with a great deal of ingenuity.
The principle of Sympathy, on which he founds his
system, is an unquestionable principle in human nature;
but whether his reasonings upon it are just and
satisfactory or not, we shall not take upon us to
pronounce: it is sufficient to say, that they are
extremely ingenious and plausible. He is, besides, a
nice and delicate observer of human nature; seems well
acquainted with the systems both of antient and modern
moralists; and possesses the happy talent of treating
the most intricate subjects not only with perspicuity
but with elegance.—We now proceed to give some account
of what he has advanced.
Then follows extensive quotation or summary of Smith’s
argument covering all six Parts of the book. When the
reviewer gives Smith’s criticism of utilitarian theory in
Part IV, he names Hume as the target. A concluding paragraph
reverts from quotation to appraisal and ends as follows:
The last part of the Theory will be peculiarly
agreeable to the learned reader, who will there find a
clear and distinct view of the several systems of moral
philosophy, which have gained any considerable degree of
reputation either in antient or modern times; with many
pertinent and ingenious reflections upon them. The whole
work, indeed, shews a delicacy of sentiment, and
acuteness of understanding, that are seldom to be met
with; and what ought particularly to be mentioned, there
is the strictest regard preserved, throughout, to the
principles of religion, so that the serious reader will
find nothing that can give him any just ground of
offence.—In a word, without any partiality to the
author, he is one of the most elegant and agreeable
writers, upon morals, that we are acquainted with.
The Monthly Review was owned and edited by Ralph
Griffiths. In Letter 48 addressed to William Strahan, dated
4 April 1760, Smith asks to be remembered to Griffiths and
adds: ‘I am greatly obliged to him for the very handsom
character he gave of my book in his review.’
Burke wrote a review that was more handsome still, for
his periodical, the Annual Register. But first he
sent a letter to Smith on 10 September 1759 (Letter 38), in
which he gave his opinion at greater length and added some
criticism. It will be remembered that Hume had expected
Burke to thank Smith for a complimentary copy of TMS. In his
letter Burke apologizes for the delay, pleading business and
saying that he wanted to read the book ‘with proper care and
attention’ before writing. He then shows that he has indeed
read it and reflected on it with care.
I am not only pleased with the ingenuity of your
Theory; I am convinced of its solidity and Truth; and I
do not know that it ever cost me less trouble to admit
so many things to which I had been a stranger before. I
have ever thought that the old Systems of morality were
too contracted and that this Science could never stand
well upon any narrower Basis than the whole of Human
Nature. All the writers who have treated this Subject
before you were like those Gothic Architects who were
fond of turning great Vaults upon a single slender
Pillar; There is art in this, and there is a degree of
ingenuity without doubt; but it is not sensible, and it
cannot long be pleasing. A theory like yours founded on
the Nature of man, which is always the same, will last,
when those that are founded on his opinions, which are
always changing, will and must be forgotten. I own I am
particularly pleased with those easy and happy
illustrations from common Life and manners in which your
work abounds more than any other that I know by far.
They are indeed the fittest to explain those natural
movements of the mind with which every Science relating
to our Nature ought to begin. . . . Besides so much
powerful reasoning as your Book contains, there is so
much elegant Painting of the manners and passions, that
it is highly valuable even on that account. The stile is
every where lively and elegant, and what is, I think
equally important in a work of that kind, it is well
varied; it is often sublime too, particularly in that
fine Picture of the Stoic Philosophy towards the end of
your first part which is dressed out in all the grandeur
and Pomp that becomes that magnificent delusion. I have
mentioned something of what affected me as Beauties in
your work. I will take the Liberty to mention too what
appeared to me as a sort of Fault. You are in some few
Places, what Mr Locke is in most of his writings, rather
a little too diffuse. This is however a fault of the
generous kind, and infinitely preferable to the dry
sterile manner, which those of dull imaginations are apt
to fall into. To another I should apologise for a
freedom of this Nature.
Burke’s review in the Annual Register (year 1759,
pp. 484 ff.) repeats some of the comments made in the
private letter. After some general introductory remarks
about ‘this excellent work’ in which ‘the parts grow so
naturally and gracefully out of each other’, the review goes
on:
There have been of late many books written on our
moral duties, and our moral sanctions. One would have
thought the matter had been exhausted. But this author
has struck out a new, and at the same time a perfectly
natural road of speculation on this subject. . . . We
conceive, that here the theory is in all its essential
parts just, and founded on truth and nature. The author
seeks for the foundation of the just, the fit, the
proper, the decent, in our most common and most allowed
passions; and making approbation and disapprobation the
tests of virtue and vice, and shewing that those are
founded on sympathy, he raises from this simple truth,
one of the most beautiful fabrics of moral theory, that
has perhaps ever appeared. The illustrations are
numerous and happy, and shew the author to be a man of
uncommon observation. His language is easy and spirited,
and puts things before you in the fullest light; it is
rather painting than writing.
Charles Townshend, referred to in Hume’s first letter,
had married the widowed Countess of Dalkeith and was
therefore the stepfather of the young Duke of Buccleuch.
Townshend did eventually carry out the plan that Hume
describes, of asking Smith to act as tutor to the Duke, on
terms tempting enough for Smith to give up his Professorship
at Glasgow. That is how Smith visited France and Geneva in
1764–6, and how he was able to retire thereafter to
Kirkcaldy and devote himself to writing WN.
Townshend was not alone in being led by TMS to think of
using Smith’s services as a teacher. Lord Buchan says he
went to Glasgow after St. Andrews, Edinburgh, and Oxford in
order to learn from Smith and John Millar; but since this
was in 1760 and since Millar’s appointment at Glasgow began
in 1761, Buchan must in fact have been attracted in the
first place by the reputation of Smith alone.
Another student who came from Oxford, in 1762, was Henry
Herbert, later Lord Porchester.
Some came from farther afield. Théodore Tronchin, the
celebrated physician of Geneva who attended Voltaire among
others, sent his son to Glasgow in 1761, expressly ‘to study
under Mr. Smith’.
The international reputation of TMS is borne out by part
of the resolution adopted by the University of Glasgow on 1
March 1764 accepting the resignation of Adam Smith, ‘whose
uncommon Genius, great Abilities and extensive Learning did
so much Honour to this Society; His elegant and ingenious
Theory of Moral Sentiments having recommended him to the
esteem of Men of Taste and Literature thro’out Europe’.
The last two words are a pardonable exaggeration, but
certainly in France the book was soon applauded.
The Journal encyclopédique for October 1760
carried a notice consisting of a short extract followed by
some favourable comment, perhaps echoing that of the
Monthly Review.
Cet Ouvrage Nous a paru recommandable par la force et
la chaleur de son style, par la beauté et la noblesse
des sentimens, par la nouveauté et la justesse des
reflexions, par le ton imposant des raisonnemens; mais
ce qui le rend encore plus précieux, c’est que tout y
respire la vertu la plus pure, et que la Religion y est
par–tout respectée.
Hume went to France in 1763 as Secretary to the British
Embassy, and shortly after his arrival he wrote to Smith
from Fontainebleau in Letter 77, dated 28 October 1763: ‘The
Baron d’Holbac, whom I saw at Paris, told me, that there was
one under his Eye that was translating your Theory of moral
Sentiments; and desird me to inform you of it: . . .’ This
was Marc–Antoine Eidous, who had also translated Hutcheson’s
Inquiry into Beauty and Virtue. His rendering of TMS
appeared in 1764 under the title Métaphysique de l’âme.
A contemporary note in F.–M. de Grimm’s Correspondance
littéraire (Part I, vol. iv, 291 f.) says that the work
did not have any success in Paris to match its reputation in
Britain, but that this was due to the defects of the
translation and was no argument against its merit.
However, Parisians of literary tastes were perfectly
capable of reading TMS in English. The Abbé Morellet records
that he did so.
The Comtesse de Boufflers–Rouverel wrote in a letter of 6
May 1766 to Hume that she had begun to read TMS and thought
she would like it.
There is another record, a few years later, of the interest
of Madame de Boufflers and of other Parisians in TMS.
Gilbert and Hugh Elliot, the young sons of Sir Gilbert
Elliot, were in Paris in 1770, and a letter from Hugh
describes a visit to Madame de Boufflers.
She received us very kindly, and spoke about all our
Scotch and English authors; if she had time, she would
set about translating Mr. Smith’s Moral Sentiments—‘Il a
des idées si justes de la sympathie.’ This book is now
in great vogue here; this doctrine of sympathy bids fair
for cutting out David Hume’s Immaterialism, especially
with the ladies, ever since they heard of his marriage.
Another member of the French nobility who contemplated,
and indeed began, a translation of TMS was Louis–Alexandre,
Duc de La Rochefoucauld–d’Anville, a descendant of the
author of the Maximes. He abandoned the task after
completing Part I, because of the appearance of a
translation by the Abbé Blavet.
Blavet’s translation was of edition 3 (1767) and was
published in 1774–5. Yet another French translation, of
edition 7 (1792), appeared in 1798. This was by Sophie de
Grouchy, widow of Condorcet, who appended some essays of her
own (in the form of letters) on the topic of sympathy.
Eckstein (intro. xxxii ff.) has brought together evidence
of the reception of TMS in Germany. Lessing mentions the
book in his celebrated work on aesthetics, Laokoon
(1766), quoting a passage, in his own translation, from
I.ii.1. Herder makes several references to it, the earliest
one being in his aesthetic work, Kritische Wälder
(1769). The first German translation was of edition 3 and
appeared in 1770. The name of the translator is not stated
but he was in fact Christian Günther Rautenberg, who had
already translated Lord Kames’s Principles of Morality
and Natural Religion.
It seems that Kant knew and valued TMS, judging from a
letter of 1771 written to him by one Markus Herz. A passage
in this letter speaks of ‘the Englishman Smith, who, Mr.
Friedländer tells me, is your favourite’ (Liebling),
and then goes on to compare the work of Smith with ‘the
first part’ of ‘Home, Kritik’, no doubt meaning Elements
of Criticism by Henry Home, Lord Kames. As Eckstein
points out, the date of 1771 (too early for WN and one year
after the publication of the first German translation of
TMS) and the comparison with Kames show that the writer must
have had TMS in mind. The passage also suggests that Herz at
least, like Lessing and Herder, was interested in the
relevance of TMS to aesthetics. It is unlikely, however,
that Kant’s own regard for the work will have been thus
confined. Eckstein goes on to note that there is a passage
in Kant’s Reflections on Anthropology where Kant
writes of ‘the man who goes to the root of things’ and who
looks at every subject ‘not just from his own point of view
but from that of the community’ and then adds, in brackets,
‘the Impartial Spectator’ (der Unpartheyische Zuschauer).
A second German translation, by Ludwig Theobul
Kosegarten, was published in 1791, presumably made from
edition 4 or 5. Kosegarten produced a supplementary volume
in 1795, containing a translation of the main additions of
edition 6, and of the whole of Part III as revised for that
edition.
A third German translation, that of Walther Eckstein,
appeared in 1926. This is more than a translation. It
contains a careful record of practically all the revisions
of substance that were made in the different editions of
TMS; it is annotated in detail; and its long Introduction is
a valuable contribution to knowledge. The work is indeed the
first scholarly edition of TMS, and its scholarship is of a
high order. We are greatly indebted to it as the
starting–point for many of our own notes and for some of the
information given in our Introduction.
A further German translation by Elisa von
Loeschebrand–Horn was published in 1949 as the first volume
of selections from the works of Adam Smith, edited by Hans
Georg Schachtschabel. We have not seen this version, but the
description of the edition and the length of the volume
concerned (338 pp.) suggest that it does not include the
whole of TMS.
In Russia Smith was well known as an economist, little as
a moral philosopher. One of his Russian pupils, however,
Semyon Desnitsky, who later became a Professor of Law at
Moscow University, made some use of TMS (and much of LJ) in
his lectures. In a work of 1770 he said that he hoped to
publish a Russian translation of TMS, but for some reason he
did not carry out the intention.
A Russian translation by P. A. Bibikov appeared in 1868.
A Spanish translation by Edmund O’Gorman was published in
Mexico in 1941. A Japanese translation by Tomio Yonebayashi
was published in 1948–9 and was reprinted in 1954. See also
p. 402 below.
(b)
Select bibliography
1. Editions of TMS
Editions authorized by Adam Smith (all imprinted London
and Edinburgh):
Ed. 1, 1759; ed. 2, 1761; ed. 3, 1767; ed. 4, 1774; ed.
5, 1781; ed. 6, 2 vols., 1790.
Other editions (this list is almost certainly
incomplete):
Dublin, 1777 (called ‘the sixth edition’); ed. 7, 2
vols., London and Edinburgh, 1792; Basel, 1793; ed. 8, 2
vols., London, 1797; ed. 9, 2 vols., London, 1801; ed. 10, 2
vols., London, 1804; 2 vols., Edinburgh, 1808; Glasgow,
1809; London, 1812; 2 vols., Edinburgh, 1813; Boston, 1817;
Philadelphia, 1817; New York, 1821; 2 vols., New York, 1822;
2 vols., London, 1825; London, 1846; Edinburgh, 1849;
London, 1853; London, 1861; London, 1871; Boston, New York,
and Philadelphia, in or before 1876; London, 1880; Boston
and New York, 1887; London, 1887; London, 1892; Edinburgh,
1894; London, 1907; London, 1911; Kyoto, 1961; New York,
1966; New Rochelle, N.Y., 1969.
TMS is also published in vol. i of The Works of Adam
Smith, London, 1812; reprinted, Aalen, 1963; in vol. i
of The Whole Works of Adam Smith, London, 1822; in
vols. iv–v of The Works of Adam Smith, London, 1825;
and in Essays, Philosophical and Literary, London,
1869; reprinted, New York, in or before 1876; reprinted,
London, 1880.
2. Translations
French:
1. Métaphysique de l’âme: ou Théorie des sentimens
moraux [translated by Marc–Antoine Eidous]; 2 vols.,
Paris, 1764.
2. Théorie des sentimens moraux, translated by
l’Abbé Blavet; 2 vols., Paris, 1774–5; reprinted, Paris,
1782.
3. Théorie des sentimens moraux, translated from
ed. 7 by Sophie de Grouchy, Marquise de Condorcet; 2 vols.,
Paris, 1798; reprinted, Paris, 1820; revised ed., Paris,
1830; republished with introduction and notes by Henri
Baudrillart, Paris, 1860.
German:
1. Theorie der moralischen Empfindungen,
translated from ed. 3 [by Christian Günther Rautenberg];
Braunschweig, 1770.
2. Theorie der sittlichen Gefühle, translated and
edited by Ludwig Theobul Kosegarten; Leipzig, 1791: vol. ii,
containing the additions to ed. 6; Leipzig, 1795.
3. Theorie der ethischen Gefühle, translated (from
ed. 6 but including variants in earlier eds.) and edited by
Walther Eckstein; 2 vols., Leipzig, 1926.
4. Theorie der ethischen Gefühle, translated by
Elisa von Loeschebrand–Horn (vol. i of Smith, Werke,
selected and edited by Hans Georg Schachtschabel);
Frankfurt, 1949.
Russian:
Teoriya Nravstvennykh Chuvstv, translated by P. A.
Bibikov; St. Petersburg, 1868.
Spanish:
Teoría de los sentimientos morales, translated by
Edmund O’Gorman, introduced by Edward Nicol; Pánuco, Mexico,
1941.
Japanese:
Dōtoku Jōsō Ron, translated by Tomio Yonebayashi;
2 vols., Tokyo, 1948–9; reprinted, Tokyo, 1954. See also p.
402 below.
3. Discussion
This list is restricted to books and published theses
that contain a substantial treatment of Smith’s ethical
thought. (Even as such it is no doubt incomplete.) It does
not include articles nor, except incidentally, books dealing
with his other writings. Readers who wish to supplement it
should consult the bibliographies in: Eckstein, i.lxxiv ff;
The Vanderblue Memorial Collection of Smithiana
(Baker Library, Harvard Graduate School of Business
Administration; Boston, 1939): Burt Franklin and Francesco
G. M. Cordasco, Adam Smith: A Bibliographical Checklist;
critical writings and scholarship on Smith, 1876–1950
(New York, 1950); and Keitaro Amano, Bibliography of the
Classical Economics, Part I (Science Council of Japan,
Economic Series No. 27; Tokyo, 1961).
The most important works concerned with the ‘Adam Smith
problem’ have been listed in section 2(b) above.
Thomas Brown, Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human
Mind, vol. iv; Edinburgh, 1820. Reprinted in Lectures
on Ethics; Edinburgh, 1846.
Victor Cousin, Cours d’histoire de la philosophie
morale aux dix–huitième siècle, vol. iii, École
écossaise; Paris, 1840.
August Oncken, Adam Smith und Immanuel Kant;
Leipzig, 1877.
Witold von Skarżyński, Adam Smith als Moralphilosoph
und Schoepfer der Nationaloekonomie; Berlin, 1878.
James Anson Farrer, Adam Smith; London, 1881.
Richard Zeyss, Adam Smith und der Eigennutz;
Tübingen, 1889.
Wilhelm Paszkowski, Adam Smith als Moralphilosoph;
Halle, 1890.
Johannes Schubert, Adam Smith’s Moralphilosophie;
Leipzig, 1890 and 1891.
Ethel Muir, The Ethical System of Adam Smith;
Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1898.
Johan Gerrit Appeldoorn, De Leer der Sympathie bij
David Hume en Adam Smith; Drachten, 1903.
Albion Woodbury Small, Adam Smith and Modern
Sociology; Chicago, 1907.
Ludovico Limentani, La morale della simpatia;
Genoa, 1914.
Giovanni Pioli, L’etica della simpatia nella ‘Teoria
dei Sentimenti Morali’ di Adamo Smith; Rome,
1920.
Glen Raymond Morrow, The Ethical and Economic Theories
of Adam Smith; New York, 1923.
James Bonar, Moral Sense; London and New York,
1930.
Manuel Fuentes Irurozqui, El moralista Adam Smith,
economista; Madrid, 1944.
Luigi Bagolini, La simpatia nella morale e nel
diritto; Bologna, 1952; ed. 2, revised and extended,
Turin, 1966.
Giulio Preti, Alle origini dell’ etica contemporeana:
Adamo Smith; Bari, 1957.
Alec Lawrence Macfie, The Individual in Society;
London, 1967.
Thomas Douglas Campbell, Adam Smith’s Science of
Morals; London, 1971.
[Back to Table of Contents]
4.
the text
(a)
Account of editions
1–7
Six authorized editions of TMS
were published in Adam Smith’s lifetime. Edition 6, which
incorporated extensive additions and substantial revision of
other kinds, appeared in 1790, a few weeks before his death.
In Letter 295 addressed to Thomas Cadell, his publisher,
dated 25 May 1790, Smith acknowledges the receipt of his
twelve copies of this edition. Glasgow University Library
possesses one of them, presented by Smith to a friend and
inscribed in his own hand. We have collated copies of all
these six editions, and also of edition 7 (published in
1792) since it is in principle possible that some of the
minor changes in edition 7 were corrections made by the
author after going through edition 6. This is in fact
unlikely, because Smith was already very ill by the time
that edition 6 appeared. There is also some internal
evidence against it: in VII.ii.4.3, editions 6 and 7
intelligibly but mistakenly print ‘lawful’ instead of
‘awful’, and if Smith had corrected edition 6 he would
almost certainly have picked up this error, while a printer,
less familiar with the doctrines of the book as a whole,
would not have recognized it as an error. Nevertheless there
are a few places in which edition 7 does correct errors (as
well as some where it introduces new ones, and a number
where it revises punctuation or spelling), so that it is as
well to include the variants of edition 7 in the collation.
John Rae’s account, in his Life of Adam Smith, of
the different editions of TMS is erroneous in several
respects. On p. 141 he says that edition 1 was published in
two volumes, while in fact it was a single volume. On pp.
148–9 he writes:
The second edition of the Theory, which Hume
was anticipating immediately in 1759, did not appear
till 1761, and it contained none of the alterations or
additions he expected; but the Dissertation on the
Origin of Languages was for the first time published
along with it. The reason for the omission of the other
additions is difficult to discover, for the author had
not only prepared them, but gone the length of placing
them in the printer’s hands in 1760, as appears from the
following letter [Letter 50 addressed to William
Strahan, the printer, dated 4 April 1760]. They did not
appear either in the third edition in 1767, or the
fourth in 1774, or the fifth in 1781; nor till the
sixth, which was published, with considerable additions
and corrections, immediately before the author’s death
in 1790.
On p. 425 Rae repeats the gist of this by saying of the
projected edition 6: ‘The book had been thirty years before
the world and had passed through five editions, but it had
never undergone any revision or alteration whatever.’ In
fact edition 2 is considerably revised when compared with
edition 1. Although the alterations and additions are not as
extensive as in edition 6, they are very substantial and are
perfectly consistent with Letter 50. The particular addition
which Hume was expecting in answer to his criticism made in
Letter 36 addressed to Smith, dated 28 July 1759, appears as
a footnote to I.iii.1.9. The Dissertation on the Origin of
Languages, however, was first appended, not to edition 2 of
TMS, but to edition 3, having previously been published in
the Philological Miscellany, vol. i, in 1761.
Editions 3, 4, and 5 of TMS each contain some minor revision
by the author.
We have used two copies of edition 1, one belonging to
Glasgow University Library, the other to the Bodleian
Library, and have found no differences between them. Edition
1 is a single octavo volume of [xii] + 552 pages, the last
page containing a list of Errata (two of which, being
respectively on the first and last lines of a page, have in
fact already been corrected in the text). The title–page
describes the work simply as ‘The Theory of Moral
Sentiments’ and the author as ‘Adam Smith, Professor of
Moral Philosophy in the University of Glasgow’. The book is
imprinted 1759, London and Edinburgh. In Letter 33 addressed
to Smith, dated 26 April 1759, the London publisher, Andrew
Millar, wrote: ‘I reed the errata which are printed, . . . I
have no Sort of doubt of this Impression being Soon gone
tho’ it will not be published till next Week, . . .’
We have used three copies of edition 2, two from Glasgow
University Library and one from the Bodleian. One of the
Glasgow copies is defective, lacking the final Part; but
since this particular volume is not in its original binding,
it is likely that it was complete when first issued. In
other respects (e.g. broken letters and misprints) it is
identical with the other two copies. Edition 2, like edition
1, is a single octavo volume, but is completely reset in a
new form. The pages are slightly longer than those of
edition 1, the type is a little smaller, and there is less
space between the lines. This edition contains [x] + 436
pages, with no list of Errata. The title–page follows that
of edition 1 in its description of the book and author, and
is likewise imprinted as being published at London and
Edinburgh. It bears the date 1761, but copies must have been
available, at least to the author if not to the public, at
the end of 1760, since Smith sent a list of Errata with
Letter 54 addressed to William Strahan, dated 30 December
1760. The letter begins:
My Dear Strahan
The opposite leaf will set before your eyes the
manifold sins and iniquities you have been guilty of in
printing my book. The first six, at least the first,
third and fourth and sixth are what you call sins
against the holy Ghost which cannot upon any account be
pardoned. The Remainder are capable of remission in case
of repentance, humiliation and contrition.
W. R. Scott printed this letter in his book, Adam
Smith as Student and Professor, but without the list of
Errata that accompanied it. The sheet of Errata was traced
by Professor Ernest C. Mossner in the course of preparing
the volume of Correspondence for the present edition
of Smith’s Works. The Errata relate to edition 2 of TMS.
They are divided into two groups. The first group of six is
preceded by the statement, ‘The following Errata must be
corrected as totally disfiguring the sense’, which is why
the letter calls them sins against the Holy Ghost. Some
indeed not only disfigure but flatly contradict the sense
required: ‘approbation’ for ‘disapprobation’, ‘utility’ for
‘inutility’, and ‘pleased’ for ‘displeased’. All six of this
first group of errors are corrected in edition 3. The second
group consists of twenty–five errors, seven of which are
corrected in edition 3, three in edition 4, and four in
edition 6; one further error is avoided in edition 6 by a
new form of correction (Smith had evidently forgotten the
original list by this time); the remaining ten have never
been corrected before the present edition. Since the list of
Errata was no doubt intended to be printed with any further
impressions of edition 2, we have treated it as if it had
been, incorporating Smith’s revisions (apart from the one
which he rephrased for edition 6) in our text.
Edition 2 contains substantial revisions of edition 1. A
couple of the changes are merely formal: Section ii of Part
I in edition 1 becomes Chapters 2–5 of Section i, and the
‘Sections’ of Parts III–V become ‘Chapters’. Throughout the
book there are quite a large number of minor stylistic
improvements. The footnote at I.iii.1.9, in reply to Hume’s
criticism, is added. After III.1.4, edition 1 had three
paragraphs; edition 2 transfers the first to a later
position, withdraws the second (substituting for it, in the
present § 6, an improved version of the same thought), and
retains the third with slight revision but in a new
position. At the end of III.1.5, edition 2 withdraws a
paragraph that was in edition 1, and adds § 6, the improved
version of the paragraph withdrawn earlier. In what was
III.ii of edition 1, and III.2 of editions 2–5 (see the
present III.2.31 and III.3.1–5, 7–9, 11), edition 2 adds
sixteen new paragraphs; these include an important
development of the theory of the impartial spectator so as
to provide a genetic explanation of conscience.
Consequently, edition 2 is not quite the same book as
edition 1, though the changes are not on the scale of those
made in edition 6.
Smith mentioned the changes in Letter 50 addressed to
William Strahan, dated 4 April 1760, to which Rae refers in
the passage quoted earlier from Life, 148–9. We give
part of the first paragraph of this letter.
I sent up to Mr Millar four or five Posts ago the
same additions, which I had formerly sent to you, with a
good many corrections and improvements which occurred to
me since. If there are any typographical errors
remaining in the last edition which had escaped me, I
hope you will correct them. In other respects I could
wish it was printed pretty exactly according to the copy
which I delivered to you. . . . To desire you to read my
book over and mark all the corrections you would wish me
to make upon a sheet of paper and send it to me, would,
I fear, be giving you too much trouble. If, however, you
could induce yourself to take this trouble, you would
oblige me greatly: I know how much I shall be benefitted
and I shall at the same time preserve the pretious right
of private judgement for the sake of which our
forefathers kicked out the Pope and the Pretender. I
believe you to be much more infallible than the Pope,
but as I am a Protestant my conscience makes me scruple
to submit to any unscriptural authority.
Apart from changes in ‘substantives’ (i.e. in the words
as conveyors of meaning), there are in edition 2 numerous
revisions of ‘accidentals’ (i.e. of punctuation, spelling,
division of words, and use of capital or lower–case letters
and of roman or italic type). Many of them will have been
introduced by the printer, but it cannot be assumed that all
were. Some of the changes in punctuation, such as the
substitution of a full point and new sentence for a
semi–colon, are almost certainly due to the author. The
revision of chapter headings, so as to replace roman by
italic type, is likely at least to have had Smith’s
approval, since in Letter 276 addressed to Thomas Cadell
(Millar’s successor as publisher), dated 15 March 1788, he
himself uses this style to refer to chapter headings. Letter
50 addressed to Strahan, dated 4 April 1760 and quoted
above, shows the care that Smith took in revising the work
and in giving instructions to the printer.
Editions 3, 4, and 5 have the same size, format,
pagination, and (in general) division of lines as edition 2,
but with the Dissertation on the Origin of Languages added.
None of them, however, is a reprint from standing type. Each
has been composed anew, but following the pages and (mostly)
the line divisions of the previous edition, a frequent
printing practice of the time, used in order to allow
different parts of a book to be set up in type by different
compositors working simultaneously. Our evidence for saying
that no edition is a reprint is twofold. The mere fact that
there is sometimes a different division of lines is of
course not conclusive, since a compositor using standing
type would reset some lines in order to accommodate
revisions or to improve bad spacing. But, in the first
place, misprints in these particular editions have been
introduced when the compositor had no reason whatever to
reset a line. Secondly, a test suggested by R. B. McKerrow,
of laying a ruler across two full points and seeing whether
it always cuts the same letters, shows conclusively that
even when there is no change in the text, the later edition
has been recomposed.
We have used two copies of edition 3, one from Glasgow
University Library, the other from the Bodleian, and have
found no differences between them. Edition 3 is a single
octavo volume of [viii] + 478 pages, with no list of Errata.
The text of TMS ends at p. 436, and pp. 437–78 contain the
Dissertation on the Origin of Languages. There is in
consequence a new form of title–page, which describes the
contents of the book as: ‘The Theory of Moral Sentiments. To
which is added A Dissertation on the Origin of Languages.’
The author is now called ‘Adam Smith, L.L.D.’ with no
reference to his former Professorship at the University of
Glasgow, which Smith had resigned in 1764. In Letter 100
addressed to William Strahan (undated but probably written
in the winter of 1766–7), Smith refers to the forthcoming
edition 3 and asks that he be called ‘simply Adam Smith
without any addition before or behind’. Presumably he would
have preferred to dispense even with the insertion of his
LL.D. Edition 3 was published at London and Edinburgh in
1767.
As is to be expected in a line–by–line repetition of an
earlier edition, the revision of substantives in edition 3
is light, though not negligible. Two groups of these minor
changes are of interest and have a related character. In a
theological passage at II.ii.3.12 and the paragraph that
then followed it, the categorical tone of certain phrases is
softened to a problematic one; for example, ‘religion
authorises’ becomes ‘religion, we suppose, authorises’, and
‘neither can he [man] see any reason’ becomes ‘and he thinks
he can see no reason’. Similarly, in passage at V.2.5 about
the character of the clergyman, two instances of ‘is are
altered to ‘seems to be’ and ‘is supposed to be’. Since the
treatment in edition 6 of the former passage became the
subject of controversy after Smith’s death, the change of
tone in 1767 is of some significance.
There is also in edition 3 a fair amount of revision in
accidentals, probably due in the main to the printer on this
occasion. As has already been stated, some of the mistakes
(including all of the first group) listed in the draft
Errata page for edition 2 are corrected, but many are left
uncorrected. The printer has corrected a few further
misprints of edition 2, has introduced a number of new ones,
and has changed the punctuation quite often and the spelling
occasionally.
The Dissertation on the Origin of Languages was evidently
set up, not from manuscript, but from a copy of the printed
version that had already appeared in the Philological
Miscellany, vol. i (London, 1761), for in Letter 100
addressed to Strahan, Smith wrote:
The Dissertation upon the Origin of Languages
is to be printed at the end of the Theory. There
are some literal errors in the printed copy of it which
I should have been glad to have corrected, but have not
the opportunity as I have no copy by me. They are of no
great consequence. In the titles, both of the Theory
and Dissertation, call me simply Adam Smith
without any addition either before or behind.
In fact there is no separate title–page for the
Dissertation. The reference in the letter to ‘the printed
copy’ may have confirmed Rae’s mistaken impression (shared
by Dugald Stewart in his ‘Account of the Life and Writings
of Adam Smith’, II.44) that the Dissertation was first
printed in edition 2 of TMS, for he repeats the statement on
p. 233 of his Life, before giving the text of the
letter.
In the present edition of Smith’s Works the Dissertation
on the Origin of Languages is being published together with
LRBL. The relevant volume will include a collation of the
text of the Dissertation in the Philological Miscellany
and in the different editions of TMS.
We have used one copy of edition 4, belonging to the
Aberdeen Public Library. Edition 4 is, like edition 3, a
single octavo volume of [viii] + 478 pages, but these are
followed on this occasion by two pages of advertisement. The
title–page is different, however, in adding to the
description of the main work: ‘The Theory of Moral
Sentiments, or An Essay towards an Analysis of the
Principles by which Men naturally judge concerning the
Conduct and Character, first of their Neighbours, and
afterwards of themselves.’ The author remains ‘Adam Smith,
LL.D.’ Edition 4 was published in 1774 at London and
Edinburgh.
Edition 4 was set up from a copy of edition 3. It
includes the latter’s intentional revisions, both in
substantives and in accidentals, but it corrects most of the
misprints introduced in edition 3. In fact, whereas the
compositors of edition 3 were rather careless, the printer
evidently took great pains with edition 4 to secure accuracy
and consistency. There are very few misprints, and the many
revisions of accidentals are made with intelligence. They
include modernization of such words as ‘compleat’ (though
only from what was then I.iii.3), ‘meer’, ‘antient’,
‘falshood’, ‘vitious’; relative consistency in the spelling
of words (e.g. ‘sympathize’, ‘entire’) which had previously
been spelt inconsistently; and the removal of nearly all the
remaining instances (usually at the end of a line) of the
contracted form ‘tho’’. There are again, as in edition 3, a
few minor changes in substantives, and some at least of
these are such that they must have been made by the author.
We have used two copies of edition 5, both belonging to
Glasgow University Library, and have found no differences
between them. Edition 5 is, like edition 4, a single octavo
volume of [viii] + 478 pages together with the same two
pages of advertisement. The title–page follows that of its
predecessor. Edition 5 was published in 1781 at London and
Edinburgh. It contains a fair number of revisions of
accidentals, chiefly in punctuation, but occasionally in
spelling; e.g. it reverts from the spelling ‘blamable’ of
edition 4 to the spelling ‘blameable’ of editions 1–3.
Nevertheless it must have been set up from a copy of edition
4 and not from one of the earlier editions, since it
includes all the revisions of substantives, and most of the
revisions of accidentals, that were made in edition 4. It
also includes a few further revisions in substantives, of a
minor character.
The changes in accidentals, especially in punctuation,
are usually sensible, though sometimes pernickety, and are
such as one would expect to be carried over by the printer
of the next edition. In fact, however, most of the revisions
of accidentals in edition 5, and all of its revisions of
substantives, are not carried over to edition 6,
though a minority of the accidentals are. This must mean
that the printer of edition 6 worked from a revised copy of
edition 4, and not from one of edition 5.
Why, then, it may be asked, are certain of the revisions
of accidentals in edition 5 carried over? It is conceivable
that the printer of edition 6 had at hand an unrevised copy
of edition 5 also, but since edition 6 does not contain the
substantive revisions of edition 5, this is most improbable.
It is more likely that those revisions of accidentals which
are repeated in edition 6 were introduced anew by the
printer or the author for the same sort of reasons that had
caused them to be inserted in edition 5. We say ‘the printer
or the author’ because it is quite likely that some of the
changes in accidentals were made by Adam Smith himself.
There is at least one instance (the last sentence of
I.iii.1) where the substitution of an exclamation mark in
edition 5 for a question mark in edition 4 is essential to
restore the required sense (editions 1–3 had printed an
innocuous full point), but this would not be perceived by a
printer, who would not know whether the Duke of Biron’s
tears did or did not disgrace his memory. In this instance,
the revision is not repeated in edition 6, which reverts to
the misleading question mark of edition 4.
Most of the revisions of accidentals which are carried
over from edition 5 to edition 6 are in fact of a kind that
one could expect to be reintroduced in a later revision of
edition 4. There is, however, one place (VII.ii.1.16–18)
where, for a few pages, edition 6 follows the accidentals of
edition 5, as against those of edition 4, to an extent that
suggests more than coincidence. It looks as if the printer
were using, at this point, printed copy from pages of
edition 5. Significantly, the passage is one (on the Stoics)
that has been transposed from Part I, with some
cancellation. It seems probable that the particular
circumstances of revision of this passage made it necessary
for Smith to use a second set of the printed pages, and that
he took these from a copy of edition 5.
What of the minor changes of substantives in edition 5,
none of which is carried over to edition 6? It cannot be
assumed mechanically that changes in substantives are due to
the author. Indeed one of those in edition 5 (at
VII.iii.3.17) cannot have been made by the author since it
is clearly an error, giving a sense opposite to that
required. On the other hand, two of the changes in
substantives, though of a minor character like the rest,
could not possibly have been introduced by the printer. We
can therefore be certain that Adam Smith himself made some
light revision of edition 4 for the printing of edition 5.
He must, however, have forgotten this when he again used a
copy of edition 4 in revising for edition 6. This
supposition is confirmed by the conclusion already reached,
that he was ready to substitute a few pages of edition 5 for
those of edition 4 when working out his transposition and
partial cancellation of the passage on the Stoics. He must
have thought that the two editions were identical.
The hypothesis that Smith had forgotten his light
revision for edition 5 is less implausible than it sounds.
During these years he was heavily preoccupied with more
important matters than imperfections of detail in TMS.
Furthermore, we can infer with certainty an analogous lapse
of memory. We know that Smith compiled a long list of minor
errata (as well as a few major ones) in edition 2; and since
ten of his corrections were never introduced into the later
editions, we are entitled to conclude that Smith had
forgotten all about the list. This is especially clear from
the one instance (II.iii.intro.1) where he saw, when
revising for edition 6, that a mistake had been made, but
corrected it in a different manner.
We have used four copies of edition 6, three from Glasgow
University Library and one from the Bodleian. One of the
Glasgow copies had pp. 145–58 of Volume I bound up between
pp. 128 and 129. This particular copy is not in its original
binding, and the error is likely to have occurred when the
volume was rebound. Otherwise there is no difference between
the four copies, except in details of the gilt design on the
covers of those that still have their original binding.
Edition 6 is in two volumes octavo. Volume I has xvi +
488 pages, and contains Parts I–IV of TMS. Volume II has
viii + 462 pages; it contains Parts V–VII of TMS, which ends
on p. 399, and the Dissertation on Languages, which occupies
pp. 401–62. Edition 6 is of course completely reset and is
quite different typographically from its predecessors. The
actual type is of the same size as that used for editions
2–5, but there is more space between the lines, as there was
in edition 1. But since edition 1 also had slightly larger
type, edition 6 has the neatest appearance of all and is the
easiest to read. There are line spaces between the
paragraphs in edition 6, but not in any of the earlier
editions. The title–page of each volume of edition 6 follows
editions 4 and 5 in its description of the contents, but the
author is now called ‘Adam Smith, LL.D. Fellow of the Royal
Societies of London and Edinburgh; One of the Commissioners
of his Majesty’s Customs in Scotland; and formerly Professor
of Moral Philosophy in the University of Glasgow’. The
title–pages also state that edition 6 is ‘with considerable
additions and corrections’. The edition was published in
1790 at London and Edinburgh.
Two letters of Adam Smith to Thomas Cadell speak of his
work of revising TMS for the enlarged edition. In Letter
276, dated 15 March 1788, he wrote:
. . . I am at present giving the most intense
application. My subject is the theory of moral
Sentiments, to all parts of which I am making many
additions and corrections. The chief and the most
important additions will be to the third part, that
concerning the sense of Duty and to the last part
concerning the History of moral Philosophy. . . .
I am a slow a very slow workman, who do and undo
everything I write at least half a dozen of times before
I can be tolerably pleased with it; and tho’ I have now,
I think, brought my work within compass, yet it will be
the month of June before I shall be able to send it to
you.
In fact the work took even longer than he anticipated,
and on 31 March 1789 (Letter 287) he wrote again:
Ever since I wrote to you last I have been labouring
very hard in preparing the proposed new edition of the
Theory of Moral Sentiments. . . . Besides the Additions
and Improvements I mentioned to you; I have inserted,
immediately after the fifth part, a compleat new sixth
part containing a practical system of Morality, under
the title of the Character of Virtue. The Book now will
consist of seven Parts and will make two pretty large 8
vo. Volumes. After all my labours, however, I am afraid
it will be Midsummer before I can get the whole
Manuscript in such proper order as to send it to you. I
am very much ashamed of this delay; but the subject has
grown upon me.
Smith’s estimate that he would be ready by the summer of
1789 was again over–optimistic. Stewart, V.9, says of the
publication of edition 6 in 1790 that the additions had been
sent to the press ‘in the beginning of the preceding
winter’, presumably about December 1789.
Edition 6 begins with an added Advertisement, which
appears to say that the revisions had been contemplated over
a long period, and briefly mentions the main changes made. A
more detailed account of the major changes is as follows. In
the footnote to I.iii.1.9, which had been added in edition
2, edition 6 omits the final sentence. At I.iii.2.9,
editions 1–5 began a fresh chapter on the Stoical
Philosophy; in edition 6, part of the material is
transferred to VII.ii.1.23 and 20, part is withdrawn, and a
sentence is added at the beginning of I.iii.2.9 so as to
connect the preceding discussion with what follows. I.iii.3
is a new chapter, in which the social advantages of
admiration for ‘the rich and the great’ are qualified by its
corrupting effect on moral approbation. At the conclusion of
II.ii.3.12, a sentence is added to replace a paragraph which
had previously followed § 12 and which is now withdrawn;
this particular revision, as we have already mentioned in
our account of edition 3, was later the subject of
controversy; we discuss it in Appendix II, where we also
give new information about a manuscript fragment that has
been supposed to be connected with Smith’s revision of the
passage. At II.iii.3.4–5, one and a half paragraphs are
added on the concept of ‘piacular’ guilt, a topic referred
to again in new material at VII.iv.30. At III.1.2, the major
part of what was Chapter 1 in editions 2–5 (Section i in
edition 1) is transferred to become part of Chapter 2, and
what was formerly Chapter 2 (Section ii in edition 1)
becomes Chapter 1, with a few linking sentences. Most of
III.2 is new, but three paragraphs (§§ 4, 5, and the major
part of § 9) have been transferred from what was III.1 in
editions 2–5; the new material includes a further
development of the theory of conscience so as to distinguish
the sense of praiseworthiness from the consciousness of
being actually praised by others; at the same time some
caution is introduced about the reliability and the efficacy
of the judgements of conscience in the face of erroneous
judgement by the outside world. At III.3, a fresh chapter,
with an addition to the beginning of § 1, is begun, taking
up material which in editions 2–5 was part of III.2; one and
a half paragraphs are added at §§ 5–6; § 10 is new; one and
a half paragraphs are withdrawn at § 11; and there is a
lengthy addition at §§ 12–45, mainly on self–command, with
some further development again of the theory of the
impartial spectator and conscience. III.4 is largely a
revised version of what was the latter part of III.2 in
editions 2–5. The whole of Part VI is new; it deals with
certain practical and political applications of moral
theory, and especially with the virtues of prudence,
benevolence, and self–command (already the subject of new
material in III.3), and the vices of pride and vanity. In
VII.ii.1, there is rearrangement and development of Smith’s
account of Stoicism: at § 17, a passage is withdrawn; at the
end of § 18, a sentence is added; after § 19, one paragraph
is withdrawn, § 20 has been transferred from Part I, §§ 21–2
are added, and § 23 is another insertion of a passage
formerly in Part I; §§ 24–47 are new, dealing mainly with
the Stoic view of suicide. Edition 6 then reverts to the
text of editions 1–5 at § 48, but adds a short paragraph at
§ 49. At VII.ii.4, where the earlier editions had linked La
Rochefoucauld with Mandeville as the authors of ‘licentious
systems’, all references to La Rochefoucauld are withdrawn.
In VII.4, a new passage is added at §§ 23–7 and the
beginning of § 28, developing Smith’s views on veracity and
deceit; a passage that had formed the latter part of § 28 is
withdrawn; and three new paragraphs are added at §§ 29–31,
again on deceit and with a further reference to ‘piacular’
guilt.
Edition 6 also contains many minor revisions, both of
substantives and of accidentals. Some of the changes in
accidentals appear to be due to the author himself. Quite
frequently, punctuation which has been left unchanged in all
the editions from 1 to 5 is revised in edition 6; and while
one cannot be certain that this is not the work of the
printer, anxious to do his part in producing a highly
superior edition, it seems likely that Smith himself will
have paid attention to these details, as to others.
We have already given, in our account of edition 5, the
evidence for believing that both author and printer used a
revised copy of edition 4 in preparing most of the older
material for incorporation in edition 6. In matters of
spelling and the use of initial capital letters, edition 6
generally follows and takes farther the revisions of edition
4, which had made fairly radical changes from the practice
of the earlier editions. There are some exceptions. For
example, editions 1–3 tended, though not uniformly, to print
the word ‘nature’ with a lower–case initial letter, even
when Smith personifies nature, as he frequently does.
Edition 4 uses a capital letter for most instances of
personification or near–personification. Edition 6 follows
edition 4 in the old material, but in the new material it
sometimes uses a capital letter, more commonly a lower–case.
Another example is the use of a capital initial letter for
the word ‘gods’ when referring to pagan deities. Editions
1–3 had done this at times. Edition 4 changed the capital
letter to lower–case. Edition 6 prints a capital letter both
in old and in new material, but a lower–case initial for the
one instance of ‘goddess’. This simply means that the
printers were accustomed to use the capital letter for the
word ‘God’ and did not stop to distinguish, as the reviser
for edition 4 did, between the Christian God and pagan gods.
We have used two copies of edition 7, one from Glasgow
University Library, the other from the Bodleian, and have
found no differences between them. Edition 7 resembles
edition 6 very closely. Like its predecessor, it is in two
octavo volumes, the first of xvi + 488 pages, the second of
viii + 462 pages. The title–pages follow those of edition 6,
except that the words ‘with considerable additions and
corrections’ are properly omitted since the revisions are
not new in this edition. The Advertisement, however, is
repeated without any indication that it was written for
edition 6, and in consequence some of its words appear
incongruous in 1792, the year in which edition 7 was
published at London and Edinburgh.
Edition 7 has the same pagination, and generally the same
division of lines, as edition 6. It is not a reprint, but
has been set up so as to follow edition 6 line by line, in
the same way as editions 3–5 were each set up to follow
their predecessors. The tests that establish this for
editions 3–5 show it to be true of edition 7 also. Edition 7
corrects a few misprints of edition 6, introduces some new
misprints or other errors, and resets a few lines so as to
improve spacing. There are some changes in accidentals,
chiefly punctuation. For the reasons given at the beginning
of this section, it is practically certain that the
compositors of edition 7 did not have any author’s
corrections of edition 6 to guide them.
An unauthorized edition of TMS was published in Dublin,
bearing the date 1777 and calling itself ‘the sixth
edition’. The Library of Trinity College, Dublin, possesses
a copy (another is in the Goldsmiths’ Library, London) and
we have examined a Xerox of it. The Dublin edition seems
clearly to have been set up from a copy of edition 4 but it
is quite different from editions 3, 4, and 5 in format,
pagination, and division of lines. It is a single octavo
volume of [viii] + 426 pages. The text of TMS occupies pp.
1–388, and the Dissertation on Languages pp. 389–426. On the
titlepage the account of the contents is the same as in
editions 4 and 5, but the author is differently described as
‘Adam Smith, L.L.D. F.R.S. Formerly Professor of Philosophy
in the University of Glasgow; and Author of the Nature and
Cause of the Wealth of Nations’. The date of 1777 is
consonant with the mention, albeit incorrect (‘Cause’
instead of ‘Causes’), of the title of WN, which first
appeared in 1776 and named its author as ‘Adam Smith, LL.D.
and F.R.S. Formerly Professor of Moral Philosophy in the
University of Glasgow’. The text of the Dublin edition
departs at times from that of editions 4 and 5 in
accidentals. It commonly agrees with edition 4 where that
differs from edition 5, so there is little doubt that the
Dublin printer followed edition 4 (1774) and not edition 5
(1781), and this again fits the date of 1777. There is no
reason to suppose that Adam Smith consented to, or even knew
of, the publication of the Dublin edition, and therefore we
have ignored it in our collation of variants.
(b)
[Back to Table of Contents]
Editorial policy
In the preparation of a critical edition of a work from
printed books, bibliographical scholars of the present day
attach great importance to the principles laid down by Sir
Walter Greg in his paper, ‘The Rationale of Copy–Text’,
first published in Studies in Bibliography
(University of Virginia), vol. iii (1950), and reprinted in
W. W. Greg, Collected Papers, edited by J. C. Maxwell
(Oxford, 1966). In that paper Greg drew, and explained the
importance of, the distinction between the two kinds of
variants to be found in the different editions of a book,
changes in substantives and changes in accidentals. So long
as one is dealing with editions which can be assumed to have
received revision by the author, changes in substantives can
usually, though not always, be attributed to him, while
changes in accidentals (of books printed some considerable
time ago) can often, but again certainly not always, be
attributed to the printer. Consequently, bibliographical
scholars recommend that, in order to elicit a text that
gives the nearest possible approach to the author’s
intentions, the editor of a critical edition should, in the
absence of a manuscript, make the first edition of a work
his copy–text; he should then proceed, through each
successive edition that appeared during the author’s
lifetime, to the first of the posthumous editions, if there
are any such, keeping in mind the distinction between
substantives and accidentals when introducing revisions. As
a general rule, but one to be applied with judgement and
discretion, they advise an editor, in the absence of
evidence to the contrary, to include changes in
substantives, provided that such changes make good sense,
and to exclude changes in accidentals, on the ground that
these were probably due to the printer.
To this general rule there are naturally exceptions. One
class of works that cannot easily be subjected to it are
those for which an edition later than the first is known to
have been extensively and carefully revised by the author.
TMS falls into this class. To follow the usual rule for this
book would in fact produce a curious patchwork.
There is no doubt that the printers of edition 1 of TMS
followed their manuscript copy fairly closely. Edition 1
frequently, though not consistently, uses antique spellings
such as ‘compleat’, ‘antient’, ‘chearful’, ‘cloaths’,
‘intire’, and the contractions ‘tho’’ and ‘thro’’, all of
which we know were used by Adam Smith or his amanuenses.
These older or abbreviated forms were gradually removed in
later editions, especially in 4 and 6. We can also be fairly
sure that many of the revisions in punctuation were made by
the printers, though there is good evidence that some of
them were made by the author. While it is a hazardous
business to judge which revisions of accidentals are due to
the author, and which to the printer, that is insufficient
reason for refusing to make the attempt, and it can be done.
But the new material added in edition 6 does not go back to
the antique spellings; its usage on accidentals is,
generally speaking, closely consistent with the usage that
edition 6 follows in the older material. It would be quite
unwarrantable for an editor to introduce the antique
spellings into the new material of edition 6, especially
since even edition 1 does not use them consistently, and
since there is evidence from certain idiosyncrasies in the
new passages that the printers of edition 6 kept reasonably
close to their manuscript copy. In the added material,
therefore, the accidentals of edition 6 must generally be
accepted. But if, at the same time, the accidentals of
edition 1 were retained for the older material, the result
would be a patchwork text, which would indeed show up
immediately some features of the history of the editions,
but which would undoubtedly be contrary to the intentions of
the author. Adam Smith took great care over the preparation
of edition 6, and he would not thank us if we replaced its
general appearance of neat consistency by a mixture of
ancient and modern forms. In a sense, of course, every
revised version of a book is a patchwork in its
substantives; but when the author has tried to present it as
a seamless fabric, an editor has no business to disclose the
seams, in the text itself, by printing the differing
accidentals of the original versions of old and new matter.
It follows that the copy–text for TMS must be edition 6
and not edition 1. There is no virtue in making a fetish of
retaining the accidentals of the first edition. Mr. J. C.
Maxwell has pointed out to us that the main purpose of
Greg’s article was not to insist that editors should exclude
changes of accidentals and include those of substantives,
but to show the need to test the credentials of each change
in a substantive before accepting it as due to the author.
This of course implies that one should equally not assume
without consideration that changes in accidentals are due to
the printer or that the accidentals of the first edition are
the nearest approach one can make to the work of the author.
Sometimes one can be fairly certain that a revision of an
accidental was made by the author; we have given examples in
4(a) above (pp. 38, 41). Sometimes one can be
even more certain that an inconsistency in the accidentals
of a first printed version is not a reflection of the
manuscript but simply an indication that different parts of
the book were set up by different compositors; in edition 1
of TMS, the first few chapters use the spelling
‘sympathize’, the next few, ‘sympathise’, and the next again
go back to ‘sympathize’; similarly, in the new Part VI of
edition 6, Chapter 1 of Section ii regularly uses the
spelling ‘connection’, while Chapters 2–3 regularly use
‘connexion’. Furthermore, the actual writing of the author
on accidentals does not always represent his intentions for
the printed text. Edition 1 of TMS very often has the
contracted forms ‘tho’’ and ‘thro’’. These are commonly used
by Adam Smith in letters written in his own hand, but we
cannot assume that he intended this labour–saving device to
be reproduced in print. He often used the contracted from
‘&’, but nobody would suppose that he wanted that to be
reproduced in the printed versions of his books. So when
later editions of TMS replace ‘tho’’ by ‘though’, it is
reasonable to think that Smith would have approved.
Likewise, if the printer adds a comma where its absence
impedes the reader from seeing at once the sense of a
passage, one must again suppose that the author would have
approved.
The view that all changes in accidentals should normally
be rejected assumes that the author will not have had much
opportunity or determination to attend to these details in
proofs. This is in fact not true of Adam Smith. While he
will not have been quite so meticulous as a modern scholar
might be, he evidently took particular pains over the
correction of proofs. This has already been illustrated in
quotations from some of his letters to his publishers,
especially Letter 50 addressed to William Strahan, dated 4
April 1760. There is further evidence to the same effect in
three of his letters about WN. In Letter 227 addressed to
William Strahan, dated 22 May 1783, he wrote: ‘I must
correct the press myself and you must, therefor, frank me
the sheets as they are printed. I would even rather than not
correct it myself come up to London in the beginning of next
winter and attend the Press myself.’ Letter 237 addressed to
William Strahan, dated 10 June 1784, confirms the impression
which can be formed independently, from internal evidence,
that Smith gave his personal attention to punctuation: ‘I
return you the Proof which, indeed, requires little
correction, except in the pointing and not much in that.’
William Strahan died in 1785. The third letter (No. 256) is
addressed to his son, Andrew Strahan, and is dated 13
February 1786: ‘I beg you will employ one of your best
compositors in printing the new edition of my book. I must,
likewise beg that a compleat copy be sent to me before it is
published, that I may revise and correct it. You may depend
upon my not detaining you above a week.’
We are not suggesting that Smith himself was responsible
for most of the changes in accidentals. Plainly he was not.
But since he went over his proofs so carefully and was ready
to revise even punctuation, we must assume that he was
prepared to approve such revisions as he left unaltered.
This applies particularly to edition 6, on which he worked
so long. If he had wanted to go back, for example, to the
antique spellings of editions 1–3, he had the opportunity at
this time to do so. Since edition 6 in fact repeats the
modernized spellings of edition 4 both in the old and in the
new material, and often introduces them in places where
edition 4 had omitted to do so, we are bound to suppose that
this procedure had Smith’s approval.
If we did revert to the forms of edition 1 on
accidentals, it is by no means certain that we should be
reproducing what Smith himself had written. Writing in his
own hand was very irksome to him, and he was in the habit of
employing amanuenses for any extensive piece of work. The
manuscript of WN was almost certainly written by an
amanuensis, and it will be seen from Appendix II that Smith
evidently used an amanuensis for his lectures in Glasgow at
quite an early stage of his Professorship. This would
suggest that the manuscript of TMS was probably not in the
hand of Smith himself. As it happens, edition 1 of WN
contains far more antique spellings than does edition 1 of
TMS, and would give a quite false impression if taken to
illustrate Smith’s own practice. For example, edition 1 of
WN usually adds ‘k’ to many words that we now commonly end
with ‘c’, such as ‘public’, ‘republic’, ‘mechanic’,
‘Catholic’, ‘physic’, ‘academic’, ‘stoic’, ‘metallic’,
‘authentic’, ‘characteristic’, ‘domestic’, ‘rustic’,
‘politic’. Not many of these words are to be found in
letters written in Smith’s own hand, but ‘public’ and
‘mechanic’ do occur and are spelt without a ‘k’. Quite a
number of the words listed occur in TMS also, and in edition
1 of that work none of them, except ‘public’ occasionally
and ‘republic’ once, is spelt with an added ‘k’. In so far
as direct comparison can be made between edition 1 of TMS
and Smith’s usage in letters written in his own hand, there
is a fair degree of correspondence, and certainly nothing
like the extent of discrepancy that exists between the
letters and edition 1 of WN. Both the letters and edition 1
of TMS commonly use the forms ‘inconveniency’, ‘cloaths’,
‘antient’, ‘compleat’, ‘chearful’, and ‘chuse’. (The last,
which is not universal in the earlier editions, is generally
retained in the old material of edition 6 and is quite
commonly used in the new material too.) The letters tend to
use the contracted forms ‘tho’’ and ‘thro’’, which occur
usually, but by no means universally, in edition 1 of the
book. On the other side, the letters have ‘Nature’ with a
capital initial and ‘public’ without a ‘k’, while edition 1
of TMS prints ‘nature’ almost always and ‘publick’ from time
to time. Both the letters and the book are inconsistent in
using the two forms ‘entire’ and ‘intire’, but ‘e’ is more
common in the letters, while ‘i’ is far more common in
edition 1 of the book. In his letters and in inscribing
presentation copies of his books, Smith showed a marked
preference for the spelling ‘author’, while the book always
uses the form ‘author’. The correspondences between the
letters and the book are not at all strong evidence that
Smith himself wrote the manuscript for edition 1, since
these correspondences are equally consistent with the
hypothesis that the manuscript of TMS was written by an
amanuensis, though not the one who wrote the manuscript of
WN. On the other hand, the discrepancies in this instance do
not add up to any strong evidence that Smith did not write
the manuscript. It remains an open question. Comparison with
the letters is inconclusive. The fact that Smith used an
amanuensis for his lectures suggests that he is likely to
have done so for the book. J. R. McCulloch is reported by
Rae (Life, 260–1) to have said that Smith wrote TMS
in his own hand, but it seems that McCulloch was going
simply on his own impression that the style of the book was
less diffuse than that of WN. (This point is further
discussed in Appendix II.)
We have, then, taken edition 6 as our copy–text. We have
departed from it in a small number of instances. First, we
have corrected misprints. Second, we have incorporated those
corrections of the Errata lists for editions 1 and 2 which
were overlooked. Third, we have included those revisions in
edition 5 which can reasonably be attributed to the author
and which were forgotten in the preparation of edition 6.
Fourth, there are some instances where the reading of an
earlier edition is to be preferred on the ground that the
later reading is an error that was overlooked. Fifth, there
are a few places where we have ourselves introduced an
emendation which we believe represents the author’s own
intention. With one exception, these emendations are a
necessary consequence of nearby revisions that the author
himself has made. The exception concerns the words
‘convenience(s)’ and ‘inconvenience(s)’. In editions 1–5,
the forms ‘conveniency’, etc., are always used, except for a
lapse on a single occasion in edition 4. Edition 6 retains
these forms in the old material, apart from one paragraph of
Part VII. In its new material it uses the alternative forms
‘convenience’, etc., in Part VI (several instances), but
‘conveniency’, etc., in new passages of III.3 and of
VII.ii.1. Now in the case of this particular set of words,
we can say with confidence that Smith had an insistent
preference for ‘conveniency’ and its cognates. Apart from
the fact that he always uses these forms in letters written
in his own hand, there is an interesting piece of evidence
in the manuscript that W. R. Scott called ‘An early draft of
part of The Wealth of Nations’. This manuscript was
written by an amanuensis, but some of the revisions, written
over original material, are in Adam Smith’s own hand. Scott
(ASSP, 325) notes an instance of the word
‘conveniencies’ where the last three letters are in Smith’s
hand, and Scott conjectures that the amanuensis may
originally have written ‘conveniences’ There is another
instance of the word ‘conveniencies’ (331) where the second
‘i’ is due to revision, probably for the same reason.
Consequently we have judged that Adam Smith would have
wanted the word (and its cognates) to be spelt in this way
throughout his book, and that it was probably so spelt in
the manuscript of the new material for edition 6. The
instances of the alternative spelling in the text of edition
6 were probably due to a particular compositor.
One could argue that our editorial emendation of
‘convenience’ to ‘conveniency’ might have been extended to
certain other forms of words for which Smith is known to
have had a preference, such as ‘authour’, ‘compleat’,
‘cloaths’, and ‘chearful’. But these words do not stand on
all fours with ‘conveniency’ and its cognates, which are the
forms regularly used in editions 1–5 and carried over to
edition 6 in all instances but one of the old material, as
well as being used sometimes in the new material. By
contrast, ‘authour’ is never used in any of the editions;
‘compleat’ is generally, though not consistently, used in
editions 1–3, but is replaced by ‘complete’ for the major
part of edition 4 and throughout edition 6; ‘cloaths’ and
its cognates, and likewise ‘chearful’, are regularly used in
editions 1–5 but not at all in edition 6.
At any rate we have decided to be fairly conservative in
our departures from the text of edition 6. We have given the
reader some indication of the changes in accidentals, as
between the different editions, that are most important for
this purpose, and the apparatus of variants will enable him
to go farther if he wishes. The critical apparatus is
divided into two sections, one appearing as footnotes to the
text, the other forming Appendix I. The character of the two
sections needs some explanation.
The variants in the textual footnotes are referred to by
alphabetical indicators in the text itself. They consist of
two quite distinct groups. (1) Since edition 6 is our
copy–text, the reader ought to be told immediately whenever
our text departs from that of edition 6. Every such
departure is indicated in the text by being enclosed within
superscribed letters of the alphabet; the reading of edition
6, and the variants, if any, in other editions, are given in
the footnote, together with reasons for the emendation if
these are not at once obvious. (2) We have also printed as
footnotes, with alphabetical indicators in the text, all
variants that disclose a change or addition of thought by
the author, as contrasted with revisions of substantives
that constitute merely an improvement in the expression of
the same thought. (Occasionally there may be difference of
opinion whether a revision of words does or does not have a
slight effect on the sense conveyed, and in such instances
we have thought it best to allow for a possible change of
thought and to include the variant in the footnotes to the
text pages.) This class of variants is the really important
one for most readers. TMS is a book on a philosophical
subject, and a proper understanding of it requires an
awareness of the respects in which the author’s thought
developed. We have therefore thought it right to bring these
changes directly to the reader’s attention by the same
method of immediate presentation as has been used for
emendations.
Other variants that are at all worthy of record have been
included in Appendix I. They include both substantives and
accidentals. The variants in substantives that appear in
Appendix I are those which the author has revised simply in
order to improve the expression of his thought, without
changing the thought itself. Appendix I also contains the
vast majority of variants in accidentals, but not all, since
a few changes of accidentals are involved in one or other of
the two classes of variants that are printed on the text
pages.
One small group of trivial variants has not been
recorded, on the ground that they are practically of no
significance, except to students of the history of printing,
who would in any event want to make their own record of such
matters. These are the introduction of a misprint, or the
addition or omission of a mark of punctuation, in one
intermediate edition only, when the next edition restores
the original reading. We have, however, excluded edition 5
from our rule of ignoring such trivia. Because of the
unusual relationship of edition 5 to its predecessor and
successor, there is some interest in noting all the variants
that it affords.
Editions 1–7 all conclude the headings and titles of
Parts, Sections, and chapters with full points. There is no
reason why a modern edition should reproduce this particular
piece of early printing practice, and we have not done so
either in the text or in the relevant variants.
In the textual apparatus, the numerals in italic type
following an entry stand for the editions containing it,
1E and 2E being used for the Errata lists of
editions 1 and 2. The numerals in roman type preceding an
entry in Appendix I stand for the page and line in which the
passage is located. A caret below the line (⁁)
stands for the omission of a mark of punctuation. A wavy
dash (∼) stands for a repetition of all the words up to a
mark of punctuation or a caret.
The numerals printed in the margin at the beginning of
each paragraph are not in the original editions. The
practice of numbering the paragraphs within each chapter, or
similar segment, will be followed also for WN and EPS in
this edition of the Works of Adam Smith, in order that
crossreferences may be made from one work to another by
means of paragraphs instead of pages, and so without
confining the reader to the present edition.
advertisement
1Since
the first publication of the theory of
moral sentiments, which was so long ago as the
beginning of the year 1759, several corrections, and a good
many illustrations of the doctrines contained in it, have
occurred to me. But the various occupations in which the
different accidents of my life necessarily involved me, have
till now prevented me from revising this work with the care
and attention which I always intended. The reader will find
the principal alterations which I have made in this New
Edition, in the last Chapter of the third Section of Part
First; and in the four first Chapters of Part Third. Part
Sixth, as it stands in this New Edition, is altogether new.
In Part Seventh, I have brought together the greater part of
the different passages concerning the Stoical Philosophy,
which, in the former Editions, had been scattered about in
different parts of the work.
I have likewise endeavoured to explain more fully, and
examine more distinctly, some of the doctrines of that
famous sect. In the fourth and last Section of the same
Part, I have thrown together a few additional observations
concerning the duty and principle of veracity. There are,
besides, in other parts of the work, a few other alterations
and corrections of no great moment.
2In
the last paragraph of the first Edition of the present work,
I said, that I should in another discourse endeavour to give
an account of the general principles of law and government,
and of the different revolutions which they had undergone in
the different ages and periods of society; not only in what
concerns justice, but in what concerns police, revenue, and
arms, and whatever else is the object of law. In the
Enquiry concerningthe
Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, I have
partly executed this promise; at least so far as concerns
police, revenue, and arms. What remains, the theory of
jurisprudence, which I have long projected, I have hitherto
been hindered from executing, by the same occupations which
had till now prevented me from revising the present work.
Though my very advanced age leaves me, I acknowledge, very
little expectation of ever being able to execute this great
work to my own satisfaction; yet, as I have not altogether
abandoned the design, and as I wish still to continue under
the obligation of doing what I can, I have allowed the
paragraph to remain as it was published more than thirty
years ago, when I entertained no doubt of being able to
execute every thing which it announced.
[Back to Table of Contents]
PART I
Of the
Propriety of Action
Consisting of Three Sections
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION I
Of the Sense
of Propriety
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
OfSympathy
1How
selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some
principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune
of others, and render their happiness necessary to him,
though he derives nothing from it except the pleasure of
seeing it. Of this kind is pity or compassion, the emotion
which we feel for the misery of others, when we either see
it, or are made to conceive it in a very lively manner. That
we often derive sorrow from the sorrow of others, is a
matter of fact too obvious to require any instances to prove
it; for this sentiment, like all the other original passions
of human nature, is by no means confined to the virtuous and
humane, though they perhaps may feel it with the most
exquisite sensibility. The greatest ruffian, the most
hardened violator of the laws of society, is not altogether
without it.
2As
we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we
can form no idea of the manner in which they are affected,
but by conceiving what we ourselves should feel in the like
situation. Though our brother is upon the rack, as long as
we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will never inform
us of what he suffers. They never did, and never can, carry
us beyond our own person, and it is by the imagination only
that we can form any conception of what are his sensations.
Neither can that faculty help us to this any other way, than
by representing to us what would be our own, if we were in
his case. It is the impressions of our own senses only, not
those of his, which our imaginations copy. By the
imagination we place ourselves in his situation, we conceive
ourselves enduring all the same torments, we enter as it
were into his body, and become in some measure the same
person with him, and thence form some idea of his
sensations, and even feel something which, though weaker in
degree, is not altogether unlike them. His agonies, when
they are thus brought home to ourselves, when we have thus
adopted and made them our own, begin at last to affect us,
and we then tremble and shudder at the thought of what he
feels. For 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.
3That
this is the source of our fellow–feeling for the misery of
others, that it is by changing places in fancy with the
sufferer, that we come either to conceive or to be affected
by what he feels, may be demonstrated by many obvious
observations, if it should not be thought sufficiently
evident of itself. When we see a stroke aimed and just ready
to fall upon 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 themselves must do if in his situation.
Persons of delicate fibres and a weak constitution of body
complain, that in looking on the sores and ulcers which are
exposed by beggars in the streets, they are apt to feel an
itching or uneasy sensation in the correspondent part of
their own bodies. The horror which they conceive at the
misery of those wretches affects that particular part in
themselves more than any other; because that horror arises
from conceiving what they themselves would suffer, if they
really were the wretches whom they are looking upon, and if
that particular part in themselves was actually affected in
the same miserable manner. The very force of this conception
is sufficient, in their feeble frames, to produce that
itching or uneasy sensation complained of. Men of the most
robust make, observe that in looking upon sore eyes they
often feel a very sensible soreness in their own, which
proceeds from the same reason; that organ being in the
strongest man more delicate, than any other part of the body
is in the weakest.
4Neither
is it those circumstances only, which create pain or sorrow,
that call forth our fellow–feeling. Whatever is the passion
which arises from any object in the person principally
concerned, an analogous emotion springs up, at the thought
of his situation, in the breast of every attentive
spectator. Our joy for the deliverance of those heroes of
tragedy or romance who interest us, is as sincere as our
grief for their distress, and our fellow–feeling with their
misery is not more real than that with their happiness. We
enter into their gratitude towards those faithful friends
who did not desert them in their difficulties; and we
heartily go along with their resentment against those
perfidious traitors who injured, abandoned, or deceived
them. In every passion of which the mind of man is
susceptible, the emotions of the by–stander always
correspond to what, by bringing the case home to himself, he
imagines should be the sentiments of the sufferer.
5Pity
and compassion are words appropriated to signify our
fellow–feeling with the sorrow of others. Sympathy, though
its meaning was, perhaps, originally the same, may now,
however, without much impropriety, be made use of to denote
our fellow–feeling with any passion whatever.
6Upon
some occasions sympathy may seem to arise merely from the
view of a certain emotion in another person. The passions,
upon some occasions, may seem to be transfused from one man
to another, instantaneously, and antecedent to any knowledge
of what excited them in the person principally concerned.
Grief and joy, for example, strongly expressed in the look
and gestures of any one, at once affect the spectator with
some degree of a like painful or agreeable emotion. A
smiling face is, to every body that sees it, a cheerful
object; as a sorrowful countenance, on the other hand, is a
melancholy one.
7This,
however, does not hold universally, or with regard to every
passion. There are some passions of which the expressions
excite no sort of sympathy, but before we are acquainted
with what gave occasion to them, serve rather to disgust and
provoke us against them. The furious behaviour of an angry
man is more likely to exasperate us against himself than
against his enemies. As we are unacquainted with his
provocation, we cannot bring his case home to ourselves, nor
conceive any thing like the passions which it excites. But
we plainly see what is the situation of those with whom he
is angry, and to what violence they may be exposed from so
enraged an adversary. We readily, therefore, sympathize with
their fear or resentment, and are immediately disposed to
take part against the man from whom they appear to be in so
much danger.
8If
the very appearances of grief and joy inspire us with some
degree of the like emotions, it is because they suggest to
us the general idea of some good or bad fortune that has
befallen the person in whom we observe them: and in these
passions this is sufficient to have some little influence
upon us. The effects of grief and joy terminate in the
person who feels those emotions, of which the expressions do
not, like those of resentment, suggest to us the idea of any
other person for whom we are concerned, and whose interests
are opposite to his. The general idea of good or bad
fortune, therefore, creates some concern for the person who
has met with it, but the general idea of provocation excites
no sympathy with the anger of the man who has received it.
Nature, it seems, teaches us to be more averse to enter into
this passion, and, till informed of its cause, to be
disposed rather to take part against it.
9Even
our sympathy with the grief or joy of another, before we are
informed of the cause of either, is always extremely
imperfect. General lamentations, which express nothing but
the anguish of the sufferer, create rather a curiosity to
inquire into his situation, along with some disposition to
sympathize with him, than any actual sympathy that is very
sensible. The first question which we ask is, What has
befallen you? Till this be answered, though we are uneasy
both from the vague idea of his misfortune, and still more
from torturing ourselves with conjectures about what it may
be, yet our fellow–feeling is not very considerable.
10Sympathy,
therefore, does not arise so much from the view of the
passion, as from that of the situation which excites it. We
sometimes feel for another, a passion of which he himself
seems to be altogether incapable; because, when we put
ourselves in his case, that passion arises in our breast
from the imagination, though it does not in his from the
reality. We blush for the impudence and rudeness of another,
though he himself appears to have no sense of the
impropriety of his own behaviour; because we cannot help
feeling with what confusion we ourselves should be covered,
had we behaved in so absurd a manner.
11Of
all the calamities to which the condition of mortality
exposes mankind, the loss of reason appears, to those who
have the least spark of humanity, by far the most dreadful,
and they behold that last stage of human
with deeper
commiseration than any other. But the poor wretch, who is in
it, laughs and sings perhaps, and is altogether insensible
of his own misery. The anguish which humanity feels,
therefore, at the sight of such an object, cannot be the
reflection of any sentiment of the sufferer. The compassion
of the spectator must arise altogether from the
consideration of what he himself would feel if he was
reduced to the same unhappy situation, and, what perhaps is
impossible, was at the same time able to regard it with his
present reason and judgment.
12What
are the pangs of a mother, when she hears the moanings of
her infant that during the agony of disease cannot express
what it feels? In her idea of what it suffers, she joins, to
its real helplessness, her own consciousness of that
helplessness, and her own terrors for the unknown
consequences of its disorder; and out of all these, forms,
for her own sorrow, the most complete image of misery and
distress. The infant, however, feels only the uneasiness of
the present instant, which can never be great. With regard
to the future, it is perfectly secure, and in its
thoughtlessness and want of foresight, possesses an antidote
against fear and anxiety, the great tormentors of the human
breast, from
reason and philosophy
will, in vain, attempt to defend it, when it grows up to a
man.
13We
sympathize even with the dead, and overlooking what is of
real importance in their situation, that awful futurity
which awaits them, we are chiefly affected by those
circumstances which strike our senses, but can have no
influence upon their happiness. It is miserable, we think,
to be deprived of the light of the sun; to be shut out from
life and conversation; to be laid in the cold grave, a prey
to corruption and the reptiles of the earth; to be no more
thought of in this world, but to be obliterated, in a little
time, from the affections, and almost from the memory, of
their dearest friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we
can never feel too much for those who have suffered so
dreadful a calamity. The tribute of our fellowfeeling seems
doubly due to them now, when they are in danger of being
forgot by every body; and, by the vain honours which we pay
to their memory, we endeavour, for our own misery,
artificially to keep alive our melancholy remembrance of
their misfortune. That our sympathy can afford them no
consolation seems to be an addition to their calamity; and
to think that all we can do is unavailing, and that, what
alleviates all other distress, the regret, the love, and the
lamentations of their friends, can yield no comfort to them,
serves only to exasperate our sense of their misery. The
happiness of the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected
by none of these circumstances; nor is it the thought of
these things which can ever disturb the
security of their
repose. The idea of that dreary and endless melancholy,
which the fancy naturally ascribes to their condition,
arises altogether from our joining to the change which has
been produced upon them, our own consciousness of that
change, from our putting ourselves in their situation, and
from our lodging, if I may be allowed to say so, our own
living souls in their inanimated bodies, and thence
conceiving what would be our emotions in this case. It is
from this very illusion of the imagination, that the
foresight of our own dissolution is so terrible to us, and
that the idea of those circumstances, which undoubtedly can
give us no pain when we are dead, makes us miserable while
we are alive. And from thence arises one of the most
important principles in human nature, the dread of death,
the great poison to the happiness, but the great restraint
upon the injustice of mankind, which, while it afflicts and
mortifies the individual, guards and protects the society.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of the Pleasure of
mutual Sympathy
1But
whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be
excited, nothing pleases us more than to observe in other
men a fellowfeeling with all the emotions of our own breast;
nor are we ever so much shocked as by the appearance of the
contrary. Those who are fond of deducing all our sentiments
from certain refinements of self–love, think themselves at
no loss to account, according to their own principles, both
for this pleasure and this pain. Man, say they, conscious of
his own weakness, and of the need which he has for the
assistance of others, rejoices whenever he observes that
they adopt his own passions, because he is then assured of
that assistance; and grieves whenever he observes the
contrary, because he is then assured of their opposition.
But both the pleasure and the pain are always felt so
instantaneously, and often upon such frivolous occasions,
that it seems evident that neither of them can be derived
from any such self–interested consideration. A man is
mortified when, after having endeavoured to divert the
company, he looks round and sees that nobody laughs at his
jests but himself. On the contrary, the mirth of the company
is highly agreeable to him, and he regards this
correspondence of their sentiments with his own as the
greatest applause.
2Neither
does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the
additional vivacity which his mirth may receive from
sympathy with theirs, nor his pain from the disappointment
he meets with when he misses this pleasure; though both the
one and the other, no doubt, do in some measure. When we
have read a book or poem so often that we can no longer find
any amusement in reading it by ourselves, we can still take
pleasure in reading it to a companion. To him it has all the
graces of novelty; we enter into the surprise and admiration
which it naturally excites in him, but which it is no longer
capable of exciting in us; we consider all the ideas which
it presents rather in the light in which they appear to him,
than in that in which they appear to ourselves, and we are
amused by sympathy with his amusement which thus enlivens
our own. On the contrary, we should be vexed if he did not
seem to be entertained with it, and we could no longer take
any pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same case here.
The mirth of the company, no doubt, enlivens our own mirth,
and their silence, no doubt, disappoints us. But though this
may contribute both to the pleasure which we derive from the
one, and to the pain which we feel from the other, it is by
no means the sole cause of either; and this correspondence
of the sentiments of others with our own appears to be a
cause of pleasure, and the want of it a cause of pain, which
cannot be accounted for in this manner. The sympathy, which
my friends express with my joy, might, indeed, give me
pleasure by enlivening that joy: but that which they express
with my grief could give me none, if it served only to
enliven that grief. Sympathy, however, enlivens joy and
alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting another
source of satisfaction; and it alleviates grief by
insinuating into the heart almost the only agreeable
sensation which it is at that time capable of receiving.
3It
is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more
anxious to communicate to our friends our disagreeable than
our agreeable passions, that we derive still more
satisfaction from their sympathy with the former than from
that with the latter, and that we are still more shocked by
the want of it.
4How
are the unfortunate relieved when they have found out a
person to whom they can communicate the cause of their
sorrow? Upon his sympathy they seem to disburthen themselves
of a part of their distress: he is not improperly said to
share it with them. He not only feels a sorrow of the same
kind with that which they feel, but as if he had derived a
part of it to himself, what he feels seems to alleviate the
weight of what they feel. Yet by relating their misfortunes
they in some measure renew their grief. They awaken in their
memory the remembrance of those circumstances which
their affliction.
Their tears accordingly flow faster than before, and they
are apt to abandon themselves to all the weakness of sorrow.
They take pleasure, however, in all this, and, it is
evident, are sensibly relieved by it; because the sweetness
of his sympathy more than compensates the bitterness of that
sorrow, which, in order to excite this sympathy, they had
thus enlivened and renewed. The cruelest insult, on the
contrary, which can be offered to the unfortunate, is to
appear to make light of their calamities. To seem not to be
affected with the joy of our companions is but want of
politeness; but not to wear a serious countenance when they
tell us their afflictions, is real and gross inhumanity.
5Love
is an agreeable; resentment, a disagreeable passion; and
accordingly we are not half so anxious that our friends
should adopt our friendships, as that they should enter into
our resentments. We can forgive them though they seem to be
little affected with the favours which we may have received,
but lose all patience if they seem indifferent about the
injuries which may have been done to us: nor are we half so
angry with them for not entering into our gratitude, as for
not sympathizing with our resentment. They can easily avoid
being friends to our friends, but can hardly avoid being
enemies to those with whom we are at variance. We seldom
resent their being at enmity with the first, though upon
that account we may sometimes affect to make an awkward
quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good earnest
if they live in friendship with the last. The agreeable
passions of love and joy can satisfy and support the heart
without any auxiliary pleasure. The bitter and painful
emotions of grief and resentment more strongly require the
healing consolation of sympathy.
6As
the person who is principally interested in any event is
pleased with our sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so
we, too, seem to be pleased when we are able to sympathize
with him, and to be hurt when we are unable to do so. We run
not only to congratulate the successful, but to condole with
the afflicted; and the pleasure which we find in the
conversation of one whom in all the passions of his heart we
can entirely sympathize with, seems to do more than
compensate the painfulness of that sorrow with which the
view of his situation affects us. On the contrary, it is
always disagreeable to feel that we cannot sympathize with
him, and instead of being pleased with this exemption from
sympathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we cannot share
his uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his
misfortunes,
however, upon bringing
the case home to ourselves, we feel, can produce no such
violent effect upon us, we are shocked at his grief; and,
because we cannot enter into it, call it pusillanimity and
weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other hand, to see
another too happy or too much elevated, as we call it, with
any little piece of good fortune. We are disobliged even
with his joy; and, because we cannot go along with it, call
it levity and folly. We are even put out of humour if our
companion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it
deserves; that is, than we feel that we ourselves could
laugh at it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of the manner in
which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the
affections of other men, by their concord or dissonance with
our own
1When
the original passions of the person principally concerned
are in perfect concord with the sympathetic emotions of the
spectator, they necessarily appear to this last just and
proper, and suitable to their objects; and, on the contrary,
when, upon bringing the case home to himself, he finds that
they do not coincide with what he feels, they necessarily
appear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the
causes which excite them. To approve of the passions of
another, therefore, as suitable to their objects, is the
same thing as to observe that we entirely sympathize with
them; and not to approve of them as such, is the same thing
as to observe that we do not entirely sympathize with them.
The man who resents the injuries that have been done to me,
and observes that I resent them precisely as he does,
necessarily approves of my resentment. The man whose
sympathy keeps time to my grief, cannot but admit the
reasonableness of my sorrow. He who admires the same poem,
or the same picture, and admires them exactly as I do, must
surely allow the justness of my admiration. He who laughs at
the same joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well deny
the propriety of my laughter. On the contrary, the person
who, upon these different occasions, either feels no such
emotion as that which I feel, or feels none that bears any
proportion to mine, cannot avoid disapproving my sentiments
on account of their dissonance with his own. If my animosity
goes beyond what the indignation of my friend can correspond
to; if my grief exceeds what his most tender compassion can
go along with; if my admiration is either too high or too
low to tally with his own; if I laugh loud and heartily when
he only smiles, or, on the contrary, only smile when he
laughs loud and heartily; in all these cases, as soon as he
comes from considering the object, to observe how I am
affected by it, according as there is more or less
disproportion between his sentiments and mine, I must incur
a greater or less degree of his disapprobation: and upon all
occasions his own sentiments are the standards and measures
by which he judges of mine.
2To
approve of another man’s opinions is to adopt those
opinions, and to adopt them is to approve of them. If the
same arguments which convince you convince me likewise, I
necessarily approve of your conviction; and if they do not,
I necessarily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly
conceive that I should do the one without the other. To
approve or disapprove, therefore, of the opinions of others
is acknowledged, by every body, to mean no more than to
observe their agreement or disagreement with our own. But
this is equally the case with regard to our approbation or
disapprobation of the sentiments or passions of others.
3There
are, indeed, some cases in which we seem to approve without
any sympathy or correspondence of sentiments, and in which,
consequently, the sentiment of approbation would seem to be
different from the perception of this coincidence. A little
attention, however, will convince us that even in these
cases our approbation is ultimately founded upon a sympathy
or correspondence of this kind. I shall give an instance in
things of a very frivolous nature, because in them the
judgments of mankind are less apt to be perverted by wrong
systems. We may often approve of a jest, and think the
laughter of the company quite just and proper, though we
ourselves do not laugh, because, perhaps, we are in a grave
humour, or happen to have our attention engaged with other
objects. We have learned, however, from experience, what
sort of pleasantry is upon most occasions capable of making
us laugh, and we observe that this is one of that kind. We
approve, therefore, of the laughter of the company, and feel
that it is natural and suitable to its object; because,
though in our present mood we cannot easily enter into it,
we are sensible that upon most occasions we should very
heartily join in it.
4The
same thing often happens with regard to all the other
passions. A stranger passes by us in the street with all the
marks of the deepest affliction; and we are immediately told
that he has just received the news of the death of his
father. It is impossible that, in this case, we should not
approve of his grief. Yet it may often happen, without any
defect of humanity on our part, that, so far from entering
into the violence of his sorrow, we should scarce conceive
the first movements of concern upon his account. Both he and
his father, perhaps, are entirely unknown to us, or we
happen to be employed about other things, and do not take
time to picture out in our imagination the different
circumstances of distress which must occur to him. We have
learned, however, from experience, that such a misfortune
naturally excites such a degree of sorrow, and we know that
if we took time to consider his situation, fully and in all
its parts, we should, without doubt, most sincerely
sympathize with him. It is upon the consciousness of this
conditional sympathy, that our approbation of his sorrow is
founded, even in those cases in which that sympathy does not
actually take place; and the general rules derived from our
preceding experience of what our sentiments would commonly
correspond with, correct upon this, as upon many other
occasions, the impropriety of our present emotions.
5The
sentiment or affection of the heart from which any action
proceeds, and upon which its whole virtue or vice must
ultimately depend, may be considered under two different
aspects, or in two different relations; first, in relation
to the cause which excites it, or the motive which gives
occasion to it; and secondly, in relation to the end which
it proposes, or the effect which it tends to produce.
6In
the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or
disproportion which the affection seems to bear to the cause
or object which excites it, consists the propriety or
impropriety, the decency or ungracefulness of the consequent
action.
7In
the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the
affection aims at, or tends to produce, consists the merit
or demerit of the action, the qualities by which it is
entitled to reward, or is deserving of punishment.
8Philosophers
have, of late years, considered chiefly the tendency of
affections, and have given little attention to the relation
which they stand in to the cause which excites them. In
common life, however, when we judge of any person’s conduct,
and of the sentiments which directed it, we constantly
consider them under both these aspects. When we blame in
another man the excesses of love, of grief, of resentment,
we not only consider the ruinous effects which they tend to
produce, but the little occasion which was given for them.
The merit of his favourite, we say, is not so great, his
misfortune is not so dreadful, his provocation is not so
extraordinary, as to justify so violent a passion. We should
have indulged, we say; perhaps, have approved of the
violence of his emotion, had the cause been in any respect
proportioned to it.
9When
we judge in this manner of any affection, as proportioned or
disproportioned to the cause which excites it, it is scarce
possible that we should make use of any other rule or canon
but the correspondent affection in ourselves. If, upon
bringing the case home to our own breast, we find that the
sentiments which it gives occasion to, coincide and tally
with our own, we necessarily approve of them as proportioned
and suitable to their objects; if otherwise, we necessarily
disapprove of them, as extravagant and out of proportion.
10Every
faculty in one man is the measure by which he judges of the
like faculty in another. I judge of your sight by my sight,
of your ear by my ear, of your reason by my reason, of your
resentment by my resentment, of your love by my love. I
neither have, nor can have, any other way of judging about
them.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iv
The same subject
continued
1We
may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sentiments
of another person by their correspondence or disagreement
with our own, upon two different occasions; either, first,
when the objects which excite them are considered without
any peculiar relation, either to ourselves or to the person
whose sentiments we judge of; or, secondly, when they are
considered as peculiarly affecting one or other of us.
21.
With regard to those objects which are considered
without any peculiar relation either to ourselves or to the
person whose sentiments we judge of; wherever his sentiments
entirely correspond with our own, we ascribe to him the
qualities of taste and good judgment. The beauty of a plain,
the greatness of a mountain, the ornaments of a building,
the expression of a picture, the composition of a discourse,
the conduct of a third person, the proportions of different
quantities and numbers, the various appearances which the
great machine of the universe is perpetually exhibiting,
with the secret wheels and springs which produce them; all
the general subjects of science and taste, are what we and
our
regard as having no
peculiar relation to either of us. We both look at them from
the same point of view, and we have no occasion for
sympathy, or for that imaginary change of situations from
which it arises, in order to produce, with regard to these,
the most perfect harmony of sentiments and affections. If,
notwithstanding, we are often differently affected, it
arises either from the different degrees of attention, which
our different habits of life allow us to give easily to the
several parts of those complex objects, or from the
different degrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the
mind to which they are addressed.
3When
the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in
things of this kind, which are obvious and easy, and in
which, perhaps, we never found a single person who differed
from us, though we, no doubt, must approve of them, yet he
seems to deserve no praise or admiration on account of them.
But when they not only coincide with our own, but lead and
direct our own; when in forming them he appears to have
attended to many things which we had overlooked, and to have
adjusted them to all the various circumstances of their
objects; we not only approve of them, but wonder and are
surprised at their uncommon and unexpected acuteness and
comprehensiveness, and he appears to deserve a very high
degree of admiration and applause. For approbation
heightened by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment
which is properly called admiration,
and of which applause is the natural expression. The
decision of the man who judges that exquisite beauty is
preferable to the grossest deformity, or that twice two are
equal to four, must certainly be approved of by all the
world, but will not, surely, be much admired. It is the
acute and delicate discernment of the man of taste, who
distinguishes the minute, and scarce perceptible differences
of beauty and deformity; it is the comprehensive accuracy of
the experienced mathematician, who unravels, with ease, the
most intricate and perplexed proportions; it is the great
leader in science and taste, the man who directs and
conducts our own sentiments, the extent and superior
justness of whose talents astonish us with wonder and
surprise, who excites our admiration, and seems to deserve
our applause: and upon this foundation is grounded the
greater part of the praise which is bestowed upon what are
called the intellectual virtues.
4The
utility of those qualities, it may be thought,
is what first recommends them to us; and, no doubt, the
consideration of this, when we come to attend to it, gives
them a new value. Originally, however, we approve of another
man’s judgment, not as something useful, but as right, as
accurate, as agreeable to truth and reality: and it is
evident we attribute those qualities to it for no other
reason but because we find that it agrees with our own.
Taste, in the same manner, is originally approved of, not as
useful, but as just, as delicate, and as precisely suited to
its object. The idea of the utility of all qualities of this
kind, is plainly an after–thought, and not what first
recommends them to our approbation.
52.
With regard to those objects, which affect in a
particular manner either ourselves or the person whose
sentiments we judge of, it is at once more difficult to
preserve this harmony and correspondence, and at the same
time, vastly more important. My companion does not naturally
look upon the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury
that has been done me, from the same point of view in which
I consider them. They affect me much more nearly. We do not
view them from the same station, as we do a picture, or a
poem, or a system of philosophy, and are, therefore, apt to
be very differently affected by them. But I can much more
easily overlook the want of this correspondence of
sentiments with regard to such indifferent objects as
concern neither me nor my companion, than with regard to
what interests me so much as the misfortune that has
befallen me, or the injury that has been done me. Though you
despise that picture, or that poem, or even that system of
philosophy, which I admire, there is little danger of our
quarrelling upon that account. Neither of us can reasonably
be much interested about them. They ought all of them to be
matters of great indifference to us both; so that, though
our opinions may be opposite, our affections may still be
very nearly the same. But it is quite otherwise with regard
to those objects by which either you or I are particularly
affected. Though your judgments in matters of speculation,
though your sentiments in matters of taste, are quite
opposite to mine, I can easily overlook this opposition; and
if I have any degree of temper, I may still find some
entertainment in your conversation, even upon those very
subjects. But if you have either no fellow–feeling for the
misfortunes I have met with, or none that bears any
proportion to the grief which distracts me; or if you have
either no indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or
none that bears any proportion to the resentment which
transports me, we can no longer converse upon these
subjects. We become intolerable to one another. I can
neither support your company, nor you mine. You are
confounded at my violence and passion, and I am enraged at
your cold insensibility and want of feeling.
6In
all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of
sentiments between the spectator and the person principally
concerned, the spectator must, first of all, endeavour, as
much as he can, to put himself in the situation of the
other, and to bring home to himself every little
circumstance of distress which can possibly occur to the
sufferer. He must adopt the whole case of his companion with
all its minutest incidents; and strive to render as perfect
as possible, that imaginary change of situation upon which
his sympathy is founded.
7After
all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will still
be very apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt by
the sufferer. Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never
conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree of
passion which naturally animates the person principally
concerned. That imaginary change of situation, upon which
their sympathy is founded, is but momentary. The thought of
their own safety, the thought that they themselves are not
really the sufferers, continually intrudes itself upon them;
and though it does not hinder them from conceiving a passion
somewhat analogous to what is felt by the sufferer, hinders
them from conceiving any thing that approaches to the same
degree of violence. The person principally concerned is
sensible of this, and at the same time passionately desires
a more complete sympathy. He longs for that relief which
nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the
affections of the spectators with his own. To see the
emotions of their hearts, in every respect, beat time to his
own, in the violent and disagreeable passions, constitutes
his sole consolation. But he can only hope to obtain this by
lowering his passion to that pitch, in which the spectators
are capable of going along with him. He must flatten, if I
may be allowed to say so, the sharpness of its natural tone,
in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the
emotions of those who are about him. What they feel, will,
indeed, always be, in some respects, different from what he
feels, and compassion can never be exactly the same with
original sorrow; because the secret consciousness that the
change of situations, from which the sympathetic sentiment
arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers it in degree, but,
in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite
different modification. These two sentiments, however, may,
it is evident, have such a correspondence with one another,
as is sufficient for the harmony of society. Though they
will never be unisons, they may be concords, and this is all
that is wanted or required.
8In
order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the
spectators to assume the circumstances of the person
principally concerned, so she teaches this last in some
measure to assume those of the spectators. As they are
continually placing themselves in his situation, and thence
conceiving emotions similar to what he feels; so he is as
constantly placing himself in theirs, and thence conceiving
some degree of that coolness about his own fortune, with
which he is sensible that they will view it. As they are
constantly considering what they themselves would feel, if
they actually were the sufferers, so he is as constantly led
to imagine in what manner he would be affected if he was
only one of the spectators of his own situation. As their
sympathy makes them look at it, in some measure, with his
eyes, so his sympathy makes him look at it, in some measure,
with theirs, especially when in their presence and acting
under their observation: and as the reflected passion, which
he thus conceives, is much weaker than the original one, it
necessarily abates the violence of what he felt before he
came into their presence, before he began to recollect in
what manner they would be affected by it, and to view his
situation in this candid and impartial light.
9The
mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the
company of a friend will restore it to some degree of
tranquillity and sedateness. The breast is, in some measure,
calmed and composed the moment we come into his presence. We
are immediately put in mind of the light in which he will
view our situation, and we begin to view it ourselves in the
same light; for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We
expect less sympathy from a common acquaintance than from a
friend: we cannot open to the former all those little
circumstances which we can unfold to the latter: we assume,
therefore, more tranquillity before him, and endeavour to
fix our thoughts upon those general outlines of our
situation which he is willing to consider. We expect still
less sympathy from an assembly of strangers, and we assume,
therefore, still more tranquillity before them, and always
endeavour to bring down our passion to that pitch, which the
particular company we are in may be expected to go along
with. Nor is this only an assumed appearance: for if we are
at all masters of ourselves, the presence of a mere
acquaintance will really compose us, still more than that of
a friend; and that of an assembly of strangers still more
than that of an acquaintance.
10Society
and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies
for restoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any time,
it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best
preservatives of that equal and happy temper, which is so
necessary to self–satisfaction and enjoyment. Men of
retirement and speculation, who are apt to sit brooding at
home over either grief or resentment, though they may often
have more humanity, more generosity, and a nicer sense of
honour, yet seldom possess that equality of temper which is
so common among men of the world.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. v
Of the amiable and
respectable virtues
1Upon
these two different efforts, upon that of the spectator to
enter into the sentiments of the person principally
concerned, and upon that of the person principally
concerned, to bring down his emotions to what the spectator
can go along with, are founded two different sets of
virtues. The soft, the gentle, the amiable virtues, the
virtues of candid condescension and indulgent humanity, are
founded upon the one: the great, the awful and respectable,
the virtues of self–denial, of self–government, of that
command of the passions which subjects all the movements of
our nature to what our own dignity and honour, and the
propriety of our own conduct require, take their origin from
the other.
2How
amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart seems
to reecho all the sentiments of those with whom he
converses, who grieves for their calamities, who resents
their injuries, and who rejoices at their good fortune! When
we bring home to ourselves the situation of his companions,
we enter into their gratitude, and feel what consolation
they must derive from the tender sympathy of so affectionate
a friend. And for a contrary reason, how disagreeable does
he appear to be, whose hard and obdurate heart feels for
himself only, but is altogether insensible to the happiness
or misery of others! We enter, in this case too, into the
pain which his presence must give to every mortal with whom
he converses, to those especially with whom we are most apt
to sympathize, the unfortunate and the injured.
3On
the other hand, what noble propriety and grace do we feel in
the conduct of those who, in their own case, exert that
recollection and self–command which constitute the dignity
of every passion, and which bring it down to what others can
enter
We are disgusted with that
clamorous grief, which, without any delicacy, calls upon our
compassion with sighs and tears and importunate
lamentations. But we reverence that reserved, that silent
and majestic sorrow, which discovers itself only in the
swelling of the eyes, in the quivering of the lips and
cheeks, and in the distant, but affecting, coldness of the
whole behaviour. It imposes the like silence upon us. We
regard it with respectful attention, and watch with anxious
concern over our whole behaviour, lest by any impropriety we
should disturb that concerted tranquillity, which it
requires so great an effort to support.
4The
insolence and brutality of anger, in the same
when we indulge its fury
without check or restraint, is, of all objects, the most
detestable. But we admire that noble and generous resentment
which governs its pursuit of the greatest injuries, not by
the rage which they are apt to excite in the breast of the
sufferer, but by the indignation which they naturally call
forth in that of the impartial spectator; which allows no
word, no gesture, to escape it beyond what this more
equitable sentiment would dictate; which never, even in
thought, attempts any greater vengeance, nor desires to
inflict any greater punishment, than what every indifferent
person would rejoice to see executed.
5And
hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for
ourselves, that to restrain our selfish, and to indulge our
benevolent affections, constitutes the perfection of human
nature; and can alone produce among mankind that harmony of
sentiments and passions in which consists their whole grace
and propriety. As to love our neighbour as we love ourselves
is the great law of Christianity, so it is the great precept
of nature to love ourselves only as we love our neighbour,
or what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour is capable
of loving us.
6As
taste and good judgment, when they are considered as
qualities which deserve praise and admiration, are supposed
to imply a delicacy of sentiment and an acuteness of
understanding not commonly to be met with; so the virtues of
sensibility and self–command are not apprehended to consist
in the ordinary, but in the uncommon degrees of those
qualities. The amiable virtue of humanity requires, surely,
a sensibility, much beyond what is possessed by the rude
vulgar of mankind. The great and exalted virtue of
magnanimity undoubtedly demands much more than that degree
of self–command, which the weakest of mortals is capable of
exerting. As in the common degree of the intellectual
qualities, there is no abilities; so in the common degree of
the moral, there is no virtue. Virtue is excellence,
something uncommonly great and beautiful, which rises far
above what is vulgar and ordinary. The amiable virtues
consist in that degree of sensibility which surprises by its
exquisite and unexpected delicacy and tenderness. The awful
and respectable, in that degree of self–command which
astonishes by its amazing superiority over the most
ungovernable passions of human nature.
7There
is, in this respect, a considerable difference between
virtue and mere propriety; between those qualities and
actions which deserve to be admired and celebrated, and
those which simply deserve to be approved of. Upon many
occasions, to act with the most perfect propriety, requires
no more than that common and ordinary degree of sensibility
or self–command which the most worthless of mankind are
possest of, and sometimes even that degree is not necessary.
Thus, to give a very low instance, to eat when we are
hungry, is certainly, upon ordinary occasions, perfectly
right and proper, and cannot miss being approved of as such
by every body. Nothing, however, could be more absurd than
to say it was virtuous.
8On
the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable degree
of virtue in those actions which fall short of the most
perfect propriety; because they may still approach nearer to
perfection than could well be expected upon occasions in
which it was so extremely difficult to attain it: and this
is very often the case upon those occasions which require
the greatest exertions of self–command. There are some
situations which bear so hard upon human nature, that the
greatest degree of self–government, which can belong to so
imperfect a creature as man, is not able to stifle,
altogether, the voice of human weakness, or reduce the
violence of the passions to that pitch of moderation, in
which the impartial spectator can entirely enter into them.
Though in those cases, therefore, the behaviour of the
sufferer fall short of the most perfect propriety, it may
still deserve some applause, and even in a certain sense,
may be denominated virtuous. It may still manifest an effort
of generosity and magnanimity of which the greater part of
men are incapable; and though it fails of absolute
perfection, it may be a much nearer approximation towards
perfection, than what, upon such trying occasions, is
commonly either to be found or to be expected.
9In
cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree of
blame or applause which seems due to any action, we very
frequently make use of two different standards. The first is
the idea of complete propriety and perfection, which, in
those difficult situations, no human conduct ever did, or
ever can come up to; and in comparison with which the
actions of all men must for ever appear blameable and
imperfect. The second is the idea of that degree of
proximity or distance from this complete perfection, which
the actions of the greater part of men commonly arrive at.
Whatever goes beyond this degree, how far soever it may be
removed from absolute perfection, seems to deserve applause;
and whatever falls short of it, to deserve blame.
10It
is in the same manner that we judge of the productions of
all the arts which address themselves to the imagination.
When a critic examines the work of any of the great masters
in poetry or painting, he may sometimes examine it by an
idea of perfection, in his own mind, which neither that nor
any other human work will ever come up to; and as long as he
compares it with this standard, he can see nothing in it but
faults and imperfections. But when he comes to consider the
rank which it ought to hold among other works of the same
kind, he necessarily compares it with a very different
standard, the common degree of excellence which is usually
attained in this particular art; and when he judges of it by
this new measure, it may often appear to deserve the highest
applause, upon account of its approaching much nearer to
perfection than the greater part of those works which can be
brought into competition with it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION II
Of the Degrees of the different
Passions which are consistent with Propriety
[Back to Table of Contents]
introduction
1The
propriety of every passion excited by objects peculiarly
related to ourselves, the pitch which the spectator can go
along with, must lie, it is evident, in a certain
mediocrity. If the passion is too high, or if it is too low,
he cannot enter into it. Grief and resentment for private
misfortunes and injuries may easily, for example, be too
high, and in the greater part of mankind they are so. They
may likewise, though this more rarely happens, be too low.
We denominate the excess, weakness and fury: and we call the
defect stupidity, insensibility, and want of spirit. We can
enter into neither of them, but are astonished and
confounded to see them.
2This
mediocrity, however, in which the point of propriety
consists, is different in different passions. It is high in
some, and low in others. There are some passions which it is
indecent to express very strongly, even upon those
occasions, in which it is acknowledged that we cannot avoid
feeling them in the highest degree. And there are others of
which the strongest expressions are upon many occasions
extremely graceful, even though the passions themselves do
not, perhaps, arise so necessarily. The first are those
passions with which, for certain reasons, there is little or
no sympathy: the second are those with which, for other
reasons, there is the greatest. And if we consider all the
different passions of human nature, we shall find that they
are regarded as decent, or indecent, just in proportion as
mankind are more or less disposed to sympathize with them.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
Of the Passions
which take their origin from the body
11.
It is indecent to express
any strong degree of those passions which arise from a
certain situation or disposition of the body; because the
company, not being in the same disposition, cannot be
expected to sympathize with them. Violent hunger, for
example, though upon many occasions not only natural, but
unavoidable, is always indecent, and to eat voraciously is
universally regarded as a piece of ill manners. There is,
however, some degree of sympathy, even with hunger. It is
agreeable to see our companions eat with a good appetite,
and all expressions of loathing are offensive. The
disposition of body which is habitual to a man in health,
makes his stomach easily keep time, if I may be allowed so
coarse an expression, with the one, and not with the other.
We can sympathize with the distress which excessive hunger
occasions when we read the description of it in the journal
of a siege, or of a sea voyage. We imagine ourselves in the
situation of the sufferers, and thence readily conceive the
grief, the fear and consternation, which must necessarily
distract them. We feel, ourselves, some degree of those
passions, and therefore sympathize with them: but as we do
not grow hungry by reading the description, we cannot
properly, even in this case, be said to sympathize with
their hunger.
2It
is the same case with the passion by which Nature unites the
two sexes. Though naturally the most furious of all the
passions, all strong expressions of it are upon every
occasion indecent, even between persons in whom its most
complete indulgence is acknowledged by all laws, both human
and divine, to be perfectly innocent. There seems, however,
to be some degree of sympathy even with this passion. To
talk to a woman as we
to a man is improper: it
is expected that their company should inspire us with more
gaiety, more pleasantry, and more attention; and an intire
insensibility to the fair sex, renders a man contemptible in
some measure even to the men.
3Such
is our aversion for all the appetites which take their
origin from the body: all strong expressions of them are
loathsome and disagreeable. According to some ancient
philosophers, these are the passions which we share in
common with the brutes, and which having no connexion with
the characteristical qualities of human nature, are upon
that account beneath its dignity. But there are many other
passions which we share in common with the brutes, such as
resentment, natural affection, even gratitude, which do not,
upon that account, appear to be so brutal. The true cause of
the peculiar disgust which we conceive for the appetites of
the body when we see them in other men, is that we cannot
enter into them. To the person himself who feels them, as
soon as they are gratified, the object that excited them
ceases to be agreeable: even its presence often becomes
offensive to him; he looks round to no purpose for the charm
which transported him the moment before, and he can now as
little enter into his own passion as another person. When we
have dined, we order the covers to be removed; and we should
treat in the same manner the objects of the most ardent and
passionate desires, if they were the objects of no other
passions but those which take their origin from the body.
4In
the command of those appetites of the body consists that
virtue which is properly called temperance. To restrain them
within those bounds, which regard to health and fortune
prescribes, is the part of prudence. But to confine them
within those limits, which grace, which propriety, which
delicacy, and modesty, require, is the office of temperance.
52.
It is for the same reason that to cry out with bodily
pain, how intolerable soever, appears always unmanly and
unbecoming. There is, however, a good deal of sympathy even
with bodily pain. If, as has already been observed,
I see a stroke aimed, and just ready to fall upon the leg,
or arm, of another person, I naturally shrink and draw back
my own leg, or my own arm: and when it does fall, I feel it
in some measure, and am hurt by it as well as the sufferer.
My hurt, however, is, no doubt, excessively slight, and,
upon that account, if he makes any violent out–cry, as I
cannot go along with him, I never fail to despise him. And
this is the case of all the passions which take their origin
from the body: they excite either no sympathy at all, or
such a degree of it, as is altogether disproportioned to the
violence of what is felt by the sufferer.
6It
is quite otherwise with those passions which take their
origin from the imagination. The frame of my body can be but
little affected by the alterations which are brought about
upon that of my companion: but my imagination is more
ductile, and more readily assumes, if I may say so, the
shape and configuration of the imaginations of those with
whom I am familiar. A disappointment in love, or ambition,
will, upon this account, call forth more sympathy than the
greatest bodily evil. Those passions arise altogether from
the imagination. The person who has lost his whole fortune,
if he is in health, feels nothing in his body. What he
suffers is from the imagination only, which represents to
him the loss of his dignity, neglect from his friends,
contempt from his enemies, dependance, want, and misery,
coming fast upon him; and we sympathize with him more
strongly upon this account, because our imaginations can
more readily mould themselves upon his imagination, than our
bodies can mould themselves upon his body.
7The
loss of a leg may generally be regarded as a more real
calamity than the loss of a mistress. It would be a
ridiculous tragedy, however, of which the catastrophe was to
turn upon a loss of that kind. A misfortune of the other
kind, how frivolous soever it may appear to be, has given
occasion to many a fine one.
8Nothing
is so soon forgot as pain. The moment it is gone the whole
agony of it is over, and the thought of it can no longer
give us any sort of disturbance. We ourselves cannot then
enter into the anxiety and anguish which we had before
conceived. An unguarded word from a friend will occasion a
more durable uneasiness. The agony which this creates is by
no means over with the word. What at first disturbs us is
not the object of the senses, but the idea of the
imagination. As it is an idea, therefore, which occasions
our uneasiness, till time and other accidents have in some
measure effaced it from our memory, the imagination
continues to fret and rankle within, from the thought of it.
9Pain
never calls forth any very lively sympathy unless it is
accompanied with danger. We sympathize with the fear, though
not with the agony of the sufferer. Fear, however, is a
passion derived altogether from the imagination, which
represents, with an uncertainty and fluctuation that
increases our anxiety, not what we really feel, but what we
may hereafter possibly suffer. The gout or the tooth–ach,
though exquisitely painful, excite very little sympathy;
more dangerous diseases, though accompanied with very little
pain, excite the highest.
10Some
people faint and grow sick at the sight of a chirurgical
operation, and that bodily pain which is occasioned by
tearing the flesh, seems, in them, to excite the most
excessive sympathy. We conceive in a much more lively and
distinct manner the pain which proceeds from an external
cause, than we do that which arises from an internal
disorder. I can scarce form an idea of the agonies of my
neighbour when he is tortured with the gout, or the stone;
but I have the clearest conception of what he must suffer
from an incision, a wound, or a fracture. The chief cause,
however, why such objects produce such violent effects upon
us, is their novelty. One who has been witness to a dozen
dissections, and as many amputations, sees, ever after, all
operations of this kind with great indifference, and often
with perfect insensibility. Though we have read or seen
represented more than five hundred tragedies, we shall
seldom feel so entire an abatement of our sensibility to the
objects which they represent to us.
11In
some of the Greek tragedies there is an attempt to excite
compassion, by the representation of the agonies of bodily
pain. Philoctetes
cries out and faints from the extremity of his sufferings.
Hippolytus
and Hercules
are both introduced as expiring under the severest tortures,
which, it seems, even the fortitude of Hercules was
incapable of supporting. In all these cases, however, it is
not the pain which interests us, but some other
circumstances. It is not the sore foot, but the solitude, of
Philoctetes which affects us, and diffuses over that
charming tragedy, that romantic wildness, which is so
agreeable to the imagination. The agonies of Hercules and
Hippolytus are interesting only because we foresee that
death is to be the consequence. If those heroes were to
recover, we should think the representation of their
sufferings perfectly ridiculous. What a tragedy would that
be of which the distress consisted in a colic! Yet no pain
is more exquisite. These attempts to excite compassion by
the representation of bodily pain, may be regarded as among
the greatest breaches of decorum of which the Greek theatre
has set the example.
12The
little sympathy which we feel with bodily pain is the
foundation of the propriety of constancy and patience in
enduring it. The man, who under the severest tortures allows
no weakness to escape him, vents no groan, gives way to no
passion which we do not entirely enter into, commands our
highest admiration. His firmness enables him to keep time
with our indifference and insensibility. We admire and
entirely go along with the magnanimous effort which he makes
for this purpose. We approve of his behaviour, and from our
experience of the common weakness of human nature, we are
surprised, and wonder how he should be able to act so as to
deserve approbation. Approbation, mixed and animated by
wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment which is
properly called admiration, of which, applause is the
natural expression, as has already been observed.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of those Passions
which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of
the Imagination
1Even
of the passions derived from the imagination, those which
take their origin from a peculiar turn or habit it has
acquired, though they may be acknowledged to be perfectly
natural, are, however, but little sympathized with. The
imaginations of mankind, not having acquired that particular
turn, cannot enter into them; and such passions, though they
may be allowed to be almost unavoidable in some part of
life, are always, in some measure, ridiculous. This is the
case with that strong attachment which naturally grows up
between two persons of different sexes, who have long fixed
their thoughts upon one another. Our imagination not having
run in the same channel with that of the lover, we cannot
enter into the eagerness of his emotions. If our friend has
been injured, we readily sympathize with his resentment, and
grow angry with the very person with whom he is angry. If he
has received a benefit, we readily enter into his gratitude,
and have a very high sense of the merit of his benefactor.
But if he is in love, though we may think his passion just
as reasonable as any of the kind, yet we never think
ourselves bound to conceive a passion of the same kind, and
for the same person for whom he has conceived it. The
passion appears to every body, but the man who feels it,
entirely disproportioned to the value of the object; and
love, though it is pardoned in a certain age because we know
it is natural, is always laughed at, because we cannot enter
into it. All serious and strong expressions of it appear
ridiculous to a third person;
He
himself is sensible of this; and as long as he continues in
his sober senses, endeavours to treat his own passion with
raillery and ridicule. It is the only style in which we care
to hear of it; because it is the only style in which we
ourselves are disposed to talk of it. We grow weary of the
grave, pedantic, and long–sentenced love of Cowley and
who never have done
with exaggerating the violence of their attachments; but the
gaiety of Ovid, and the gallantry of Horace, are always
agreeable.
2But
though we feel no proper sympathy with an attachment of this
kind, though we never approach even in imagination towards
conceiving a passion for that particular person, yet as we
either have conceived, or may be disposed to conceive,
passions of the same kind, we readily enter into those high
hopes of happiness which are proposed from its
gratification, as well as into that exquisite distress which
is feared from its disappointment. It interests us not as a
passion, but as a situation that gives occasion to other
passions which interest us; to hope, to fear, and to
distress of every kind: in the same manner as in a
description of a sea voyage, it is not the hunger which
interests us, but the distress which that hunger occasions.
Though we do not properly enter into the attachment of the
lover, we readily go along with those expectations of
romantic happiness which he derives from it. We feel how
natural it is for the mind, in a certain situation, relaxed
with indolence, and fatigued with the violence of desire, to
long for serenity and quiet, to hope to find them in the
gratification of that passion which distracts it, and to
frame to itself the idea of that life of pastoral
tranquillity and retirement which the elegant, the tender,
and the passionate Tibullus takes so much pleasure in
describing; a life like what the poets describe in the
Fortunate Islands,
a life of friendship, liberty, and repose; free from labour,
and from care, and from all the turbulent passions which
attend them. Even scenes of this kind interest us most, when
they are painted rather as what is hoped, than as what is
enjoyed. The grossness of that passion, which mixes with,
and is, perhaps, the foundation of love, disappears when its
gratification is far off and at a distance; but renders the
whole offensive, when described as what is immediately
possessed. The happy passion, upon this account, interests
us much less than the fearful and the melancholy. We tremble
for whatever can disappoint such natural and agreeable
hopes: and thus enter into all the anxiety, and concern, and
distress of the lover.
3Hence
it is, that, in some modern tragedies and romances, this
passion appears so wonderfully interesting. It is not so
much the love of Castalio and Monimia which attaches us in
the Orphan,
as the distress which that love occasions. The author who
should introduce two lovers, in a scene of perfect security,
expressing their mutual fondness for one another, would
excite laughter, and not sympathy. If a scene of this kind
is ever admitted into a tragedy, it is always, in some
measure, improper, and is endured, not from any sympathy
with the passion that is expressed in it, but from concern
for the dangers and difficulties with which the audience
foresee that its gratification is likely to be attended.
4The
reserve which the laws of society impose upon the fair sex,
with regard to this weakness, renders it more peculiarly
distressful in them, and, upon that very account, more
deeply interesting. We are charmed with the love of Phaedra,
as it is expressed in the French tragedy of that name,
notwithstanding all the extravagance and guilt which attend
it. That very extravagance and guilt may be said, in some
measure, to recommend it to us. Her fear, her shame, her
remorse, her horror, her despair, become thereby more
natural and interesting. All the secondary passions, if I
may be allowed to call them so, which arise from the
situation of love, become necessarily more furious and
violent; and it is with these secondary passions only that
we can properly be said to sympathize.
5Of
all the passions, however, which are so extravagantly
disproportioned to the value of their objects, love is the
only one that appears, even to the weakest minds, to have
any thing in it that is either graceful or agreeable. In
itself, first of all, though it may be ridiculous, it is not
naturally odious; and though its consequences are often
fatal and dreadful, its intentions are seldom mischievous.
And then, though there is little propriety in the passion
itself, there is a good deal in some of those which always
accompany it. There is in love a strong mixture of humanity,
generosity, kindness, friendship, esteem; passions with
which, of all others, for reasons which shall be explained
immediately, we have the greatest propensity to sympathize,
even notwithstanding we are sensible that they are, in some
measure, excessive. The sympathy which we feel with them,
renders the passion which they accompany less disagreeable,
and supports it in our imagination, notwithstanding all the
vices which commonly go along with it; though in the one sex
it necessarily leads to the last ruin and infamy; and though
in the other, where it is apprehended to be least fatal, it
is almost always attended with an incapacity for labour, a
neglect of duty, a contempt of fame, and even of common
reputation. Notwithstanding all this, the degree of
sensibility and generosity with which it is supposed to be
accompanied, renders it to many the object of vanity; and
they are fond of appearing capable of feeling what would do
them no honour if they had really felt it.
6It
is for a reason of the same kind, that a certain reserve is
necessary when we talk of our own friends, our own studies,
our own professions. All these are objects which we cannot
expect should interest our companions in the same degree in
which they interest us. And it is for want of this reserve,
that the one half of mankind make bad company to the other.
A philosopher is company to a philosopher only; the member
of a club, to his own little knot of companions.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of the unsocial
Passions
1There
is another set of passions, which, though derived from the
imagination, yet before we can enter into them, or regard
them as graceful or becoming, must always be brought down to
a pitch much lower than that to which undisciplined nature
would raise them. These are, hatred and resentment, with all
their different modifications. With regard to all such
passions, our sympathy is divided between the person who
feels them, and the person who is the object of them. The
interests of these two are directly opposite. What our
sympathy with the person who feels them would prompt us to
wish for, our fellow–feeling with the other would lead us to
fear. As they are both men, we are concerned for both, and
our fear for what the one may suffer, damps our resentment
for what the other has suffered. Our sympathy, therefore,
with the man who has received the provocation, necessarily
falls short of the passion which naturally animates him, not
only upon account of those general causes which render all
sympathetic passions inferior to the original ones, but upon
account of that particular cause which is peculiar to
itself, our opposite sympathy with another person. Before
resentment, therefore, can become graceful and agreeable, it
must be more humbled and brought down below that pitch to
which it would naturally rise, than almost any other
passion.
2Mankind,
at the same time, have a very strong sense of the injuries
that are done to another. The villain, in a tragedy or
romance, is as much the object of our indignation, as the
hero is that of our sympathy and affection. We detest Iago
as much as we esteem Othello; and delight as much in the
punishment of the one, as we are grieved at the distress of
the other. But though mankind have so strong a
fellow–feeling with the injuries that are done to their
brethren, they do not always resent them the more that the
sufferer appears to resent them. Upon most occasions, the
greater his patience, his mildness, his humanity, provided
it does not appear that he wants spirit, or that fear was
the motive of his forbearance, the higher
resentment against the
person who injured him. The amiableness of the character
exasperates their sense of the atrocity of the injury.
3
passions, however, are regarded as necessary parts of the
character of human nature. A person becomes contemptible who
tamely sits still, and submits to insults, without
attempting either to repel or to revenge them. We cannot
enter into his indifference and insensibility: we call his
behaviour mean–spiritedness, and are as really provoked by
it as by the insolence of his adversary. Even the mob are
enraged to see any man submit patiently to affronts and ill
usage. They desire to see this insolence resented, and
resented by the person who suffers from it. They cry to him
with fury, to defend, or to revenge himself. If his
indignation rouses at last, they heartily applaud, and
sympathize with it. It enlivens their own indignation
against his enemy, whom they rejoice to see him attack
and are as really
gratified by his revenge, provided it is not immoderate, as
if the injury had been done to themselves.
4But
though the utility of those passions to the individual, by
rendering it dangerous to insult or injure him, be
acknowledged; and though their utility to the public, as the
guardians of justice, and of the equality of its
administration, be not less considerable, as shall be shewn
hereafter;
yet there is still something disagreeable in the passions
themselves, which makes the appearance of them in other men
the natural object of our aversion. The expression of anger
towards any body present, if it exceeds a bare intimation
that we are sensible of his ill usage, is regarded not only
as an insult to that particular person, but as a rudeness to
the whole company. Respect for them ought to have restrained
us from giving way to so boisterous and offensive an
emotion. It is the remote effects of these passions which
are agreeable; the immediate effects are mischief to the
person against whom they are directed. But it is the
immediate, and not the remote effects of objects which
render them agreeable or disagreeable to the imagination. A
prison is certainly more useful to the public than a palace;
and the person who founds the one is generally directed by a
much juster spirit of patriotism, than he who builds the
other. But the immediate effects of a prison, the
confinement of the wretches shut up in it, are disagreeable;
and the imagination either does not take time to trace out
the remote ones, or sees them at too great a distance to be
much affected by them. A prison, therefore, will always be a
disagreeable object; and the fitter it is for the purpose
for which it was intended, it will be the more so. A palace,
on the contrary, will always be agreeable; yet its remote
effects may often be inconvenient to the public. It may
serve to promote luxury, and set the example of the
dissolution of manners. Its immediate effects, however, the
conveniency, the pleasure, and the gaiety of the people who
live in it, being all agreeable, and suggesting to the
imagination a thousand agreeable ideas, that faculty
generally rests upon them, and seldom goes further in
tracing its more distant consequences. Trophies of the
instruments of music or of agriculture, imitated in painting
or in stucco, make a common and an agreeable ornament of our
halls and dining–rooms. A trophy of the same kind, composed
of the instruments of surgery, of dissecting and
amputation–knives, of saws for cutting the bones, of
trepanning instruments, etc. would be absurd and shocking.
Instruments of surgery, however, are always more finely
polished, and generally more nicely adapted to the purposes
for which they are intended, than instruments of
agriculture. The remote effects of them too, the health of
the patient, is agreeable; yet as the immediate effect of
them is pain and suffering, the sight of them always
displeases us. Instruments of war are agreeable, though
their immediate effect may seem to be in the same manner
pain and suffering. But then it is the pain and suffering of
our enemies, with whom we have no sympathy. With regard to
us, they are immediately connected with the agreeable ideas
of courage, victory, and honour. They are themselves,
therefore, supposed to make one of the noblest parts of
dress, and the imitation of them one of the finest ornaments
of architecture. It is the same case with the qualities of
the mind. The ancient stoics were of opinion, that as the
world was governed by the all–ruling providence of a wise,
powerful, and good God, every single event ought to be
regarded, as making a necessary part of the plan of the
universe, and as tending to promote the general order and
happiness of the whole: that the vices and follies of
mankind, therefore, made as necessary a part of this plan as
their wisdom or their virtue; and by that eternal art which
educes good from ill, were made to tend equally to the
prosperity and perfection of the great system of nature. No
speculation of this kind, however, how deeply soever it
might be rooted in the mind, could diminish our natural
abhorrence for vice, whose immediate effects are so
destructive, and whose remote ones are too distant to be
traced by the imagination.
5It
is the same case with those passions we have been just now
considering. Their immediate effects are so disagreeable,
that even when they are most justly provoked, there is still
something about them which disgusts us. These, therefore,
are the only passions of which the expressions, as I
formerly observed, do not dispose and prepare us to
sympathize with them, before we are informed of the cause
which excites them. The plaintive voice of misery, when
heard at a distance, will not allow us to be indifferent
about the person from whom it comes. As soon as it strikes
our ear, it interests us in his fortune, and, if continued,
forces us almost involuntarily to fly to his assistance. The
sight of a smiling countenance, in the same manner, elevates
even the pensive into that gay and airy mood, which disposes
him to sympathize with, and share the joy which it
expresses; and he feels his heart, which with thought and
care was before that shrunk and depressed, instantly
expanded and elated. But it is quite otherwise with the
expressions of hatred and resentment. The hoarse,
boisterous, and discordant voice of anger, when heard at a
distance, inspires us either with fear or aversion. We do
not fly towards it, as to one who cries out with pain and
agony. Women, and men of weak nerves, tremble and are
overcome with fear, though sensible that themselves are not
the objects of the anger. They conceive fear, however, by
putting themselves in the situation of the person who is so.
Even those of stouter hearts are disturbed; not indeed
enough to make them afraid, but enough to make them angry;
for anger is the passion which they would feel in the
situation of the other person. It is the same case with
hatred. Mere expressions of spite inspire it against nobody,
but the man who uses them. Both these passions are by nature
the objects of our aversion. Their disagreeable and
boisterous appearance never excites, never prepares, and
often disturbs our sympathy. Grief does not more powerfully
engage and attract us to the person in whom we observe it,
than these, while we are ignorant of their cause, disgust
and detach us from him. It was, it seems, the intention of
Nature, that those rougher and more unamiable emotions,
which drive men from one another, should be less easily and
more rarely communicated.
6When
music imitates the modulations of grief or joy, it either
actually inspires us with those passions, or at least puts
us in the mood which disposes us to conceive them. But when
it imitates the notes of anger, it inspires us with fear.
Joy, grief, love, admiration, devotion, are all of them
passions which are naturally musical. Their natural tones
are all soft, clear, and melodious; and they naturally
express themselves in periods which are distinguished by
regular pauses, and which upon that account are easily
adapted to the regular returns of the correspondent airs of
a tune. The voice of anger, on the contrary, and of all the
passions which are akin to it, is harsh and discordant. Its
periods too are all irregular, sometimes very long, and
sometimes very short, and distinguished by no regular
pauses. It is with difficulty, therefore, that music can
imitate any of those passions; and the music which does
imitate them is not the most agreeable. A whole
entertainment may consist, without any impropriety, of the
imitation of the social and agreeable passions. It would be
a strange entertainment which consisted altogether of the
imitations of hatred and resentment.
7If
those passions are disagreeable to the spectator, they are
not less so to the person who feels them. Hatred and anger
are the greatest poison to the happiness of a good mind.
There is, in the very feeling of those passions, something
harsh, jarring, and convulsive, something that tears and
distracts the breast, and is altogether destructive of that
composure and tranquillity of mind which is so necessary to
happiness, and which is best promoted by the contrary
passions of gratitude and love. It is not the value of what
they lose by the perfidy and ingratitude of those they live
with, which the generous and humane are most apt to regret.
Whatever they may have lost, they can generally be very
happy without it. What most disturbs them is the idea of
perfidy and ingratitude exercised towards themselves; and
the discordant and disagreeable passions which this excites,
constitute, in their own opinion, the chief part of the
injury which they suffer.
8How
many things are requisite to render the gratification of
resentment completely agreeable, and to make the spectator
thoroughly sympathize with our revenge? The provocation must
first of all be such that we should become contemptible, and
be exposed to perpetual insults, if we did not, in some
measure, resent it. Smaller offences are always better
neglected; nor is there any thing more despicable than that
froward and captious humour which takes fire upon every
slight occasion of quarrel. We should resent more from a
sense of the propriety of resentment, from a sense that
mankind expect and require it of us, than because we feel in
ourselves the furies of that disagreeable passion. There is
no passion, of which the human mind is capable, concerning
whose justness we ought to be so doubtful, concerning whose
indulgence we ought so carefully to consult our natural
sense of propriety, or so diligently to consider what will
be the sentiments of the cool and impartial spectator.
Magnanimity, or a regard to maintain our own rank and
dignity in society, is the only motive which can ennoble the
expressions of this disagreeable passion. This motive must
characterize our whole stile and deportment. These must be
plain, open, and direct; determined without positiveness,
and elevated without insolence; not only free from petulance
and low scurrility, but generous, candid, and full of all
proper regards, even for the person who has offended us. It
must appear, in short, from our whole manner, without our
labouring affectedly to express it, that passion has not
extinguished our humanity; and that if we yield to the
dictates of revenge, it is with reluctance, from necessity,
and in consequence of great and repeated provocations. When
resentment is guarded and qualified in this manner, it may
be admitted to be even generous and noble.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iv.
Of the social
Passions
1As
it is a divided sympathy which renders the whole set of
passions just now mentioned, upon most occasions, so
ungraceful and disagreeable; so there is another set
opposite to these, which a redoubled sympathy renders almost
always peculiarly agreeable and becoming. Generosity,
humanity, kindness, compassion, mutual friendship and
esteem, all the social and benevolent affections, when
expressed in the countenance or behaviour, even towards
those who are
peculiarly connected with
ourselves, please the indifferent spectator upon almost
every occasion. His sympathy with the person who feels those
passions, exactly coincides with his concern for the person
who is the object of them. The interest, which, as a man, he
is obliged to take in the happiness of this last, enlivens
his fellow–feeling with the sentiments of the other, whose
emotions are employed about the same object. We have always,
therefore, the strongest disposition to sympathize with the
benevolent affections. They appear in every respect
agreeable to us. We enter into the satisfaction both of the
person who feels them, and of the person who is the object
of them. For as to be the object of hatred and indignation
gives more pain than all the evil which a brave man can fear
from his enemies; so there is a satisfaction in the
consciousness of being beloved, which, to a person of
delicacy and sensibility, is of more importance to
happiness, than all the advantage which he can expect to
derive from it. What character is so detestable as that of
one who takes pleasure to sow dissension among friends, and
to turn their most tender love into mortal hatred? Yet
wherein does the atrocity of this so much abhorred injury
consist? Is it in depriving them of the frivolous good
offices, which, had their friendship continued, they might
have expected from one another? It is in depriving them of
that friendship itself, in robbing them of each other’s
affections, from which both derived so much satisfaction; it
is in disturbing the harmony of their hearts, and putting an
end to that happy commerce which had before subsisted
between them. These affections, that harmony, this commerce,
are felt, not only by the tender and the delicate, but by
the rudest vulgar of mankind, to be of more importance to
happiness than all the little services which could be
expected to flow from them.
2The
sentiment of love is, in itself, agreeable to the person who
feels it. It sooths and composes the breast, seems to favour
the vital motions, and to promote the healthful state of the
human constitution; and it is rendered still more delightful
by the consciousness of the gratitude and satisfaction which
it must excite in him who is the object of it. Their mutual
regard renders them happy in one another, and sympathy, with
this mutual regard, makes them agreeable to every other
person. With what pleasure do we look upon a family, through
the whole of which reign mutual love and esteem, where the
parents and children are companions for one another, without
any other difference than what is made by respectful
affection on the one side, and kind indulgence on the other;
where freedom and fondness, mutual raillery and mutual
kindness, show that no opposition of interest divides the
brothers, nor any rivalship of favour sets the sisters at
variance, and where every thing presents us with the idea of
peace, cheerfulness, harmony, and contentment? On the
contrary, how uneasy are we made when we go into a house in
which jarring contention sets one half of those who dwell in
it against the other; where amidst affected smoothness and
complaisance, suspicious looks and sudden starts of passion
betray the mutual jealousies which burn within them, and
which are every moment ready to burst out through all the
restraints which the presence of the company imposes?
3Those
amiable passions, even when they are acknowledged to be
excessive, are never regarded with aversion. There is
something agreeable even in the weakness of friendship and
humanity. The too tender mother, the too indulgent father,
the too generous and affectionate friend, may sometimes,
perhaps, on account of the softness of their natures, be
looked upon with a species of pity, in which, however, there
is a mixture of love, but can never be regarded with hatred
and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless by the most
brutal and worthless of mankind. It is always with concern,
with sympathy and kindness, that we blame them for the
extravagance of their attachment. There is a helplessness in
the character of extreme humanity which more than any thing
interests our pity. There is nothing in itself which renders
it either ungraceful or disagreeable. We only regret that it
is unfit for the world, because the world is unworthy of it,
and because it must expose the person who is endowed with it
as a prey to the perfidy and ingratitude of insinuating
falsehood, and to a thousand pains and uneasinesses, which,
of all men, he the least deserves to feel, and which
generally too he is, of all men, the least capable of
supporting. It is quite otherwise with hatred and
resentment. Too violent a propensity to those detestable
passions, renders a person the object of universal dread and
abhorrence, who, like a wild beast, ought, we think, to be
hunted out of all civil society.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. v
Of the selfish
Passions
1Besides
those two opposite sets of passions, the social and
unsocial, there is another which holds a sort of middle
place between them; is never either so graceful as is
sometimes the one set, nor is ever so odious as is sometimes
the other. Grief and joy, when conceived upon account of our
own private good or bad fortune, constitute this third set
of passions. Even when excessive, they are never so
disagreeable as excessive resentment, because no opposite
sympathy can ever interest us against them: and when most
suitable to their objects, they are never so agreeable as
impartial humanity and just benevolence; because no double
sympathy can ever interest us for them. There is, however,
this difference between grief and joy, that we are generally
most disposed to sympathize with small joys and great
sorrows. The man who, by some sudden revolution of fortune,
is lifted up all at once into a condition of life, greatly
above what he had formerly lived in, may be assured that the
congratulations of his best friends are not all of them
perfectly sincere. An upstart, though of the greatest merit,
is generally disagreeable, and a sentiment of envy commonly
prevents us from heartily sympathizing with his joy. If he
has any judgment, he is sensible of this, and instead of
appearing to be elated with his good fortune, he endeavours,
as much as he can, to smother his joy, and keep down that
elevation of mind with which his new circumstances naturally
inspire him. He affects the same plainness of dress, and the
same modesty of behaviour, which became him in his former
station. He redoubles his attention to his old friends, and
endeavours more than ever to be humble, assiduous, and
complaisant. And this is the behaviour which in his
situation we most approve of; because we expect, it seems,
that he should have more sympathy with our envy and aversion
to his happiness, than we have with his happiness. It is
seldom that with all this he succeeds. We suspect the
sincerity of his humility, and he grows weary of this
constraint. In a little time, therefore, he generally leaves
all his old friends behind him, some of the meanest of them
excepted, who may, perhaps, condescend to become his
dependents: nor does he always acquire any new ones; the
pride of his new connections is as much affronted at finding
him their equal, as that of his old ones had been by his
becoming their superior: and it requires the most obstinate
and persevering modesty to atone for this mortification to
either. He generally grows weary too soon, and is provoked,
by the sullen and suspicious pride of the one, and by the
saucy contempt of the other, to treat the first with
neglect, and the second with petulance, till at last he
grows habitually insolent, and forfeits the esteem of all.
If the chief part of human happiness arises from the
consciousness of being beloved, as I believe it does, those
sudden changes of fortune seldom contribute much to
happiness. He is happiest who advances more gradually to
greatness, whom the public destines to every step of his
preferment long before he arrives at it, in whom, upon that
account, when it comes, it can excite no extravagant joy,
and with regard to whom it cannot reasonably create either
any jealousy in those he overtakes, or any envy in those he
leaves behind.
2Mankind,
however, more readily sympathize with those smaller joys
which flow from less important causes. It is decent to be
humble amidst great prosperity; but we can scarce express
too much satisfaction in all the little occurrences of
common life, in the company with which we spent the evening
last night, in the entertainment that was set before us, in
what was said and what was done, in all the little incidents
of the present conversation, and in all those frivolous
nothings which fill up the void of human life. Nothing is
more graceful than habitual cheerfulness, which is always
founded upon a peculiar relish for all the little pleasures
which common occurrences afford. We readily sympathize with
it: it inspires us with the same joy, and makes every trifle
turn up to us in the same agreeable aspect in which it
presents itself to the person endowed with this happy
disposition. Hence it is that youth, the season of gaiety,
so easily engages our affections. That propensity to joy
which seems even to animate the bloom, and to sparkle from
the eyes of youth and beauty, though in a person of the same
sex, exalts, even the aged, to a more joyous mood than
ordinary. They forget, for a time, their infirmities, and
abandon themselves to those agreeable ideas and emotions to
which they have long been strangers, but which, when the
presence of so much happiness recalls them to their breast,
take their place there, like old acquaintance, from whom
they are sorry to have ever been parted, and whom they
embrace more heartily upon account of this long separation.
3It
is quite otherwise with grief. Small vexations excite no
sympathy, but deep affliction calls forth the greatest. The
man who is made uneasy by every little disagreeable
incident, who is hurt if either the cook or the butler have
failed in the least article of their duty, who feels every
defect in the highest ceremonial of politeness, whether it
be shewn to himself or to any other person, who takes it
amiss that his intimate friend did not bid him good–morrow
when they met in the forenoon, and that his brother hummed a
tune all the time he himself was telling a story; who is put
out of humour by the badness of the weather when in the
country, by the badness of the roads when upon a journey,
and by the want of company, and dulness of all public
diversions when in town; such a person, I say, though he
should have some reason, will seldom meet with much
sympathy. Joy is a pleasant emotion, and we gladly abandon
ourselves to it upon the slightest occasion. We readily,
therefore, sympathize with it in others, whenever we are not
prejudiced by envy. But grief is painful, and the mind, even
when it is our own misfortune, naturally resists and recoils
from it. We would endeavour either not to conceive it at
all, or to shake it off as soon as we have conceived it. Our
aversion to grief will not, indeed, always hinder us from
conceiving it in our own case upon very trifling occasions,
but it constantly prevents us from sympathizing with it in
others when excited by the like frivolous causes: for our
sympathetic passions are always less irresistible than our
original ones. There is, besides, a malice in mankind, which
not only prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses, but
renders them in some measure diverting. Hence the delight
which we all take in raillery, and in the small vexation
which we observe in our companion, when he is pushed, and
urged, and teased upon all sides. Men of the most ordinary
good–breeding dissemble the pain which any little incident
may give them; and those who are more thoroughly formed to
society, turn, of their own accord, all such incidents into
raillery, as they know their companions will do for them.
The habit which a man, who lives in the world, has acquired
of considering how every thing that concerns himself will
appear to others, makes those frivolous calamities turn up
in the same ridiculous light to him, in which he knows they
will certainly be considered by them.
4Our
sympathy, on the contrary, with deep distress, is very
strong and very sincere. It is unnecessary to give an
instance. We weep even at the feigned representation of a
tragedy. If you labour, therefore, under any signal
calamity, if by some extraordinary misfortune you are fallen
into poverty, into diseases, into disgrace and
disappointment; even though your own fault may have been, in
part, the occasion, yet you may generally depend upon the
sincerest sympathy of all your friends, and, as far as
interest and honour will permit, upon their kindest
assistance too. But if your misfortune is not of this
dreadful kind, if you have only been a little baulked in
your ambition, if you have only been jilted by your
mistress, or are only hen–pecked by your wife, lay your
account with the raillery of all your acquaintance.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION III
Of the Effects of Prosperity and
Adversity upon the Judgment of Mankind with regard to the
Propriety of Action; and why it is more easy to obtain their
Approbation in the one state than in the other
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
That though our sympathy with
sorrow is generally a more lively sensation than our
sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more short of the
violence of what isfelt
by the person principally concerned
1Our
sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has been more
taken notice of than our sympathy with joy. The word
sympathy, in its most proper and primitive signification,
denotes our fellow–feeling with the sufferings, not that
with the enjoyments, of others. A late ingenious and subtile
philosopher thought it necessary to prove, by arguments,
that we had a real sympathy with joy, and that
congratulation was a principle of human nature.
Nobody, I believe, ever thought it necessary to prove that
compassion was such.
2First
of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense, more
universal than that with joy. Though sorrow is excessive, we
may still have some fellow–feeling with it. What we feel
does not, indeed, in this case, amount to that complete
sympathy, to that perfect harmony and correspondence of
sentiments which constitutes approbation. We do not weep,
and exclaim, and lament, with the sufferer. We are sensible,
on the contrary, of his weakness and of the extravagance of
his passion, and yet often feel a very sensible concern upon
his account. But if we do not entirely enter into, and go
along with, the joy of another, we have no sort of regard or
fellow–feeling for it. The man who skips and dances about
with that intemperate and senseless joy which we cannot
accompany him in, is the object of our contempt and
indignation.
3Pain
besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pungent
sensation than pleasure, and our sympathy with pain, though
it falls greatly short of what is naturally felt by the
sufferer, is generally a more lively and distinct perception
than our sympathy with pleasure, though this last often
approaches more nearly, as I shall shew immediately, to the
natural vivacity of the original passion.
4Over
and above all this, we often struggle to keep down our
sympathy with the sorrow of others. Whenever we are not
under the observation of the sufferer, we endeavour, for our
own sake, to suppress it as much as we can, and we are not
always successful. The opposition which we make to it, and
the reluctance with which we yield to it, necessarily oblige
us to take more particular notice of it. But we never have
occasion to make this opposition to our sympathy with joy.
If there is any envy in the case, we never feel the least
propensity towards it; and if there is none, we give way to
it without any reluctance. On the contrary, as we are always
ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and sometimes
really wish to sympathize with the joy of others, when by
that disagreeable sentiment we are disqualified from doing
so. We are glad, we say, on account of our neighbour’s good
fortune, when in our hearts, perhaps, we are really sorry.
We often feel a sympathy with sorrow when we would wish to
be rid of it; and we often miss that with joy when we would
be glad to have it. The obvious observation, therefore,
which it naturally falls in our way to make, is, that our
propensity to sympathize with sorrow must be very strong,
and our inclination to sympathize with joy very weak.
5Notwithstanding
this prejudice, however, I will venture to affirm, that,
when there is no envy in the case, our propensity to
sympathize with joy is much stronger than our propensity to
sympathize with sorrow; and that our fellow–feeling for the
agreeable emotion approaches much more nearly to the
vivacity of what is naturally felt by the persons
principally concerned, than that which we conceive for the
painful one.
6We
have some indulgence for that excessive grief which we
cannot entirely go along with. We know what a prodigious
effort is requisite before the sufferer can bring down his
emotions to complete harmony and concord with those of the
spectator. Though he fails, therefore, we easily pardon him.
But we have no such indulgence for the intemperance of joy;
because we are not conscious that any such vast effort is
requisite to bring it down to what we can entirely enter
into. The man who, under the greatest calamities, can
command his sorrow, seems worthy of the highest admiration;
but he who, in the fulness of prosperity, can in the same
manner master his joy, seems hardly to deserve any praise.
We are sensible that there is a much wider interval in the
one case than in the other, between what is naturally felt
by the person principally concerned, and what the spectator
can entirely go along with.
7What
can be added to the happiness of the man who is in health,
who is out of debt, and has a clear conscience? To one in
this situation, all accessions of fortune may properly be
said to be superfluous; and if he is much elevated upon
account of them, it must be the effect of the most frivolous
levity. This situation, however, may very well be called the
natural and ordinary state of mankind. Notwithstanding the
present misery and depravity of the world, so justly
lamented, this really is the state of the greater part of
men. The greater part of men, therefore, cannot find any
great difficulty in elevating themselves to all the joy
which any accession to this situation can well excite in
their companion.
8But
though little can be added to this state, much may be taken
from it. Though between this condition and the highest pitch
of human prosperity, the interval is but a trifle; between
it and the lowest depth of misery the distance is immense
and prodigious. Adversity, on this account, necessarily
depresses the mind of the sufferer much more below its
natural state, than prosperity can elevate him above it. The
spectator, therefore, must find it much more difficult to
sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time, with his sorrow,
than thoroughly to enter into his joy, and must depart much
further from his own natural and ordinary temper of mind in
the one case than in the other. It is on this account, that
though our sympathy with sorrow is often a more pungent
sensation than our sympathy with joy, it always falls much
more short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the
person principally concerned.
9It
is agreeable to sympathize with joy; and wherever envy does
not oppose it, our heart abandons itself with satisfaction
to the highest transports of that delightful sentiment. But
it is painful to go along with grief, and we always enter
into it with reluctance
. When we attend to the representation of a tragedy, we
struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which the
entertainment inspires as long as we can, and we give way to
it at last only when we can no longer avoid it: we even then
endeavour to cover our concern from the company. If we shed
any tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid, lest
the spectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness,
should regard it as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch
whose misfortunes call upon our compassion feels with what
reluctance we are likely to enter into his sorrow, and
therefore proposes his grief to us with fear and hesitation:
he even smothers the half of it, and is ashamed, upon
account of this hard–heartedness of mankind, to give vent to
the fulness of his affliction. It is otherwise with the man
who riots in joy and success. Wherever envy does not
interest us against him, he expects our completest sympathy.
He does not fear, therefore, to announce himself with shouts
of exultation, in full confidence that we are heartily
disposed to go along with him.
10Why
should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh before
company? We may often have as real occasion to do the one as
to do the other: but we always feel that the spectators are
more likely to go along with us in the agreeable, than in
the painful emotion. It is always miserable to complain,
even when we are oppressed by the most dreadful calamities.
But the triumph of victory is not always ungraceful.
Prudence, indeed, would often advise us to bear our
prosperity with more moderation; because prudence would
teach us to avoid that envy which this very triumph is, more
than any thing, apt to excite.
11How
hearty are the acclamations of the mob, who never bear any
envy to their superiors, at a triumph or a public entry? And
how sedate and moderate is commonly their grief at an
execution? Our sorrow at a funeral generally amounts to no
more than an affected gravity; but our mirth at a
christening or a marriage, is always from the heart, and
without any affectation. Upon these, and all such joyous
occasions, our satisfaction, though not so durable, is often
as lively as that of the persons principally concerned.
Whenever we cordially congratulate our friends, which,
however, to the disgrace of human nature, we do but seldom,
their joy literally becomes our joy: we are, for the moment,
as happy as they are: our heart swells and overflows with
real pleasure: joy and complacency sparkle from our eyes,
and animate every feature of our countenance, and every
gesture of our body.
12But,
on the contrary, when we condole with our friends in their
afflictions, how little do we feel, in comparison of what
they feel? We sit down by them, we look at them, and while
they relate to us the circumstances of their misfortune, we
listen to them with gravity and attention. But while their
narration is every moment interrupted by those natural
bursts of passion which often seem almost to choak them in
the midst of it; how far are the languid emotions of our
hearts from keeping time to the transports of theirs? We may
be sensible, at the same time, that their passion is
natural, and no greater than what we ourselves might feel
upon the like occasion. We may even inwardly reproach
ourselves with our own want of sensibility, and perhaps, on
that account, work ourselves up into an artificial sympathy,
which, however, when it is raised, is always the slightest
and most transitory imaginable; and generally, as soon as we
have left the room, vanishes, and is gone for ever. Nature,
it seems, when she loaded us with our own sorrows, thought
that they were enough, and therefore did not command us to
take any further share in those of others, than what was
necessary to prompt us to relieve them.
13It
is on account of this dull sensibility to the afflictions of
others, that magnanimity amidst great distress appears
always so divinely graceful. His behaviour is genteel and
agreeable who can maintain his cheerfulness amidst a number
of frivolous disasters. But he appears to be more than
mortal who can support in the same manner the most dreadful
calamities. We feel what an immense effort is requisite to
silence those violent emotions which naturally agitate and
distract those in his situation. We are amazed to find that
he can command himself so entirely. His firmness, at the
same time, perfectly coincides with our insensibility. He
makes no demand upon us for that more exquisite degree of
sensibility which we find, and which we are mortified to
find, that we do not possess. There is the most perfect
correspondence between his sentiments and ours, and on that
account the most perfect propriety in his behaviour. It is a
propriety too, which, from our experience of the usual
weakness of human nature, we could not reasonably have
expected he should be able to maintain. We wonder with
surprise and astonishment at that strength of mind which is
capable of so noble and generous an effort. The sentiment of
complete sympathy and approbation, mixed and animated with
wonder and surprise, constitutes what is properly called
admiration, as has already been more than once taken notice
of. Cato, surrounded on all sides by his enemies, unable to
resist them, disdaining to submit to them, and reduced, by
the proud maxims of that age, to the necessity of destroying
himself; yet never shrinking from his misfortunes, never
supplicating with the lamentable voice of wretchedness,
those miserable sympathetic tears which we are always so
unwilling to give; but on the contrary, arming himself with
manly fortitude, and the moment before he executes his fatal
resolution, giving, with his usual tranquillity, all
necessary orders for the safety of his friends; appears to
Seneca, that great preacher of insensibility, a spectacle
which even the gods themselves might behold with pleasure
and admiration.
14Whenever
we meet, in common life, with any examples of such heroic
magnanimity, we are always extremely affected. We are more
apt to weep and shed tears for such as, in this manner, seem
to feel nothing for themselves, than for those who give way
to all the weakness of sorrow: and in this particular case,
the sympathetic grief of the spectator appears to go beyond
the original passion in the person principally concerned.
The friends of Socrates all wept when he drank the last
potion, while he himself expressed the gayest and most
cheerful tranquillity.
Upon all such occasions the spectator makes no effort, and
has no occasion to make any, in order to conquer his
sympathetic sorrow. He is under no fear that it will
transport him to any thing that is extravagant and improper;
he is rather pleased with the sensibility of his own heart,
and gives way to it with complacence and self–approbation.
He gladly indulges, therefore, the most melancholy views
which can naturally occur to him, concerning the calamity of
his friend, for whom, perhaps, he never felt so exquisitely
before, the tender and tearful passion of love. But it is
quite otherwise with the person principally concerned. He is
obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his eyes from
whatever is either naturally terrible or disagreeable in his
situation. Too serious an attention to those circumstances,
he fears, might make so violent an impression upon him, that
he could no longer keep within the bounds of moderation, or
render himself the object of the complete sympathy and
approbation of the spectators. He fixes his thoughts,
therefore, upon those only which are agreeable, the applause
and admiration which he is about to deserve by the heroic
magnanimity of his behaviour. To feel that he is capable of
so noble and generous an effort, to feel that in this
dreadful situation he can still act as he would desire to
act, animates and transports him with joy, and enables him
to support that triumphant gaiety which seems to exult in
the victory he thus gains over his misfortunes.
15On
the contrary, he always appears, in some measure, mean and
despicable, who is sunk in sorrow and dejection upon account
of any calamity of his own. We cannot bring ourselves to
feel for him what he feels for himself, and what, perhaps,
we should feel for ourselves if in his situation: we,
therefore, despise him; unjustly, perhaps, if any sentiment
could be regarded as unjust, to which we are by nature
irresistibly determined. The weakness of sorrow never
appears in any respect agreeable, except when it arises from
what we feel for others more than from what we feel for
ourselves. A son, upon the death of an indulgent and
respectable father, may give way to it without much blame.
His sorrow is chiefly founded upon a sort of sympathy with
his departed parent; and we readily enter into this humane
emotion. But if he should indulge the same weakness upon
account of any misfortune which affected himself only, he
would no longer meet with any such indulgence. If he should
be reduced to beggary and ruin, if he should be exposed to
the most dreadful dangers, if he should even be led out to a
public execution, and there shed one single tear upon the
scaffold, he would disgrace himself for ever in the opinion
of all the gallant and generous part of mankind. Their
compassion for him, however, would be very strong, and very
sincere; but as it would still fall short of this excessive
weakness, they would have no pardon for the man who could
thus expose himself in the eyes of the world. His behaviour
would affect them with shame rather than with sorrow; and
the dishonour which he had thus brought upon himself would
appear to them the most lamentable circumstance in his
misfortune. How did it disgrace the memory of the intrepid
Duke of Biron,
who had so often braved death in the field, that he wept
upon the scaffold, when he beheld the state to which he was
fallen, and remembered the favour and the glory from which
his own rashness had so unfortunately thrown
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of the origin of
Ambition, and of the distinction of Ranks
1It
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 be 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
preheminence? 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.
that he spends a great part of
them upon conveniencies, 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 nobody 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, to 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 crowd 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
at 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.
2When
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 idea 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 befals 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 any 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.
3Upon
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
completing 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 Nature. 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 were 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 masters, 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, and made it go on more
heavily than before.
4Do
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 preheminence, 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 Europe, 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
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 a 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 respect for his memory.
Compared with these, in 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.
5But
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
must 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 the 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.
6It
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 Aemilius, their misfortunes, it is
said, made them divide with their conqueror the attention of
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 eyes upon their fallen sovereign, and always burst
into tears at the sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating
that they thought not of their own 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 upon 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.
7‘Love,’
says my Lord Rochfaucault, ‘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 ever bring yourself
into comparison with those masters of the earth who have
already engrossed the attention of half mankind before you.
8Of
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 human 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.
9 the
most dreadful calamities are not always those which it is
most difficult to support. It is often more mortifying to
appear in public under small disasters, than under great
misfortunes. The first excite no sympathy; but the second,
though they may excite none that approaches to the anguish
of the sufferer, call forth, however, a very lively
compassion. The sentiments of the spectators are, in this
last case, less wide of those of the sufferer, and their
imperfect fellow–feeling lends him some assistance in
supporting his misery. Before a gay assembly, a gentleman
would be more mortified to appear covered with filth and
rags than with blood and wounds. This last situation would
interest their pity; the other would provoke their laughter.
The judge who orders a criminal to be set in the pillory,
dishonours him more than if he had condemned him to the
scaffold. The great prince, who, some years ago, caned a
general officer at the head of his army, disgraced him
irrecoverably.
The punishment would have been much less had he shot him
through the body. By the laws of honour, to strike with a
cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does not, for an
obvious reason. Those slighter punishments, when inflicted
on a gentleman, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all
evils, come to be regarded among a humane and generous
people, as the most dreadful of any. With regard to persons
of that rank, therefore, they are universally laid aside,
and the law, while it takes their life upon many occasions,
respects their honour upon almost all. To scourge a person
of quality, or to set him in the pillory, upon account of
any crime whatever, is a brutality of which no European
government, except that of Russia, is capable.
10A
brave man is not rendered contemptible by being brought to
the scaffold; he is, by being set in the pillory. His
behaviour in the one situation may gain him universal esteem
and admiration. No behaviour in the other can render him
agreeable. The sympathy of the spectators supports him in
the one case, and saves him from that shame, that
consciousness that his misery is felt by himself only, which
is of all sentiments the most unsupportable. There is no
sympathy in the other; or, if there is any, it is not with
his pain, which is a trifle, but with his consciousness of
the want of sympathy with which this pain is attended. It is
with his shame, not with his sorrow. Those who pity him,
blush and hang down their heads for him. He droops in the
same manner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the
punishment, though not by the crime. The man, on the
contrary, who dies with resolution, as he is naturally
regarded with the erect aspect of esteem and approbation, so
he wears himself the same undaunted countenance; and, if the
crime does not deprive him of the respect of others, the
punishment never will. He has no suspicion that his
situation is the object of contempt or derision to any body,
and he can, with propriety, assume the air, not only of
perfect serenity, but of triumph and exultation.
11‘Great
dangers,’ says the Cardinal de Retz, ‘have their charms,
because there is some glory to be got, even when we
miscarry. But moderate dangers have nothing but what is
horrible, because the loss of reputation always attends the
want of success.’
His maxim has the same foundation with what we have been
just now observing with regard to punishments.
12Human
virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, and to
death; nor does it even require its utmost efforts do
despise them. But to have its misery exposed to insult and
derision, to be led in triumph, to be set up for the hand of
scorn to point at, is a situation in which its constancy is
much more apt to fail. Compared with the contempt of
mankind, all other
evils are easily
supported.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of the corruption
of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this
disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise
or neglect persons of poor and mean condition
1This
disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich and
the powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to neglect
persons of poor and mean condition, though necessary both to
establish and to maintain the distinction of ranks and the
order of society, is, at the same time, the great and most
universal cause of the corruption of our moral sentiments.
That wealth and greatness are often regarded with the
respect and admiration which are due only to wisdom and
virtue; and that the contempt, of which vice and folly are
the only proper objects, is often most unjustly bestowed
upon poverty and weakness, has been the complaint of
moralists in all ages.
2We
desire both to be respectable and to be respected. We dread
both to be contemptible and to be contemned. But, upon
coming into the world, we soon find that wisdom and virtue
are by no means the sole objects of respect; nor vice and
folly, of contempt. We frequently see the respectful
attentions of the world more strongly directed towards the
rich and the great, than towards the wise and the virtuous.
We see frequently the vices and follies of the powerful much
less despised than the poverty and weakness of the innocent.
To deserve, to acquire, and to enjoy the respect and
admiration of mankind, are the great objects of ambition and
emulation. Two different roads are presented to us, equally
leading to the attainment of this so much desired object;
the one, by the study of wisdom and the practice of virtue;
the other, by the acquisition of wealth and greatness. Two
different characters are presented to our emulation; the
one, of proud ambition and ostentatious avidity; the other,
of humble modesty and equitable justice. Two different
models, two different pictures, are held out to us,
according to which we may fashion our own character and
behaviour; the one more gaudy and glittering in its
colouring; the other more correct and more exquisitely
beautiful in its outline: the one forcing itself upon the
notice of every wandering eye; the other, attracting the
attention of scarce any body but the most studious and
careful observer. They are the wise and the virtuous
chiefly, a select, though, I am afraid, but a small party,
who are the real and steady admirers of wisdom and virtue.
The great mob of mankind are the admirers and worshippers,
and, what may seem more extraordinary, most frequently the
disinterested admirers and worshippers, of wealth and
greatness.
3The
respect which we feel for wisdom and virtue is, no doubt,
different from that which we conceive for wealth and
greatness; and it requires no very nice discernment to
distinguish the difference. But, notwithstanding this
difference, those sentiments bear a very considerable
resemblance to one another. In some particular features they
are, no doubt, different, but, in the general air of the
countenance, they seem to be so very nearly the same, that
inattentive observers are very apt to mistake the one for
the other.
4In
equal degrees of merit there is scarce any man who does not
respect more the rich and the great, than the poor and the
humble. With most men the presumption and vanity of the
former are much more admired, than the real and solid merit
of the latter. It is scarce agreeable to good morals, or
even to good language, perhaps, to say, that mere wealth and
greatness, abstracted from merit and virtue, deserve our
respect. We must acknowledge, however, that they almost
constantly obtain it; and that they may, therefore, be
considered as, in some respects, the natural objects of it.
Those exalted stations may, no doubt, be completely degraded
by vice and folly. But the vice and folly must be very
great, before they can operate this complete degradation.
The profligacy of a man of fashion is looked upon with much
less contempt and aversion, than that of a man of meaner
condition. In the latter, a single transgression of the
rules of temperance and propriety, is commonly more
resented, than the constant and avowed contempt of them ever
is in the former.
5In
the middling and inferior stations of life, the road to
virtue and that to fortune, to such fortune, at least, as
men in such stations can reasonably expect to acquire, are,
happily in most cases, very nearly the same. In all the
middling and inferior professions, real and solid
professional abilities, joined to prudent, just, firm, and
temperate conduct, can very seldom fail of success.
Abilities will even sometimes prevail where the conduct is
by no means correct. Either habitual imprudence, however, or
injustice, or weakness, or profligacy, will always cloud,
and sometimes depress altogether, the most splendid
professional abilities. Men in the inferior and middling
stations of life, besides, can never be great enough to be
above the law, which must generally overawe them into some
sort of respect for, at least, the more important rules of
justice. The success of such people, too, almost always
depends upon the favour and good opinion of their neighbours
and equals; and without a tolerably regular conduct these
can very seldom be obtained. The good old proverb,
therefore, That honesty is the best policy, holds, in such
situations, almost always perfectly true. In such
situations, therefore, we may generally expect a
considerable degree of virtue; and, fortunately for the good
morals of society, these are the situations of by far the
greater part of mankind.
6In
the superior stations of life the case is unhappily not
always the same. In the courts of princes, in the
drawing–rooms of the great, where success and preferment
depend, not upon the esteem of intelligent and wellinformed
equals, but upon the fanciful and foolish favour of
ignorant, presumptuous, and proud superiors; flattery and
falsehood too often prevail over merit and abilities. In
such societies the abilities to please, are more regarded
than the abilities to serve. In quiet and peaceable times,
when the storm is at a distance, the prince, or great man,
wishes only to be amused, and is even apt to fancy that he
has scarce any occasion for the service of any body, or that
those who amuse him are sufficiently able to serve him. The
external graces, the frivolous accomplishments of that
impertinent and foolish thing called a man of fashion, are
commonly more admired than the solid and masculine virtues
of a warrior, a statesman, a philosopher, or a legislator.
All the great and awful virtues, all the virtues which can
fit, either for the council, the senate, or the field, are,
by the insolent and insignificant flatterers, who commonly
figure the most in such corrupted societies, held in the
utmost contempt and derision. When the duke of Sully was
called upon by Lewis the Thirteenth, to give his advice in
some great emergency, he observed the favourites and
courtiers whispering to one another, and smiling at his
unfashionable appearance. ‘Whenever your majesty’s father,’
said the old warrior and statesman, ‘did me the honour to
consult me, he ordered the buffoons of the court to retire
into the antechamber.’
7It
is from our disposition to admire, and consequently to
imitate, the rich and the great, that they are enabled to
set, or to lead what is called the fashion. Their dress is
the fashionable dress; the language of their conversation,
the fashionable style; their air and deportment, the
fashionable behaviour. Even their vices and follies are
fashionable; and the greater part of men are proud to
imitate and resemble them in the very qualities which
dishonour and degrade them. Vain men often give themselves
airs of a fashionable profligacy, which, in their hearts,
they do not approve of, and of which, perhaps, they are
really not guilty. They desire to be praised for what they
themselves do not think praise–worthy, and are ashamed of
unfashionable virtues which they sometimes practise in
secret, and for which they have secretly some degree of real
veneration. There are hypocrites of wealth and greatness, as
well as of religion and virtue; and a vain man is as apt to
pretend to be what he is not, in the one way, as a cunning
man is in the other. He assumes the equipage and splendid
way of living of his superiors, without considering that
whatever may be praise–worthy in any of these, derives its
whole merit and propriety from its suitableness to that
situation and fortune which both require and can easily
support the expence. Many a poor man places his glory in
being thought rich, without considering that the duties (if
one may call such follies by so very venerable a name) which
that reputation imposes upon him, must soon reduce him to
beggary, and render his situation still more unlike that of
those whom he admires and imitates, than it had been
originally.
8To
attain to this envied situation, the candidates for fortune
too frequently abandon the paths of virtue; for unhappily,
the road which leads to the one, and that which leads to the
other, lie sometimes in very opposite directions. But the
ambitious man flatters himself that, in the splendid
situation to which he advances, he will have so many means
of commanding the respect and admiration of mankind, and
will be enabled to act with such superior propriety and
grace, that the lustre of his future conduct will entirely
cover, or efface, the foulness of the steps by which he
arrived at that elevation. In many governments the
candidates for the highest stations are above the law; and,
if they can attain the object of their ambition, they have
no fear of being called to account for the means by which
they acquired it. They often endeavour, therefore, not only
by fraud and falsehood, the ordinary and vulgar arts of
intrigue and cabal; but sometimes by the perpetration of the
most enormous crimes, by murder and assassination, by
rebellion and civil war, to supplant and destroy those who
oppose or stand in the way of their greatness. They more
frequently miscarry than succeed; and commonly gain nothing
but the disgraceful punishment which is due to their crimes.
But, though they should be so lucky as to attain that
wished–for greatness, they are always most miserably
disappointed in the happiness which they expect to enjoy in
it. It is not ease or pleasure, but always honour, of one
kind or another, though frequently an honour very ill
understood, that the ambitious man really pursues. But the
honour of his exalted station appears, both in his own eyes
and in those of other people, polluted and defiled by the
baseness of the means through which he rose to it. Though by
the profusion of every liberal expence; though by excessive
indulgence in every profligate pleasure, the wretched, but
usual, resource of ruined characters; though by the hurry of
public business, or by the prouder and more dazzling tumult
of war, he may endeavour to efface, both from his own memory
and from that of other people, the remembrance of what he
has done; that remembrance never fails to pursue him. He
invokes in vain the dark and dismal powers of forgetfulness
and oblivion. He remembers himself what he has done, and
that remembrance tells him that other people must likewise
remember it. Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most
ostentatious greatness; amidst the venal and vile adulation
of the great and of the learned; amidst the more innocent,
though more foolish, acclamations of the common people;
amidst all the pride of conquest and the triumph of
successful war, he is still secretly pursued by the avenging
furies of shame and remorse; and, while glory seems to
surround him on all sides, he himself, in his own
imagination, sees black and foul infamy fast pursuing him,
and every moment ready to overtake him from behind. Even the
great Caesar, though he had the magnanimity to dismiss his
guards, could not dismiss his suspicions. The remembrance of
Pharsalia still haunted and pursued him. When, at the
request of the senate, he had the generosity to pardon
Marcellus, he told that assembly, that he was not unaware of
the designs which were carrying on against his life; but
that, as he had lived long enough both for nature and for
glory, he was contented to die, and therefore despised all
conspiracies.
He had, perhaps, lived long enough for nature. But the man
who felt himself the object of such deadly resentment, from
those whose favour he wished to gain, and whom he still
wished to consider as his friends, had certainly lived too
long for real glory; or for all the happiness which he could
ever hope to enjoy in the love and esteem of his equals.
[Back to Table of Contents]
PART II
Of Merit
and Demerit; or, of the Objects of
Reward and
Punishment
Consisting of Three Sections
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION I
Of the Sense
of Merit and
Demerit
[Back to Table of Contents]
introduction
1There
is another set of qualities ascribed to the actions and
conduct of mankind, distinct from their propriety or
impropriety, their decency or ungracefulness, and which are
the objects of a distinct species of approbation and
disapprobation. These are Merit and Demerit, the qualities
of deserving reward, and of deserving punishment.
2It
has already been observed,
that the sentiment or affection of the heart, from which any
action proceeds, and upon which its whole virtue or vice
depends, may be considered under two different aspects, or
in two different relations: first, in relation to the cause
or object which excites it; and, secondly, in relation to
the end which it proposes, or to the effect which it tends
to produce: that upon the suitableness or unsuitableness,
upon the proportion or disproportion, which the affection
seems to bear to the cause or object which excites it,
depends the propriety or impropriety, the decency or
ungracefulness of the consequent action; and that upon the
beneficial or hurtful effects which the affection proposes
or tends to produce, depends the merit or demerit, the good
or ill desert of the action to which it gives occasion.
Wherein consists our sense of the propriety or impropriety
of actions, has been explained in the former part of this
discourse. We come now to consider, wherein consists that of
their good or ill desert.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
That whatever
appears to be the proper object of gratitude, appears to
deserve reward; and that, in the same manner, whatever
appears to be the proper object of resentment, appears to
deserve punishment
1To
us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward,
which appears to be the proper and approved object of that
sentiment, which most immediately and directly prompts us to
reward, or to do good to another. And in the same manner,
that action must appear to deserve punishment, which appears
to be the proper and approved object of that sentiment which
most immediately and directly prompts us to punish, or to
inflict evil upon another.
2The
sentiment which most immediately and directly prompts us to
reward, is gratitude; that which most immediately and
directly prompts us to punish, is resentment.
3To
us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward,
which appears to be the proper and approved object of
gratitude; as, on the other hand, that action must appear to
deserve punishment, which appears to be the proper and
approved object of resentment.
4To
reward, is to recompense, to remunerate, to return good for
good received. To punish, too, is to recompense, to
remunerate, though in a different manner; it is to return
evil for evil that has been done.
5There
are some other passions, besides gratitude and resentment,
which interest us in the happiness or misery of others; but
there are none which so directly excite us to be the
instruments of either. The love and esteem which grow upon
acquaintance and habitual approbation, necessarily lead us
to be pleased with the good fortune of the man who is the
object of such agreeable emotions, and consequently, to be
willing to lend a hand to promote it. Our love, however, is
fully satisfied, though his good fortune should be brought
about without our assistance. All that this passion desires
is to see him happy, without regarding who was the author of
his prosperity. But gratitude is not to be satisfied in this
manner. If the person to whom we owe many obligations, is
made happy without our assistance, though it pleases our
love, it does not content our gratitude. Till we have
recompensed him, till we ourselves have been instrumental in
promoting his happiness, we feel ourselves still loaded with
that debt which his past services have laid upon us.
6The
hatred and dislike, in the same manner, which grow upon
habitual disapprobation, would often lead us to take a
malicious pleasure in the misfortune of the man whose
conduct and character excite so painful a passion. But
though dislike and hatred harden us against all sympathy,
and sometimes dispose us even to rejoice at the distress of
another, yet, if there is no resentment in the case, if
neither we nor our friends have received any great personal
provocation, these passions would not naturally lead us to
wish to be instrumental in bringing it about. Though we
could fear no punishment in consequence of our having had
some hand in it, we would rather that it should happen by
other means. To one under the dominion of violent hatred it
would be agreeable, perhaps, to hear, that the person whom
he abhorred and detested was killed by some accident. But if
he had the least spark of justice, which, though this
passion is not very favourable to virtue, he might still
have, it would hurt him excessively to have been himself,
even without design, the occasion of this misfortune. Much
more would the very thought of voluntarily contributing to
it shock him beyond all measure. He would reject with horror
even the imagination of so execrable a design; and if he
could imagine himself capable of such an enormity, he would
begin to regard himself in the same odious light in which he
had considered the person who was the object of his dislike.
But it is quite otherwise with resentment: if the person who
had done us some great injury, who had murdered our father
or our brother, for example, should soon afterwards die of a
fever, or even be brought to the scaffold upon account of
some other crime, though it might sooth our hatred, it would
not fully gratify our resentment. Resentment would prompt us
to desire, not only that he should be punished, but that he
should be punished by our means, and upon account of that
particular injury which he had done to us. Resentment cannot
be fully gratified, unless the offender is not only made to
grieve in his turn, but to grieve for that particular wrong
which we have suffered from him. He must be made to repent
and be sorry for this very action, that others, through fear
of the like punishment, may be terrified from being guilty
of the like offence. The natural gratification of this
passion tends, of its own accord, to produce all the
political ends of punishment; the correction of the
criminal, and the example to the public.
7Gratitude
and resentment, therefore, are the sentiments which most
immediately and directly prompt to reward and to punish. To
us, therefore, he must appear to deserve reward, who appears
to be the proper and approved object of gratitude; and he to
deserve punishment, who appears to be that of resentment.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of the proper
objects of gratitude and resentment
1To
be the proper and approved object either of gratitude or
resentment, can mean nothing but to be the object of that
gratitude, and of that resentment, which naturally seems
proper, and is approved of.
2But
these, as well as all the other passions of human nature,
seem proper and are approved of, when the heart of every
impartial spectator entirely sympathizes with them, when
every indifferent by–stander entirely enters into, and goes
along with them.
3He,
therefore, appears to deserve reward, who, to some person or
persons, is the natural object of a gratitude which every
human heart is disposed to beat time to, and thereby
applaud: and he, on the other hand, appears to deserve
punishment, who in the same manner is to some person or
persons the natural object of a resentment which the breast
of every reasonable man is ready to adopt and sympathize
with. To us, surely, that action must appear to deserve
reward, which every body who knows of it would wish to
reward, and therefore delights to see rewarded: and that
action must as surely appear to deserve punishment, which
every body who hears of it is angry with, and upon that
account rejoices to see punished.
41.
As we sympathize with the joy of our companions when
in prosperity, so we join with them in the complacency and
satisfaction with which they naturally regard whatever is
the cause of their good fortune. We enter into the love and
affection which they conceive for it, and begin to love it
too. We should be sorry for their sakes if it was destroyed,
or even if it was placed at too great a distance from them,
and out of the reach of their care and protection, though
they should lose nothing by its absence except the pleasure
of seeing it. If it is man who has thus been the fortunate
instrument of the happiness of his brethren, this is still
more peculiarly the case. When we see one man assisted,
protected, relieved by another, our sympathy with the joy of
the person who receives the benefit serves only to animate
our fellow–feeling with his gratitude towards him who
bestows it. When we look upon the person who is the cause of
his pleasure with the eyes with which we imagine he must
look upon him, his benefactor seems to stand before us in
the most engaging and amiable light. We readily therefore
sympathize with the grateful affection which he conceives
for a person to whom he has been so much obliged; and
consequently applaud the returns which he is disposed to
make for the good offices conferred upon him. As we entirely
enter into the affection from which these returns proceed,
they necessarily seem every way proper and suitable to their
object.
52.
In the same manner, as we sympathize with the sorrow
of our fellow–creature whenever we see his distress, so we
likewise enter into his abhorrence and aversion for whatever
has given occasion to it. Our heart, as it adopts and beats
time to his grief, so is it likewise animated with that
spirit by which he endeavours to drive away or destroy the
cause of it. The indolent and passive fellow–feeling, by
which we accompany him in his sufferings, readily gives way
to that more vigorous and active sentiment by which we go
along with him in the effort he makes, either to repel them,
or to gratify his aversion to what has given occasion to
them. This is still more peculiarly the case, when it is man
who has caused them. When we see one man oppressed or
injured by another, the sympathy which we feel with the
distress of the sufferer seems to serve only to animate our
fellow–feeling with his resentment against the offender. We
are rejoiced to see him attack his adversary in his turn,
and are eager and ready to assist him whenever he exerts
himself for defence, or even for vengeance within a certain
degree. If the injured should perish in the quarrel, we not
only sympathize with the real resentment of his friends and
relations, but with the imaginary resentment which in fancy
we lend to the dead, who is no longer capable of feeling
that or any other human sentiment. But as we put ourselves
in his situation, as we enter, as it were, into his body,
and in our imaginations, in some measure, animate anew the
deformed and mangled carcass of the slain, when we bring
home in this manner his case to our own bosoms, we feel upon
this, as upon many other occasions, an emotion which the
person principally concerned is incapable of feeling, and
which yet we feel by an illusive sympathy with him. The
sympathetic tears which we shed for that immense and
irretrievable loss, which in our fancy he appears to have
sustained, seem to be but a small part of the duty which we
owe him. The injury which he has suffered demands, we think,
a principal part of our attention. We feel that resentment
which we imagine he ought to feel, and which he would feel,
if in his cold and lifeless body there remained any
consciousness of what passes upon earth. His blood, we
think, calls aloud for vengeance. The very ashes of the dead
seem to be disturbed at the thought that his injuries are to
pass unrevenged. The horrors which are supposed to haunt the
bed of the murderer, the ghosts which, superstition
imagines, rise from their graves to demand vengeance upon
those who brought them to an untimely end, all take their
origin from this natural sympathy with the imaginary
resentment of the slain. And with regard, at least, to this
most dreadful of all crimes, Nature, antecedent to all
reflections upon the utility of punishment, has in this
manner stamped upon the human heart, in the strongest and
most indelible characters, an immediate and instinctive
approbation of the sacred and necessary law of retaliation.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
That where there is
no approbation of the conduct of the person who confers the
benefit, there is little sympathy with the gratitude of him
who receives it: and that, on the contrary, where there is
no disapprobation of the motives of the person who does the
mischief, there is no sort of sympathy with the resentment
of him who suffers it
1It
is to be observed, however, that, how beneficial soever on
the one hand, or how hurtful soever on the other, the
actions or intentions of the person who acts may have been
to the person who is, if I may say so, acted upon, yet if in
the one case there appears to have been no propriety in the
motives of the agent, if we cannot enter into the affections
which influenced his conduct, we have little sympathy with
the gratitude of the person who receives the benefit: or if,
in the other case, there appears to have been no impropriety
in the motives of the agent, if, on the contrary, the
affections which influenced his conduct are such as we must
necessarily enter into, we can have no sort of sympathy with
the resentment of the person who suffers. Little gratitude
seems due in the one case, and all sort of resentment seems
unjust in the other. The one action seems to merit little
reward, the other to deserve no punishment.
21.
First, I say,
wherever we cannot
sympathize with the affections of the agent, wherever there
seems to be no propriety in the motives which influenced his
conduct, we are less disposed to enter into the gratitude of
the person who received the benefit of his actions. A very
small return seems due to that foolish and profuse
generosity which confers the greatest benefits from the most
trivial motives, and gives an estate to a man merely because
his name and sirname happen to be the same with those of the
giver. Such services do not seem to demand any
proportionable recompense. Our contempt for the folly of the
agent hinders us from thoroughly entering into the gratitude
of the person to whom the good office has been done. His
benefactor seems unworthy of it. As when we place ourselves
in the situation of the person obliged, we feel that we
could conceive no great reverence for such a benefactor, we
easily absolve him from a great deal of that submissive
veneration and esteem which we should think due to a more
respectable character; and provided he always treats his
weak friend with kindness and humanity, we are willing to
excuse him from many attentions and regards which we should
demand to a worthier patron. Those Princes, who have heaped,
with the greatest profusion, wealth, power, and honours,
upon their favourites, have seldom excited that degree of
attachment to their persons which has often been experienced
by those who were more frugal of their favours. The
well–natured, but injudicious prodigality of James the First
of Great Britain seems to have attached nobody to his
person; and that Prince, notwithstanding his social and
harmless disposition, appears to have lived and died without
a friend. The whole gentry and nobility of England exposed
their lives and fortunes in the cause of his more frugal and
distinguishing son, notwithstanding the coldness and distant
severity of his ordinary deportment.
32.
Secondly, I say, That wherever the conduct of the
agent appears to have been entirely directed by motives and
affections which we thoroughly enter into and approve of, we
can have no sort of sympathy with the resentment of the
sufferer, how great soever the mischief which may have been
done to him. When two people quarrel, if we take part with,
and entirely adopt the resentment of one of them, it is
impossible that we should enter into that of the other. Our
sympathy with the person whose motives we go along with, and
whom therefore we look upon as in the right, cannot but
harden us against all fellow–feeling with the other, whom we
necessarily regard as in the wrong. Whatever this last,
therefore, may have suffered, while it is no more than what
we ourselves should have wished him to suffer, while it is
no more than what our own sympathetic indignation would have
prompted us to inflict upon him, it cannot either displease
or provoke us. When an inhuman murderer is brought to the
scaffold, though we have some compassion for his misery, we
can have no sort of fellow–feeling with his resentment, if
he should be so absurd as to express any against either his
prosecutor or his judge. The natural tendency of their just
indignation against so vile a criminal is indeed the most
fatal and ruinous to him. But it is impossible that we
should be displeased with the tendency of a sentiment,
which, when we bring the case home to ourselves, we feel
that we cannot avoid adopting.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iv
Recapitulation of
the foregoing chapters
11.
We do not, therefore,
thoroughly and heartily sympathize with the gratitude of one
man towards another, merely because this other has been the
cause of his good fortune, unless he has been the cause of
it from motives which we entirely go along with. Our heart
must adopt the principles of the agent, and go along with
all the affections which influenced his conduct, before it
can entirely sympathize with, and beat time to, the
gratitude of the person who has been benefited by his
actions. If in the conduct of the benefactor there appears
to have been no propriety, how beneficial soever its
effects, it does not seem to demand, or necessarily to
require, any proportionable recompense.
2But
when to the beneficent tendency of the action is joined the
propriety of the affection from which it proceeds, when we
entirely sympathize and go along with the motives of the
agent, the love which we conceive for him upon his own
account, enhances and enlivens our fellow–feeling with the
gratitude of those who owe their prosperity to his good
conduct. His actions seem then to demand, and, if I may say
so, to call aloud for a proportionable recompense. We then
entirely enter into that gratitude which prompts to bestow
it. The benefactor seems then to be the proper object of
reward, when we thus entirely sympathize with, and approve
of, that sentiment which prompts to reward him. When we
approve of, and go along with, the affection from which the
action proceeds, we must necessarily approve of the action,
and regard the person towards whom it is directed, as its
proper and suitable object.
32.
In the same manner, we cannot at all sympathize with
the resentment of one man against another, merely because
this other has been the cause of his misfortune, unless he
has been the cause of it from motives which we cannot enter
into. Before we can adopt the resentment of the sufferer, we
must disapprove of the motives of the agent, and feel that
our heart renounces all sympathy with the affections which
influenced his conduct. If there appears to have been no
impropriety in these, how fatal soever the tendency of the
action which proceeds from them to those against whom it is
directed, it does not seem to deserve any punishment, or to
be the proper object of any resentment.
4But
when to the hurtfulness of the action is joined the
impropriety of the affection from whence it proceeds, when
our heart rejects with abhorrence all fellow–feeling with
the motives of the agent, we then heartily and entirely
sympathize with the resentment of the sufferer. Such actions
seem then to deserve, and, if I may say so, to call aloud
for, a proportionable punishment; and we entirely enter
into, and thereby approve of, that resentment which prompts
to inflict it. The offender necessarily seems then to be the
proper object of punishment, when we thus entirely
sympathize with, and thereby approve of, that sentiment
which prompts to punish. In this case too, when we approve,
and go along with, the affection from which the action
proceeds, we must necessarily approve of the action, and
regard the person against whom it is directed, as its proper
and suitable object.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. v
The analysis of the
sense of Merit and Demerit
11.
As our sense, therefore, of the propriety of conduct
arises from what I shall call a direct sympathy with the
affections and motives of the person who acts, so our sense
of its merit arises from what I shall call an indirect
sympathy with the gratitude of the person who is, if I may
say so, acted upon.
2As
we cannot indeed enter thoroughly into the gratitude of the
person who receives the benefit, unless we beforehand
approve of the motives of the benefactor, so, upon this
account, the sense of merit seems to be a compounded
sentiment, and to be made up of two distinct emotions; a
direct sympathy with the sentiments of the agent, and an
indirect sympathy with the gratitude of those who receive
the benefit of his actions.
3We
may, upon many different occasions, plainly distinguish
those two different emotions combining and uniting together
in our sense of the good desert of a particular character or
action. When we read in history concerning actions of proper
and beneficent greatness of mind, how eagerly do we enter
into such designs? How much are we animated by that
high–spirited generosity which directs them? How keen are we
for their success? How grieved at their disappointment? In
imagination we become the very person whose actions are
represented to us: we transport ourselves in fancy to the
scenes of those distant and forgotten adventures, and
imagine ourselves acting the part of a Scipio or a Camillus,
a Timoleon or an Aristides.
So far our sentiments are founded upon the direct sympathy
with the person who acts. Nor is the indirect sympathy with
those who receive the benefit of such actions less sensibly
felt. Whenever we place ourselves in the situation of these
last, with what warm and affectionate fellow–feeling do we
enter into their gratitude towards those who served them so
essentially? We embrace, as it were, their benefactor along
with them. Our heart readily sympathizes with the highest
transports of their grateful affection. No honours, no
rewards, we think, can be too great for them to bestow upon
him. When they make this proper return for his services, we
heartily applaud and go along with them; but are shocked
beyond all measure, if by their conduct they appear to have
little sense of the obligations conferred upon them. Our
whole sense, in short, of the merit and good desert of such
actions, of the propriety and fitness of recompensing them,
and making the person who performed them rejoice in his
turn, arises from the sympathetic emotions of gratitude and
love, with which, when we bring home to our own breast the
situation of those principally concerned, we feel ourselves
naturally transported towards the man who could act with
such proper and noble beneficence.
42.
In the same manner as our sense of the impropriety of
conduct arises from a want of sympathy, or from a direct
antipathy to the affections and motives of the agent, so our
sense of its demerit arises from what I shall here too call
an indirect sympathy with the resentment of the sufferer.
5As
we cannot indeed enter into the resentment of the sufferer,
unless our heart beforehand disapproves the motives of the
agent, and renounces all fellow–feeling with them; so upon
this account the sense of demerit, as well as that of merit,
seems to be a compounded sentiment, and to be made up of two
distinct emotions; a direct antipathy to the sentiments of
the agent, and an indirect sympathy with the resentment of
the sufferer.
6We
may here too, upon many different occasions, plainly
distinguish those two different emotions combining and
uniting together in our sense of the ill desert of a
particular character or action. When we read in history
concerning the perfidy and cruelty of a Borgia or a Nero,
our heart rises up against the detestable sentiments which
influenced their conduct, and renounces with horror and
abomination all fellow–feeling with such execrable motives.
So far our sentiments are founded upon the direct antipathy
to the affections of the agent: and the indirect sympathy
with the resentment of the sufferers is still more sensibly
felt. When we bring home to ourselves the situation of the
persons whom those scourges of mankind insulted, murdered,
or betrayed, what indignation do we not feel against such
insolent and inhuman oppressors of the earth? Our sympathy
with the unavoidable distress of the innocent sufferers is
not more real nor more lively, than our fellow–feeling with
their just and natural resentment. The former sentiment only
heightens the latter, and the idea of their distress serves
only to inflame and blow up our animosity against those who
occasioned it. When we think of the anguish of the
sufferers, we take part with them more earnestly against
their oppressors; we enter with more eagerness into all
their schemes of vengeance, and feel ourselves every moment
wreaking, in imagination, upon such violators of the laws of
society, that punishment which our sympathetic indignation
tells us is due to their crimes. Our sense of the horror and
dreadful atrocity of such conduct, the delight which we take
in hearing that it was properly punished, the indignation
which we feel when it escapes this due retaliation, our
whole sense and feeling, in short, of its ill desert, of the
propriety and fitness of inflicting evil upon the person who
is guilty of it, and of making him grieve in his turn,
arises from the sympathetic indignation which naturally
boils up in the breast of the spectator, whenever he
thoroughly brings home to himself the case of the sufferer
.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION II
Of Justice and Beneficence
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
Comparison of those
two virtues
1Actions
of a beneficent tendency, which proceed from proper motives,
seem alone to require reward; because such alone are the
approved objects of gratitude, or excite the sympathetic
gratitude of the spectator.
2Actions
of a hurtful tendency, which proceed from improper motives,
seem alone to deserve punishment; because such alone are the
approved objects of resentment, or excite the sympathetic
resentment of the spectator.
3Beneficence
is always free, it cannot be extorted by force, the mere
want of it exposes to no punishment; because the mere want
of beneficence tends to do no real positive evil. It may
disappoint of the good which might reasonably have been
expected, and upon that account it may justly excite dislike
and disapprobation: it cannot, however, provoke any
resentment which mankind will go along with. The man who
does not recompense his benefactor, when he has it in his
power, and when his benefactor needs his assistance, is, no
doubt, guilty of the blackest ingratitude. The heart of
every impartial spectator rejects all fellow–feeling with
the selfishness of his motives, and he is the proper object
of the highest disapprobation. But still he does no positive
hurt to any body. He only does not do that good which in
propriety he ought to have done. He is the object of hatred,
a passion which is naturally excited by impropriety of
sentiment and behaviour; not of resentment, a passion which
is never properly called forth but by actions which tend to
do real and positive hurt to some particular persons. His
want of gratitude, therefore, cannot be punished. To oblige
him by force to perform what in gratitude he ought to
perform, and what every impartial spectator would approve of
him for performing, would, if possible, be still more
improper than his neglecting to perform it. His benefactor
would dishonour himself if he attempted by violence to
constrain him to gratitude, and it would be impertinent for
any third person, who was not the superior of either, to
intermeddle. But of all the duties of beneficence, those
which gratitude recommends to us approach nearest to what is
called a perfect and complete obligation. What friendship,
what generosity, what charity, would prompt us to do with
universal approbation, is still more free, and can still
less be extorted by force than the duties of gratitude. We
talk of the debt of gratitude, not of charity, or
generosity, nor even of friendship, when friendship is mere
esteem, and has not been enhanced and complicated with
gratitude for good offices.
4Resentment
seems to have been given us by nature for defence, and for
defence only. It is the safeguard of justice and the
security of innocence. It prompts us to beat off the
mischief which is attempted to be done to us, and to
retaliate that which is already done; that the offender may
be made to repent of his injustice, and that others, through
fear of the like punishment, may be terrified from being
guilty of the like offence. It must be reserved therefore
for these purposes, nor can the spectator ever go along with
it when it is exerted for any other. But the mere want of
the beneficent virtues, though it may disappoint us of the
good which might reasonably be expected, neither does, not
attempts to do, any mischief from which we can have occasion
to defend ourselves.
5There
another virtue, of
which the observance is not left to the freedom of our own
wills, which may be extorted by force, and of which the
violation exposes to resentment, and consequently to
punishment. This virtue is justice: the violation of justice
is injury: it does real and positive hurt to some particular
persons, from motives which are naturally disapproved of. It
is, therefore, the proper object of resentment, and of
punishment, which is the natural consequence of resentment.
As mankind go along with, and approve of the violence
employed to avenge the hurt which is done by injustice, so
they much more go along with, and approve of, that which is
employed to prevent and beat off the injury, and to restrain
the offender from hurting his neighbours. The person himself
who meditates an injustice is sensible of this, and feels
that force may, with the utmost propriety, be made use of,
both by the person whom he is about to injure, and by
others, either to obstruct the execution of his crime, or to
punish him when he has executed it. And upon this is founded
that remarkable distinction between justice and all the
other social virtues, which has of late been particularly
insisted upon by an author of very great and original
genius,
that we feel ourselves to be under a stricter obligation to
act according to justice, than agreeably to friendship,
charity, or generosity; that the practice of these last
mentioned virtues seems to be left in some measure to our
own choice, but that, somehow or other, we feel ourselves to
be in a peculiar manner tied, bound, and obliged to the
observation of justice. We feel, that is to say, that force
may, with the utmost propriety, and with the approbation of
all mankind, be made use of to constrain us to observe the
rules of the one, but not to follow the precepts of the
other.
6We
must always, however, carefully distinguish what is only
blamable, or the proper object of disapprobation, from what
force may be employed either to punish or to prevent. That
seems blamable which falls short of that ordinary degree of
proper beneficence which experience teaches us to expect of
every body; and on the contrary, that seems praise–worthy
which goes beyond it. The ordinary degree itself seems
neither blamable nor praise–worthy. A father, a son, a
brother, who behaves to the correspondent relation neither
better nor worse than the greater part of men commonly do,
seems properly to deserve neither praise nor blame. He who
surprises us by extraordinary and unexpected, though still
proper and suitable kindness, or on the contrary by
extraordinary and unexpected, as well as unsuitable
unkindness, seems praise–worthy in the one case, and
blamable in the other.
7Even
the most ordinary degree of kindness or beneficence,
however, cannot, among equals, be extorted by force. Among
equals each individual is naturally, and antecedent to the
institution of civil government, regarded as having a right
both to defend himself from injuries, and to exact a certain
degree of punishment for those which have been done to him.
Every generous spectator not only approves of his conduct
when he does this, but enters so far into his sentiments as
often to be willing to assist him. When one man attacks, or
robs, or attempts to murder another, all the neighbours take
the alarm, and think that they do right when they run,
either to revenge the person who has been injured, or to
defend him who is in danger of being so. But when a father
fails in the ordinary degree of parental affection towards a
son; when a son seems to want that filial reverence which
might be expected to his father; when brothers are without
the usual degree of brotherly affection; when a man shuts
his breast against compassion, and refuses to relieve the
misery of his fellow–creatures, when he can with the
greatest ease; in all these cases, though every body blames
the conduct, nobody imagines that those who might have
reason, perhaps, to expect more kindness, have any right to
extort it by force. The sufferer can only complain, and the
spectator can intermeddle no other way than by advice and
persuasion. Upon all such occasions, for equals to use force
against one another, would be thought the highest degree of
insolence and presumption.
8A
superior may, indeed, sometimes, with universal approbation,
oblige those under his jurisdiction to behave, in this
respect, with a certain degree of propriety to one another.
The laws of all civilized nations oblige parents to maintain
their children, and children to maintain their parents, and
impose upon men many other duties of beneficence. The civil
magistrate is entrusted with the power not only of
preserving the public peace by restraining injustice, but of
promoting the prosperity of the commonwealth, by
establishing good discipline, and by discouraging every sort
of vice and impropriety; he may prescribe rules, therefore,
which not only prohibit mutual injuries among
fellow–citizens, but command mutual good offices to a
certain degree. When the sovereign commands what is merely
indifferent, and what, antecedent to his orders, might have
been omitted without any blame, it becomes not only blamable
but punishable to disobey him. When he commands, therefore,
what, antecedent to any such order, could not have been
omitted without the greatest blame, it surely becomes much
more punishable to be wanting in obedience. Of all the
duties of a law–giver, however, this, perhaps, is that which
it requires the greatest delicacy and reserve to execute
with propriety and judgment. To neglect it altogether
exposes the commonwealth to many gross disorders and
shocking enormities, and to push it too far is destructive
of all liberty, security, and justice.
9Though
the mere want of beneficence seems to merit no punishment
from equals, the greater exertions of that virtue appear to
deserve the highest reward. By being productive of the
greatest good, they are the natural and approved objects of
the liveliest gratitude. Though the breach of justice, on
the contrary, exposes to punishment, the observance of the
rules of that virtue seems scarce to deserve any reward.
There is, no doubt, a propriety in the practice of justice,
and it merits, upon that account, all the approbation which
is due to propriety. But as it does no real positive good,
it is entitled to very little gratitude. Mere justice is,
upon most occasions, but a negative virtue, and only hinders
us from hurting our neighbour. The man who barely abstains
from violating either the person, or the estate, or the
reputation of his neighbours, has surely very little
positive merit. He fulfils, however, all the rules of what
is peculiarly called justice, and does every thing which his
equals can with propriety force him to do, or which they can
punish him for not doing. We may often fulfil all the rules
of justice by sitting still and doing nothing.
10As
every man doth, so shall it be done to him, and retaliation
seems to be the great law which is dictated to us by Nature.
Beneficence and generosity we think due to the generous and
beneficent. Those whose hearts never open to the feelings of
humanity, should, we think, be shut
in the same manner, from
the affections of all their fellow–creatures, and be allowed
to live in the midst of society, as in a great desert where
there is nobody to care for them, or to inquire after them.
The violator of the laws of justice ought to be made to feel
himself that evil which he has done to another; and since no
regard to the sufferings of his brethren is capable of
restraining him, he ought to be over–awed by the fear of his
own. The man who is barely innocent, who only observes the
laws of justice with regard to others, and merely abstains
from hurting his neighbours, can merit only that his
neighbours in their turn should respect his innocence, and
that the same laws should be religiously observed with
regard to him.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of the sense of
Justice, of Remorse, and of the consciousness of Merit
1There
can be no proper motive for hurting our neighbour, there can
be no incitement to do evil to another, which mankind will
go along with, except just indignation for evil which that
other has done to us. To disturb his happiness merely
because it stands in the way of our own, to take from him
what is of real use to him merely because it may be of equal
or of more use to us, or to indulge, in this manner, at the
expence of other people, the natural preference which every
man has for his own happiness above that of other people, is
what no impartial spectator can go along with. Every man is,
no doubt, by nature, first and principally recommended to
his own care; and as he is fitter to take care of himself
than of any other person, it is fit and right that it should
be so. Every man, therefore, is much more deeply interested
in whatever immediately concerns himself, than in what
concerns any other man: and to hear, perhaps, of the death
of another person, with whom we have no particular
connexion, will give us less concern, will spoil our
stomach, or break our rest much less than a very
insignificant disaster which has befallen ourselves. But
though the ruin of our neighbour may affect us much less
than a very small misfortune of our own, we must not ruin
him to prevent that small misfortune, nor even to prevent
our own ruin. We must, here, as in all other cases, view
ourselves not so much according to that light in which we
may naturally appear to ourselves, as according to that in
which we naturally appear to others. Though every man may,
according to the proverb, be the whole world to himself, to
the rest of mankind he is a most insignificant part of it.
Though his own happiness may be of more importance to him
than that of all the world besides, to every other person it
is of no more consequence than that of any other man. Though
it may be true, therefore, that every individual, in his own
breast, naturally prefers himself to all mankind, yet he
dares not look mankind in the face, and avow that he acts
according to this principle. He feels that in this
preference they can never go along with him, and that how
natural soever it may be to him, it must always appear
excessive and extravagant to them. When he views himself in
the light in which he is conscious that others will view
him, he sees that to them he is but one of the multitude in
no respect better than any other in it. If he would act so
as that the impartial spectator may enter into the
principles of his conduct, which is what of all things he
has the greatest desire to do, he must, upon this, as upon
all other occasions, humble the arrogance of his self–love,
and bring it down to something which other men can go along
with. They will indulge it so far as to allow him to be more
anxious about, and to pursue with more earnest assiduity,
his own happiness than that of any other person. Thus far,
whenever they place themselves in his situation, they will
readily go along with him. In the race for wealth, and
honours, and preferments, he may run as hard as he can, and
strain every nerve and every muscle, in order to outstrip
all his competitors. But if he should justle, or throw down
any of them, the indulgence of the spectators is entirely at
an end. It is a violation of fair play, which they cannot
admit of. This man is to them, in every respect, as good as
he: they do not enter into that self–love by which he
prefers himself so much to this other, and cannot go along
with the motive from which he hurt him. They readily,
therefore, sympathize with the natural resentment of the
injured, and the offender becomes the object of their hatred
and indignation. He is sensible that he becomes so, and
feels that those sentiments are ready to burst out from all
sides against him.
2As
the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the
resentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher; so
does likewise the sympathetic indignation of the spectator,
as well as the sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the
greatest evil which one man can inflict upon another, and
excites the highest degree of resentment in those who are
immediately connected with the slain. Murder, therefore, is
the most atrocious of all crimes which affect individuals
only, in the sight both of mankind, and of the person who
has committed it. To be deprived of that which we are
possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed of
what we have only the expectation. Breach of property,
therefore, theft and robbery, which take from us what we are
possessed of, are greater crimes than breach of contract,
which only disappoints us of what we expected. The most
sacred laws of justice, therefore, those whose violation
seems to call loudest for vengeance and punishment, are the
laws which guard the life and person of our neighbour; the
next are those which guard his property and possessions; and
last of all come those which guard what are called his
personal rights, or what is due to him from the promises of
others.
3The
violator of the more sacred laws of justice can never
reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with
regard to him, without feeling all the agonies of shame, and
horror, and consternation. When his passion is gratified,
and he begins coolly to reflect on his past conduct, he can
enter into none of the motives which influenced it. They
appear now as detestable to him as they did always to other
people. By sympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence which
other men must entertain for him, he becomes in some measure
the object of his own hatred and abhorrence. The situation
of the person, who suffered by his injustice, now calls upon
his pity. He is grieved at the thought of it; regrets the
unhappy effects of his own conduct, and feels at the same
time that they have rendered him the proper object of the
resentment and indignation of mankind, and of what is the
natural consequence of resentment, vengeance and punishment.
The thought of this perpetually haunts him, and fills him
with terror and amazement. He dares no longer look society
in the face, but imagines himself as it were rejected, and
thrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot
hope for the consolation of sympathy in this his greatest
and most dreadful distress. The remembrance of his crimes
has shut out all fellow–feeling with him from the hearts of
his fellow–creatures. The sentiments which they entertain
with regard to him, are the very thing which he is most
afraid of. Every thing seems hostile, and he would be glad
to fly to some inhospitable desert, where he might never
more behold the face of a human creature, nor read in the
countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But
solitude is still more dreadful than society. His own
thoughts can present him with nothing but what is black,
unfortunate, and disastrous, the melancholy forebodings of
incomprehensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude
drives him back into society, and he comes again into the
presence of mankind, astonished to appear before them,
loaded with shame and distracted with fear, in order to
supplicate some little protection from the countenance of
those very judges, who he knows have already all unanimously
condemned him. Such is the nature of that sentiment, which
is properly called remorse; of all the sentiments which can
enter the human breast the most dreadful.
It is made up of shame from the sense of the impropriety of
past conduct; of grief for the effects of it; of pity for
those who suffer by it; and of the dread and terror of
punishment from the consciousness of the justly provoked
resentment of all rational creatures.
4The
opposite behaviour naturally inspires the opposite
sentiment. The man who, not from frivolous fancy, but from
proper motives, has performed a generous action, when he
looks forward to those whom he has served, feels himself to
be the natural object of their love and gratitude, and, by
sympathy with them, of the esteem and approbation of all
mankind. And when he looks backward to the motive from which
he acted, and surveys it in the light in which the
indifferent spectator will survey it, he still continues to
enter into it, and applauds himself by sympathy with the
approbation of this supposed impartial judge. In both these
points of view his own conduct appears to him every way
agreeable. His mind, at the thought of it, is filled with
cheerfulness, serenity, and composure. He is in friendship
and harmony with all mankind, and looks upon his
fellow–creatures with confidence and benevolent
satisfaction, secure that he has rendered himself worthy of
their most favourable regards. In the combination of all
these sentiments consists the consciousness of merit, or of
deserved reward.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of the utility of
this constitution of Nature
1It
is thus that man, who can subsist only in society, was
fitted by nature to that situation for which he was made.
All the members of human society stand in need of each
others assistance, and are likewise exposed to mutual
injuries. Where the necessary assistance is reciprocally
afforded from love, from gratitude, from friendship, and
esteem, the society flourishes and is happy. All the
different members of it are bound together by the agreeable
bands of love and affection, and are, as it were, drawn to
one common centre of mutual good offices.
2But
though the necessary assistance should not be afforded from
such generous and disinterested motives, though among the
different members of the society there should be no mutual
love and affection, the society, though less happy and
agreeable, will not necessarily be dissolved. Society may
subsist among different men, as among different merchants,
from a sense of its utility, without any mutual love or
affection; and though no man in it should owe any
obligation, or be bound in gratitude to any other, it may
still be upheld by a mercenary exchange of good offices
according to an agreed valuation.
3Society,
however, cannot subsist among those who are at all times
ready to hurt and injure one another. The moment that injury
begins, the moment that mutual resentment and animosity take
place, all the bands of it are broke asunder, and the
different members of which it consisted are, as it were,
dissipated and scattered abroad by the violence and
opposition of their discordant affections. If there is any
society among robbers and murderers, they must at least,
according to the trite observation, abstain from robbing and
murdering one another. Beneficence, therefore, is less
essential to the existence of society than justice. Society
may subsist, though not in the most comfortable state,
without beneficence; but the prevalence of injustice must
utterly destroy it.
4Though
Nature, therefore, exhorts mankind to acts of beneficence,
by the pleasing consciousness of deserved reward, she has
not thought it necessary to guard and enforce the practice
of it by the terrors of merited punishment in case it should
be neglected. It is the ornament which embellishes, not the
foundation which supports the building, and which it was,
therefore, sufficient to recommend, but by no means
necessary to impose. Justice, on the contrary, is the main
pillar that upholds the whole edifice. If it is removed, the
great, the immense fabric of human society, that fabric
which to raise and support seems in this world, if I may say
so, to have been the peculiar and darling care of Nature,
must in a moment crumble into atoms. In order to enforce the
observation of justice, therefore, Nature has implanted in
the human breast that consciousness of illdesert, those
terrors of merited punishment which attend upon its
violation, as the great safe–guards of the association of
mankind, to protect the weak, to curb the violent, and to
chastise the guilty. Men, though naturally sympathetic, feel
so little for another, with whom they have no particular
connexion, in comparison of what they feel for themselves;
the misery of one, who is merely their fellow–creature, is
of so little importance to them in comparison even of a
small conveniency of their own; they have it so much in
their power to hurt him, and may have so many temptations to
do so, that if this principle did not stand up within them
in his defence, and overawe them into a respect for his
innocence, they would, like wild beasts, be at all times
ready to fly upon him; and a man would enter an assembly of
men as he enters a den of lions.
5In
every part of the universe we observe means adjusted with
the nicest artifice to the ends which they are intended to
produce; and in the mechanism of a plant, or animal body,
admire how every thing is contrived for advancing the two
great purposes of nature, the support of the individual, and
the propagation of the species. But in these, and in all
such objects, we still distinguish the efficient from the
final cause of their several motions and organizations. The
digestion of the food, the circulation of the blood, and the
secretion of the several juices which are drawn from it, are
operations all of them necessary for the great purposes of
animal life. Yet we never endeavour to account for them from
those purposes as from their efficient causes, nor imagine
that the blood circulates, or that the food digests of its
own accord, and with a view or intention to the purposes of
circulation or digestion. The wheels of the watch are all
admirably adjusted to the end for which it was made, the
pointing of the hour. All their various motions conspire in
the nicest manner to produce this effect. If they were
endowed with a desire and intention to produce it, they
could not do it better. Yet we never ascribe any such desire
or intention to them, but to the watch–maker, and we know
that they are put into motion by a spring, which intends the
effect it produces as little as they do. But though, in
accounting for the operations of bodies, we never fail to
distinguish in this manner the efficient from the final
cause, in accounting for those of the mind we are very apt
to confound these two different things with one another.
When by natural principles we are led to advance those ends,
which a refined and enlightened reason would recommend to
us, we are very apt to impute to that reason, as to their
efficient cause, the sentiments and actions by which we
advance those ends, and to imagine that to be the wisdom of
man, which in reality is the wisdom of God. Upon a
superficial view, this cause seems sufficient to produce the
effects which are ascribed to it; and the system of human
nature seems to be more simple and agreeable when all its
different operations are in this manner deduced from a
single principle.
6As
society cannot subsist unless the laws of justice are
tolerably observed, as no social intercourse can take place
among men who do not generally abstain from injuring one
another; the consideration of this necessity, it has been
thought, was the ground upon which we approved of the
enforcement of the laws of justice by the punishment of
those who violated them.
Man, it has been said, has a natural love for society, and
desires that the union of mankind should be preserved for
its own sake, and though he himself was to derive no benefit
from it. The orderly and flourishing state of society is
agreeable to him, and he takes delight in contemplating it.
Its disorder and confusion, on the contrary, is the object
of his aversion, and he is chagrined at whatever tends to
produce it. He is sensible too that his own interest is
connected with the prosperity of society, and that the
happiness, perhaps the preservation of his existence,
depends upon its preservation. Upon every account,
therefore, he has an abhorrence at whatever can tend to
destroy society, and is willing to make use of every means,
which can hinder so hated and so dreadful an event.
Injustice necessarily tends to destroy it. Every appearance
of injustice, therefore, alarms him, and he runs, if I may
say so, to stop the progress of what, if allowed to go on,
would quickly put an end to every thing that is dear to him.
If he cannot restrain it by gentle and fair means, he must
it down by force and
violence, and at any rate must put a stop to its further
progress. Hence it is, they say, that he often approves of
the enforcement of the laws of justice even by the capital
punishment of those who violate them. The disturber of the
public peace is hereby removed out of the world, and others
are terrified by his fate from imitating his example.
7Such
is the account commonly given of our approbation of the
punishment of injustice. And so far this account is
undoubtedly true, that we frequently have occasion to
confirm our natural sense of the propriety and fitness of
punishment, by reflecting how necessary it is for preserving
the order of society. When the guilty is about to suffer
that just retaliation, which the natural indignation of
mankind tells them is due to his crimes; when the insolence
of his injustice is broken and humbled by the terror of his
approaching punishment; when he ceases to be an object of
fear, with the generous and humane he begins to be an object
of pity. The thought of what he is about to suffer
extinguishes their resentment for the sufferings of others
to which he has given occasion. They are disposed to pardon
and forgive him, and to save him from that punishment, which
in all their cool hours they had considered as the
retribution due to such crimes. Here, therefore, they have
occasion to call to their assistance the consideration of
the general interest of society. They counterbalance the
impulse of this weak and partial humanity by the dictates of
a humanity that is more generous and comprehensive. They
reflect that mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent,
and oppose to the emotions of compassion which they feel for
a particular person, a more enlarged compassion which they
feel for mankind.
8Sometimes
too we have occasion to defend the propriety of observing
the general rules of justice by the consideration of their
necessity to the support of society. We frequently hear the
young and the licentious ridiculing the most sacred rules of
morality, and professing, sometimes from the corruption, but
more frequently from the vanity of their hearts, the most
abominable maxims of conduct. Our indignation rouses, and we
are eager to refute and expose such detestable principles.
But though it is their intrinsic hatefulness and
detestableness, which originally inflames us against them,
we are unwilling to assign this as the sole reason why we
condemn them, or to pretend that it is merely because we
ourselves hate and detest them. The reason, we think, would
not appear to be conclusive. Yet why should it not; if we
hate and detest them because they are the natural and proper
objects of hatred and detestation? But when we are asked why
we should not act in such or such a manner, the very
question seems to suppose that, to those who ask it, this
manner of acting does not appear to be for its own sake the
natural and proper object of those sentiments. We must show
them, therefore, that it ought to be so for the sake of
something else. Upon this account we generally cast about
for other arguments, and the consideration which first
occurs to us, is the disorder and confusion of society which
would result from the universal prevalence of such
practices. We seldom fail, therefore, to insist upon this
topic.
9But
though it commonly requires no great discernment to see the
destructive tendency of all licentious practices to the
welfare of society, it is seldom this consideration which
first animates us against them. All men, even the most
stupid and unthinking, abhor fraud, perfidy, and injustice,
and delight to see them punished. But few men have reflected
upon the necessity of justice to the existence of society,
how obvious soever that necessity may appear to be.
10That
it is not a regard to the preservation of society, which
originally interests us in the punishment of crimes
committed against individuals, may be demonstrated by many
obvious considerations. The concern which we take in the
fortune and happiness of individuals does not, in common
cases, arise from that which we take in the fortune and
happiness of society. We are no more concerned for the
destruction or loss of a single man, because this man is a
member or part of society, and because we should be
concerned for the destruction of society, than we are
concerned for the loss of a single guinea, because this
guinea is a part of a thousand guineas, and because we
should be concerned for the loss of the whole sum. In
neither case does our regard for the individuals arise from
our regard for the multitude: but in both cases our regard
for the multitude is compounded and made up of the
particular regards which we feel for the different
individuals of which it is composed. As when a small sum is
unjustly taken from us, we do not so much prosecute the
injury from a regard to the preservation of our whole
fortune, as from a regard to that particular sum which we
have lost; so when a single man is injured, or destroyed, we
demand the punishment of the wrong that has been done to
him, not so much from a concern for the general interest of
society, as from a concern for that very individual who has
been injured. It is to be observed, however, that this
concern does not necessarily include in it any degree of
those exquisite sentiments which are commonly called love,
esteem, and affection, and by which we distinguish our
particular friends and acquaintance. The concern which is
requisite for this, is no more than the general
fellow–feeling which we have with every man merely because
he is our fellow–creature. We enter into the resentment even
of an odious person, when he is injured by those to whom he
has given no provocation. Our disapprobation of his ordinary
character and conduct does not in this case altogether
prevent our fellow–feeling with his natural indignation;
though with those who are not either extremely candid, or
who have not been accustomed to correct and regulate their
natural sentiments by general rules, it is very apt to damp
it.
11Upon
some occasions, indeed, we both punish and approve of
punishment, merely from a view to the general interest of
society, which, we imagine, cannot otherwise be secured. Of
this kind are all the punishments inflicted for breaches of
what is called either civil police, or military discipline.
Such crimes do not immediately or directly hurt any
particular person; but their remote consequences, it is
supposed, do produce, or might produce, either a
considerable inconveniency, or a great disorder in the
society. A centinel, for example, who falls asleep upon his
watch, suffers death by the laws of war, because such
carelessness might endanger the whole army. This severity
may, upon many occasions, appear necessary, and, for that
reason, just and proper. When the preservation of an
individual is inconsistent with the safety of a multitude,
nothing can be more just than that the many should be
preferred to the one. Yet this punishment, how necessary
soever, always appears to be excessively severe. The natural
atrocity of the crime seems to be so little, and the
punishment so great, that it is with great difficulty that
our heart can reconcile itself to it. Though such
carelessness appears very blamable, yet the thought of this
crime does not naturally excite any such resentment, as
would prompt us to take such dreadful revenge. A man of
humanity must recollect himself, must make an effort, and
exert his whole firmness and resolution, before he can bring
himself either to inflict it, or to go along with it when it
is inflicted by others. It is not, however, in this manner,
that he looks upon the just punishment of an ungrateful
murderer or parricide. His heart, in this case, applauds
with ardour, and even with transport, the just retaliation
which seems due to such detestable crimes, and which, if, by
any accident, they should happen to escape, he would be
highly enraged and disappointed. The very different
sentiments with which the spectator views those different
punishments, is a proof that his approbation of the one is
far from being founded upon the same principles with that of
the other. He looks upon the centinel as an unfortunate
victim, who, indeed, must, and ought to be, devoted to the
safety of numbers, but whom still, in his heart, he would be
glad to save; and he is only sorry, that the interest of the
many should oppose it. But if the murderer should escape
from punishment, it would excite his highest indignation,
and he would call upon God to avenge, in another world, that
crime which the injustice of mankind had neglected to
chastise upon earth.
12For
it well deserves to be taken notice of, that we are so far
from imagining that injustice ought to be punished in this
life, merely on account of the order of society, which
cannot otherwise be maintained, that Nature teaches us to
hope, and
us to expect, that it will be punished, even in a life to
come. Our sense of its ill desert pursues it, if I may say
so, even beyond the grave, though the example of its
punishment there cannot serve to deter the rest of mankind,
who see it not, who know it not, from being guilty of the
like practices here. The justice of God, however, we think,
still requires, that he should hereafter avenge the injuries
of the widow and the fatherless, who are here so often
insulted with impunity.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION III
Of the Influence of Fortune upon
the Sentiments of Mankind, with regard to the Merit or
Demerit of Actions
[Back to Table of Contents]
introduction
1Whatever
praise or blame can be due to any action, must belong
either, first, to the intention or affection of the heart,
from which it proceeds; or, secondly, to the external action
or movement of the body, which this affection gives occasion
to; or, lastly, to the good or bad consequences, which
actually, and in fact, proceed from it. These three
different things constitute the whole nature and
circumstances of the action, and must be the foundation of
whatever quality can belong to it.
2That
the two last of these three circumstances cannot be the
foundation of any praise or blame, is abundantly evident;
nor has the contrary ever been asserted by any body. The
external action or movement of the body is often the same in
the most innocent and in the most blameable actions. He who
shoots a bird, and he who shoots a man, both of them perform
the same external movement: each of them draws the trigger
of a gun. The consequences which actually, and in fact,
happen to proceed from any action, are, if possible, still
more indifferent either to praise or blame, than even the
external movement of the body. As they depend, not upon the
agent, but upon fortune, they cannot be the proper
foundation for any sentiment, of which his character and
conduct are the objects.
3The
only consequences for which he can be answerable, or by
which he can deserve either approbation or disapprobation of
any kind, are those which were someway or other intended, or
those which, at least, show some agreeable or disagreeable
quality in the intention of the heart, from which he acted.
To the intention or affection of the heart, therefore, to
the propriety or impropriety, to the beneficence or
hurtfulness of the design, all praise or blame, all
approbation or disapprobation, of any kind, which can justly
be bestowed upon any action, must ultimately belong.
4When
this maxim is thus proposed, in abstract and general terms,
there is nobody who does not agree to it. Its self–evident
justice is acknowledged by all the world, and there is not a
dissenting voice among all mankind. Every body allows, that
how different soever the accidental, the unintended and
unforeseen consequences of different actions, yet, if the
intentions or affections from which they arose were, on the
one hand, equally proper and equally beneficent, or, on the
other, equally improper and equally malevolent, the merit or
demerit of the actions is still the same, and the agent is
equally the suitable object either of gratitude or of
resentment.
5But
how well soever we may seem to be persuaded of the truth of
this equitable maxim, when we consider it after this manner,
in abstract, yet when we come to particular cases, the
actual consequences which happen to proceed from any action,
have a very great effect upon our sentiments concerning its
merit or demerit, and almost always either enhance or
diminish our sense of both. Scarce, in any one instance,
perhaps, will our sentiments be found, after examination, to
be entirely regulated by this rule, which we all acknowledge
ought entirely to regulate them.
6This
irregularity of sentiment, which every body feels, which
scarce any body is sufficiently aware of, and which nobody
is willing to acknowledge, I proceed now to explain; and I
shall consider, first, the cause which gives occasion to it,
or the mechanism by which nature produces it; secondly, the
extent of its influence; and, last of all, the end which it
answers, or the purpose which the Author of nature seems to
have intended by it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
Of the causes of
this Influence of Fortune
1The
causes of pain and pleasure, whatever they are, or however
they operate, seem to be the objects, which, in all animals,
immediately excite those two passions of gratitude and
resentment. They are excited by inanimated, as well as by
animated objects. We are angry, for a moment, even at the
stone that hurts us. A child beats it, a dog barks at it, a
choleric man is apt to curse it. The least reflection,
indeed, corrects this sentiment, and we soon become
sensible, that what has no feeling is a very improper object
of revenge. When the mischief, however, is very great, the
object which caused it becomes disagreeable to us ever
after, and we take pleasure to burn or destroy it. We should
treat, in this manner, the instrument which had accidentally
been the cause of the death of a friend, and we should often
think ourselves guilty of a sort of inhumanity, if we
neglected to vent this absurd sort of vengeance upon it.
2We
conceive, in the same manner, a sort of gratitude for those
inanimated objects, which have been the causes of great, or
frequent pleasure to us. The sailor, who, as soon as he got
ashore, should mend his fire with the plank upon which he
had just escaped from a shipwreck, would seem to be guilty
of an unnatural action. We should expect that he would
rather preserve it with care and affection, as a monument
that was, in some measure, dear to him. A man grows fond of
a snuff–box, of a pen–knife, of a staff which he has long
made use of, and conceives something like a real love and
affection for them. If he breaks or loses them, he is vexed
out of all proportion to the value of the damage. The house
which we have long lived in, the tree, whose verdure and
shade we have long enjoyed, are both looked upon with a sort
of respect that seems due to such benefactors. The decay of
the one, or the ruin of the other, affects us with a kind of
melancholy, though we should sustain no loss by it. The
Dryads and the Lares of the ancients, a sort of genii of
trees and houses, were probably first suggested by this sort
of affection, which the authors of those superstitions felt
for such objects, and which seemed unreasonable, if there
was nothing animated about them.
3But,
before any thing can be the proper object of gratitude or
resentment, it must not only be the cause of pleasure or
pain, it must likewise be capable of feeling them. Without
this other quality, those passions cannot vent themselves
with any sort of satisfaction upon it. As they are excited
by the causes of pleasure and pain, so their gratification
consists in retaliating those sensations upon what gave
occasion to them; which it is to no purpose to attempt upon
what has no sensibility. Animals, therefore, are less
improper objects of gratitude and resentment than inanimated
objects. The dog that bites, the ox that gores, are both of
them punished. If they have been the causes of the death of
any person, neither the public, nor the relations of the
slain, can be satisfied, unless they are put to death in
their turn: nor is this merely for the security of the
living, but, in some measure, to revenge the injury of the
dead.
Those animals, on the contrary, that have been remarkably
serviceable to their masters, become the objects of a very
lively gratitude. We are shocked at the brutality of that
officer, mentioned in the Turkish Spy, who stabbed the horse
that had carried him across an arm of the sea, lest that
animal should afterwards distinguish some other person by a
similar adventure.
4But,
though animals are not only the causes of pleasure and pain,
but are also capable of feeling those sensations, they are
still far from being complete and perfect objects, either of
gratitude or resentment; and those passions still feel, that
there is something wanting to their entire gratification.
What gratitude chiefly desires, is not only to make the
benefactor feel pleasure in his turn, but to make him
conscious that he meets with this reward on account of his
past conduct, to make him pleased with that conduct, and to
satisfy him that the person upon whom he bestowed his good
offices was not unworthy of them. What most of all charms us
in our benefactor, is the concord between his sentiments and
our own, with regard to what interests us so nearly as the
worth of our own character, and the esteem that is due to
us. We are delighted to find a person who values us as we
value ourselves, and distinguishes us from the rest of
mankind, with an attention not unlike that with which we
distinguish ourselves. To maintain in him these agreeable
and flattering sentiments, is one of the chief ends proposed
by the returns we are disposed to make to him. A generous
mind often disdains the interested thought of extorting new
favours from its benefactor, by what may be called the
importunities of its gratitude. But to preserve and to
increase his esteem, is an interest which the greatest mind
does not think unworthy of its attention. And this is the
foundation of what I formerly observed, that when we cannot
enter into the motives of our benefactor, when his conduct
and character appear unworthy of our approbation, let his
services have been ever so great, our gratitude is always
sensibly diminished. We are less flattered by the
distinction; and to preserve the esteem of so weak, or so
worthless a patron, seems to be an object which does not
deserve to be pursued for its own sake.
5The
object, on the contrary, which resentment is chiefly intent
upon, is not so much to make our enemy feel pain in his
turn, as to make him conscious that he feels it upon account
of his past conduct, to make him repent of that conduct, and
to make him sensible, that the person whom he injured did
not deserve to be treated in that manner. What chiefly
enrages us against the man who injures or insults us, is the
little account which he seems to make of us, the
unreasonable preference which he gives to himself above us,
and that absurd self–love, by which he seems to imagine,
that other people may be sacrificed at any time, to his
conveniency or his humour. The glaring impropriety of this
conduct, the gross insolence and injustice which it seems to
involve in it, often shock and exasperate us more than all
the mischief which we have suffered. To bring him back to a
more just sense of what is due to other people, to make him
sensible of what he owes us, and of the wrong that he has
done to us, is frequently the principal end proposed in our
revenge, which is always imperfect when it cannot accomplish
this. When our enemy appears to have done us no injury, when
we are sensible that he acted quite properly, that, in his
situation, we should have done the same thing, and that we
deserved from him all the mischief we met with; in that
case, if we have the least spark either of candour or
justice, we can entertain no sort of resentment.
6Before
any thing, therefore, can be the complete and proper object,
either of gratitude or resentment, it must possess three
different qualifications. First, it must be the cause of
pleasure in the one case, and of pain in the other.
Secondly, it must be capable of feeling those sensations.
And, thirdly, it must not only have produced those
sensations, but it must have produced them from design, and
from a design that is approved of in the one case, and
disapproved of in the other. It is by the first
qualification, that any object is capable of exciting those
passions: it is by the second, that it is in any respect
capable of gratifying them: the third qualification is not
only necessary for their complete satisfaction, but as it
gives a pleasure or pain that is both exquisite and
peculiar, it is likewise an additional exciting cause of
those passions.
7As
what gives pleasure or pain, either in one way or another,
is the sole exciting cause of gratitude and resentment;
though the intentions of any person should be ever so proper
and
on the one hand, or
ever so improper and malevolent on the other; yet, if he has
failed in producing either the good or the evil which he
intended, as one of the exciting causes is wanting in both
cases, less gratitude seems due to him in the one, and less
resentment in the other. And, on the contrary, though in the
intentions of any person, there was either no laudable
degree of benevolence on the one hand, or no blameable
degree of malice on the other; yet, if his actions should
produce either great good or great evil, as one of the
exciting causes takes place upon both these occasions, some
gratitude is apt to arise towards him in the one, and some
resentment in the other. A shadow of merit seems to fall
upon him in the first, a shadow of demerit in the second.
And, as the consequences of actions are altogether under the
empire of Fortune, hence arises her influence upon the
sentiments of mankind with regard to merit and demerit.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of the extent of
this Influence of Fortune
1The
effect of this influence of fortune is, first, to diminish
our sense of the merit or demerit of those actions which
arose from the most laudable or blamable intentions, when
they fail of producing their proposed effects: and,
secondly, to increase our sense of the merit or demerit of
actions, beyond what is due to the motives or affections
from which they proceed, when they accidentally give
occasion either to extraordinary pleasure or pain.
21.
First, I say, though the intentions of any person
should be ever so proper and beneficent, on the one hand, or
ever so improper and malevolent, on the other, yet, if they
fail in producing their effects, his merit seems imperfect
in the one case, and his demerit incomplete in the other.
Nor is this irregularity of sentiment felt only by those who
are immediately affected by the consequences of any action.
It is felt, in some measure, even by the impartial
spectator. The man who solicits an office for another,
without obtaining it, is regarded as his friend, and seems
to deserve his love and affection. But the man who not only
solicits, but procures it, is more peculiarly considered as
his patron and benefactor, and is entitled to his respect
and gratitude. The person obliged, we are apt to think, may,
with some justice, imagine himself on a level with the
first: but we cannot enter into his sentiments, if he does
not feel himself inferior to the second. It is common indeed
to say, that we are equally obliged to the man who has
endeavoured to serve us, as to him who actually did so. It
is the speech which we constantly make upon every
unsuccessful attempt of this kind; but which, like all other
fine speeches, must be understood with a grain of allowance.
The sentiments which a man of generosity entertains for the
friend who fails, may often indeed be nearly the same with
those which he conceives for him who succeeds: and the more
generous he is, the more nearly will those sentiments
approach to an exact level. With the truly generous, to be
beloved, to be esteemed by those whom they themselves think
worthy of esteem, gives more pleasure, and thereby excites
more gratitude, than all the advantages which they can ever
expect from those sentiments. When they lose those
advantages therefore, they seem to lose but a trifle, which
is scarce worth regarding. They still however lose
something. Their pleasure therefore, and consequently their
gratitude, is not perfectly complete: and accordingly if,
between the friend who fails and the friend who succeeds,
all other circumstances are equal, there will, even in the
noblest and the best mind, be some little difference of
affection in favour of him who succeeds. Nay, so unjust are
mankind in this respect, that though the intended benefit
should be procured, yet if it is not procured by the means
of a particular benefactor, they are apt to think that less
gratitude is due to the man, who with the best intentions in
the world could do no more than help it a little forward. As
their gratitude is in this case divided among the different
persons who contributed to their pleasure, a smaller share
of it seems due to any one. Such a person, we hear men
commonly say, intended no doubt to serve us; and we really
believe exerted himself to the utmost of his abilities for
that purpose. We are not, however, obliged to him for this
benefit; since, had it not been for the concurrence of
others, all that he could have done would never have brought
it about. This consideration, they imagine, should, even in
the eyes of the impartial spectator, diminish the debt which
they owe to him. The person himself who has unsuccessfully
endeavoured to confer a benefit, has by no means the same
dependency upon the gratitude of the man whom he meant to
oblige, nor the same sense of his own merit towards him,
which he would have had in the case of success.
3Even
the merit of talents and abilities which some accident has
hindered from producing their effects, seems in some measure
imperfect, even to those who are fully convinced of their
capacity to produce them. The general who has been hindered
by the envy of ministers from gaining some great advantage
over the enemies of his country, regrets the loss of the
opportunity for ever after. Nor is it only upon account of
the public that he regrets it. He laments that he was
hindered from performing an action which would have added a
new lustre to his character in his own eyes, as well as in
those of every other person. It satisfies neither himself
nor others to reflect that the plan or design was all that
depended on him, that no greater capacity was required to
execute it than what was necessary to concert it: that he
was allowed to be every way capable of executing it, and
that had he been permitted to go on, success was infallible.
He still did not execute it; and though he might deserve all
the approbation which is due to a magnanimous and great
design, he still wanted the actual merit of having performed
a great action. To take the management of any affair of
public concern from the man who has almost brought it to a
conclusion, is regarded as the most invidious injustice. As
he had done so much, he should, we think, have been allowed
to acquire the complete merit of putting an end to it. It
was objected to Pompey, that he came in upon the victories
of Lucullus, and gathered those laurels which were due to
the fortune and valour of another. The glory of Lucullus, it
seems, was less complete even in the opinion of his own
friends, when he was not permitted to finish that conquest
which his conduct and courage had put in the power of almost
any man to finish.
It mortifies an architect when his plans are either not
executed at all, or when they are so far altered as to spoil
the effect of the building. The plan, however, is all that
depends upon the architect. The whole of his genius is, to
good judges, as completely discovered in that as in the
actual execution. But a plan does not, even to the most
intelligent, give the same pleasure as a noble and
magnificent building. They may discover as much both of
taste and genius in the one as in the other. But their
effects are still vastly different, and the amusement
derived from the first, never approaches to the wonder and
admiration which are sometimes excited by the second. We may
believe of many men, that their talents are superior to
those of Caesar and Alexander; and that in the same
situations they would perform still greater actions. In the
mean time, however, we do not behold them with that
astonishment and admiration with which those two heroes have
been regarded in all ages and nations. The calm judgments of
the mind may approve of them more, but they want the
splendour of great actions to dazzle and transport it. The
superiority of virtues and talents has not, even upon those
who acknowledge that superiority, the same effect with the
superiority of atchievements.
4As
the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to do good seems thus,
in the eyes of ungrateful mankind, to be diminished by the
miscarriage, so does likewise the demerit of an unsuccessful
attempt to do evil. The design to commit a crime, how
clearly soever it may be proved, is scarce ever punished
with the same severity as the actual commission of it. The
case of treason is perhaps the only exception.
That crime immediately affecting the being of the government
itself, the government is naturally more jealous of it than
of any other. In the punishment of treason, the sovereign
resents the injuries which are immediately done to himself:
in the punishment of other crimes, he resents those which
are done to other men. It is his own resentment which he
indulges in the one case: it is that of his subjects which
by sympathy he enters into in the other. In the first case,
therefore, as he judges in his own cause, he is very apt to
be more violent and sanguinary in his punishments than the
impartial spectator can approve of. His resentment too rises
here upon smaller occasions, and does not always, as in
other cases, wait for the perpetration of the crime, or even
for the attempt to commit it. A treasonable concert, though
nothing has been done, or even attempted in consequence of
it, nay, a treasonable conversation, is in many countries
punished in the same manner as the actual commission of
treason. With regard to all other crimes, the mere design,
upon which no attempt has followed, is seldom punished at
all, and is never punished severely. A criminal design, and
a criminal action, it may be said indeed, do not necessarily
suppose the same degree of depravity, and ought not
therefore to be subjected to the same punishment. We are
capable, it may be said, of resolving, and even of taking
measures to execute, many things which, when it comes to the
point, we feel ourselves altogether incapable of executing.
But this reason can have no place when the design has been
carried the length of the last attempt. The man, however,
who fires a pistol at his enemy but misses him, is punished
with death by the laws of scarce any country. By the old law
of Scotland, though he should wound him, yet, unless death
ensues within a certain time, the assassin is not liable to
the last punishment.
The resentment of mankind, however, runs so high against
this crime, their terror for the man who shows himself
capable of committing it, is so great, that the mere attempt
to commit it ought in all countries to be capital. The
attempt to commit smaller crimes is almost always punished
very lightly, and sometimes is not punished at all. The
thief, whose hand has been caught in his neighbour’s pocket
before he had taken any thing out of it, is punished with
ignominy only. If he had got time to take away an
handkerchief, he would have been put to death. The
house–breaker, who has been found setting a ladder to his
neighbour’s window, but had not got into it, is not exposed
to the capital punishment. The attempt to ravish is not
punished as a rape. The attempt to seduce a married woman is
not punished at all, though seduction is punished severely.
Our resentment against the person who only attempted to do a
mischief, is seldom so strong as to bear us out in
inflicting the same punishment upon him, which we should
have thought due if he had actually done it. In the one
case, the joy of our deliverance alleviates our sense of the
atrocity of his conduct; in the other, the grief of our
misfortune increases it. His real demerit, however, is
undoubtedly the same in both cases, since his intentions
were equally criminal; and there is in this respect,
therefore, an irregularity in the sentiments of all men, and
a consequent relaxation of discipline in the laws of, I
believe, all nations, of the most civilized, as well as of
the most barbarous. The humanity of a civilized people
disposes them either to dispense with, or to mitigate
punishments wherever their natural indignation is not goaded
on by the consequences of the crime. Barbarians, on the
other hand, when no actual consequence has happened from any
action, are not apt to be very delicate or inquisitive about
the motives.
5The
person himself who either from passion, or from the
influence of bad company, has resolved, and perhaps taken
measures to perpetrate some crime, but who has fortunately
been prevented by an accident which put it out of his power,
is sure, if he has any remains of conscience, to regard this
event all his life after as a great and signal deliverance.
He can never think of it without returning thanks to Heaven
for having been thus graciously pleased to save him from the
guilt in which he was just ready to plunge himself, and to
hinder him from rendering all the rest of his life a scene
of horror, remorse, and repentance. But though his hands are
innocent, he is conscious that his heart is equally guilty
as if he had actually executed what he was so fully resolved
upon. It gives great ease to his conscience, however, to
consider that the crime was not executed, though he knows
that the failure arose from no virtue in him. He still
considers himself as less deserving of punishment and
resentment; and this good fortune either diminishes, or
takes away altogether, all sense of guilt. To remember how
much he was resolved upon it, has no other effect than to
make him regard his escape as the greater and more
miraculous: for he still fancies that he has escaped, and he
looks back upon the danger to which his peace of mind was
exposed, with that terror, with which one who is in safety
may sometimes remember the hazard he was in of falling over
a precipice, and shudder with horror at the thought.
62.
The second effect of this influence of fortune, is to
increase our sense of the merit or demerit of actions beyond
what is due to the motives or affection from which they
proceed, when they happen to give occasion to extraordinary
pleasure or pain. The agreeable or disagreeable effects of
the action often throw a shadow of merit or demerit upon the
agent, though in his intention there was nothing that
deserved either praise or blame, or at least that deserved
them in the degree in which we are apt to bestow them. Thus,
even the messenger of bad news is disagreeable to us, and,
on the contrary, we feel a sort of gratitude for the man who
brings us good tidings. For a moment we look upon them both
as the authors, the one of our good, the other of our bad
fortune, and regard them in some measure as if they had
really brought about the events which they only give an
account of. The first author of our joy is naturally the
object of a transitory gratitude: we embrace him with warmth
and affection, and should be glad, during the instant of our
prosperity, to reward him as for some signal service. By the
custom of all courts, the officer, who brings the news of a
victory, is entitled to considerable preferments, and the
general always chuses one of his principal favourites to go
upon so agreeable an errand. The first author of our sorrow
is, on the contrary, just as naturally the object of a
transitory resentment. We can scarce avoid looking upon him
with chagrin and uneasiness; and the rude and brutal are apt
to vent upon him that spleen which his intelligence gives
occasion to. Tigranes, king of Armenia, struck off the head
of the man who brought him the first account of the approach
of a formidable enemy.
To punish in this manner the author of bad tidings, seems
barbarous and inhuman: yet, to reward the messenger of good
news, is not disagreeable to us; we think it suitable to the
bounty of kings. But why do we make this difference, since,
if there is no fault in the one, neither is there any merit
in the other? It is because any sort of reason seems
sufficient to authorize the exertion of the social and
benevolent affections; but it requires the most solid and
substantial to make us enter into that of the unsocial and
malevolent.
7But
though in general we are averse to enter into the unsocial
and male–volent affections, though we lay it down for a rule
that we ought never to approve of their gratification,
unless so far as the malicious and unjust intention of the
person, against whom they are directed, renders him their
proper object; yet, upon some occasions, we relax of this
severity. When the negligence of one man has occasioned some
unintended damage to another, we generally enter so far into
the resentment of the sufferer, as to approve of his
inflicting a punishment upon the offender much beyond what
the offence would have appeared to deserve, had no such
unlucky consequence followed from it.
8There
is a degree of negligence, which would appear to deserve
some chastisement though it should occasion no damage to any
body. Thus, if a person should throw a large stone over a
wall into a public street without giving warning to those
who might be passing by, and without regarding where it was
likely to fall, he would undoubtedly deserve some
chastisement. A very accurate police would punish so absurd
an action, even though it had done no mischief. The person
who has been guilty of it, shows an insolent contempt of the
happiness and safety of others. There is real injustice in
his conduct. He wantonly exposes his neighbour to what no
man in his senses would chuse to expose himself, and
evidently wants that sense of what is due to his
fellow–creatures which is the basis of justice and of
society. Gross negligence therefore is, in the law, said to
be almost equal to malicious design
. When any unlucky consequences happen from such
carelessness, the person who has been guilty of it is often
punished as if he had really intended those consequences;
and his conduct, which was only thoughtless and insolent,
and what deserved some chastisement, is considered as
atrocious, and as liable to the severest punishment. Thus
if, by the imprudent action above–mentioned, he should
accidentally kill a man, he is, by the laws of many
countries, particularly by the old law of Scotland,
liable to the last punishment. And though this is no doubt
excessively severe, it is not altogether inconsistent with
our natural sentiments. Our just indignation against the
folly and inhumanity of his conduct is exasperated by our
sympathy with the unfortunate sufferer. Nothing, however,
would appear more shocking to our natural sense of equity,
than to bring a man to the scaffold merely for having thrown
a stone carelessly into the street without hurting any body.
The folly and inhumanity of his conduct, however, would in
this case be the same; but still our sentiments would be
very different. The consideration of this difference may
satisfy us how much the indignation, even of the spectator,
is apt to be animated by the actual consequences of the
action. In cases of this kind there will, if I am not
mistaken, be found a great degree of severity in the laws of
almost all nations; as I have already observed that in those
of an opposite kind there was a very general relaxation of
discipline.
9There
is another degree of negligence which does not involve in it
any sort of injustice. The person who is guilty of it treats
his neighbours as he treats himself, means no harm to any
body, and is far from entertaining any insolent contempt for
the safety and happiness of others. He is not, however, so
careful and circumspect in his conduct as he ought to be,
and deserves upon this account some degree of blame and
censure, but no sort of punishment. Yet
by a negligence
of this kind he should occasion some damage to another
person, he is by the laws of, I believe, all countries,
obliged to compensate it. And though this is no doubt a real
punishment, and what no mortal would have thought of
inflicting upon him, had it not been for the unlucky
accident which his conduct gave occasion to; yet this
decision of the law is approved of by the natural sentiments
of all mankind. Nothing, we think, can be more just than
that one man should not suffer by the carelessness of
another; and that the damage occasioned by blamable
negligence, should be made up by the person who was guilty
of it.
10There
is another species of negligence
, which consists merely in a want of the most anxious
timidity and circumspection, with regard to all the possible
consequences of our actions. The want of this painful
attention, when no bad consequences follow from it, is so
far from being regarded as blamable, that the contrary
quality is rather considered as such. That timid
circumspection which is afraid of every thing, is never
regarded as a virtue, but as a quality which more than any
other incapacitates for action and business. Yet when, from
a want of this excessive care, a person happens to occasion
some damage to another, he is often by the law obliged to
compensate it. Thus, by the Aquilian law, the man, who not
being able to manage a horse that had accidentally taken
fright, should happen to ride down his neighbour’s slave, is
obliged to compensate the damage.
When an accident of this kind happens, we are apt to think
that he ought not to have rode such a horse, and to regard
his attempting it as an unpardonable levity; though without
this accident we should not only have made no such
reflection, but should have regarded his refusing it as the
effect of timid weakness, and of an anxiety about merely
possible events, which it is to no purpose to be aware of.
The person himself, who by an accident even of this kind has
involuntarily hurt another, seems to have some sense of his
own ill desert, with regard to him. He naturally runs up to
the sufferer to express his concern for what has happened,
and to make every acknowledgment in his power. If he has any
sensibility, he necessarily desires to compensate the
damage, and to do every thing he can to appease that animal
resentment, which he is sensible will be apt to arise in the
breast of the sufferer. To make no apology, to offer no
atonement, is regarded as the highest brutality. Yet why
should he make an apology more than any other person? Why
should he, since he was equally innocent with any other
bystander, be thus singled out from among all mankind, to
make up for the bad fortune of another? This task would
surely never be imposed upon him, did not even the impartial
spectator feel some indulgence for what may be regarded as
the unjust resentment of that other.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of the final cause
of this Irregularity of Sentiments
1Such
is the effect of the good or bad
of actions upon the
sentiments both of the person who performs them, and of
others; and thus, Fortune, which governs the world, has some
influence where we should be least willing to allow her any,
and directs in some measure the sentiments of mankind, with
regard to the character and conduct both of themselves and
others. That the world judges by the event, and not by the
design, has been in all ages the complaint, and is the great
discouragement of virtue. Every body agrees to the general
maxim, that as the event does not depend on the agent, it
ought to have no influence upon our sentiments, with regard
to the merit or propriety of his conduct. But when we come
to particulars, we find that our sentiments are scarce in
any one instance exactly conformable to what this equitable
maxim would direct. The happy or unprosperous event of any
action, is not only apt to give us a good or bad opinion of
the prudence with which it was conducted, but almost always
too animates our gratitude or resentment, our sense of the
merit or demerit of the design.
2Nature,
however, when she implanted the seeds of this irregularity
in the human breast, seems, as upon all other occasions, to
have intended the happiness and perfection of the species.
If the hurtfulness of the design, if the malevolence of the
affection, were alone the causes which excited our
resentment, we should feel all the furies of that passion
against any person in whose breast we suspected or believed
such designs or affections were harboured, though they had
never broke out into any
Sentiments, thoughts,
intentions, would become the objects of punishment; and if
the indignation of mankind run as high against them as
against actions; if the baseness of the thought which had
given birth to no action, seemed in the eyes of the world as
much to call aloud for vengeance as the baseness of the
action, every court of judicature would become a real
inquisition. There would be no safety for the most innocent
and circumspect conduct. Bad wishes, bad views, bad designs,
might still be suspected; and while these excited the same
indignation with bad conduct, while bad intentions were as
much resented as bad actions, they would equally expose the
person to punishment and resentment. Actions, therefore,
which either produce actual evil, or attempt to produce it,
and thereby put us in the immediate fear of it, are by the
Author of nature rendered the only proper and approved
objects of human punishment and resentment. Sentiments,
designs, affections, though it is from these that according
to cool reason human actions derive their whole merit or
demerit, are placed by the great Judge of hearts beyond the
limits of every human jurisdiction, and are reserved for the
cognizance of his own unerring tribunal. That necessary rule
of justice, therefore, that men in this life are liable to
punishment for their actions only, not for their designs and
intentions, is founded upon this salutary and useful
irregularity in human sentiments concerning merit or
demerit, which at first sight appears so absurd and
unaccountable. But every part of nature, when attentively
surveyed, equally demonstrates the providential care of its
Author, and we may admire the wisdom and goodness of God
even in the weakness and folly of
3Nor
is that irregularity of sentiments altogether without its
utility, by which the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to
serve, and much more that of mere good inclinations and kind
wishes, appears to be imperfect. Man was made for action,
and to promote by the exertion of his faculties such changes
in the external circumstances both of himself and others, as
may seem most favourable to the happiness of all. He must
not be satisfied with indolent benevolence, not fancy
himself the friend of mankind, because in his heart he
wishes well to the prosperity of the world. That he may call
forth the whole vigour of his soul, and strain every nerve,
in order to produce those ends which it is the purpose of
his being to advance, Nature has taught him, that neither
himself nor mankind can be fully satisfied with his conduct,
nor bestow upon it the full measure of applause, unless he
has actually produced them. He is made to know, that the
praise of good intentions, without the merit of good
offices, will be but of little avail to excite either the
loudest acclamations of the world, or even the highest
degree of self–applause. The man who has performed no single
action of importance, but whose whole conversation and
deportment express the justest, the noblest, and most
generous sentiments, can be entitled to demand no very high
reward, even though his inutility should be owing to nothing
but the want of an opportunity to serve. We can still refuse
it him without blame. We can still ask him, What have you
done? What actual service can you produce, to entitle you to
so great a recompense? We esteem you, and love you; but we
owe you nothing. To reward indeed that latent virtue which
has been useless only for want of an opportunity to serve,
to bestow upon it those honours and preferments, which,
though in some measure it may be said to deserve them, it
could not with propriety have insisted upon, is the effect
of the most divine benevolence. To punish, on the contrary,
for the affections of the heart only, where no crime has
been committed, is the most insolent and barbarous tyranny.
The benevolent affections seem to deserve most praise, when
they do not wait till it becomes almost a crime for them not
to exert themselves. The malevolent, on the contrary, can
scarce be too tardy, too slow, or deliberate.
4It
is even of
the evil which is done without design should be regarded as
a misfortune to the doer as well as to the sufferer. Man is
thereby taught to reverence the happiness of his brethren,
to tremble lest he should, even unknowingly, do any thing
that can hurt them, and to dread that animal resentment
which, he feels, is ready to burst out against him, if he
should, without design, be the unhappy instrument of their
calamity.
As, in the ancient heathen religion, that
holy ground which had been consecrated to some god, was not
to be trod upon but upon solemn and necessary occasions, and
the man who had even ignorantly violated it, became piacular
from that moment, and, until proper atonement should be
made, incurred the vengeance of that powerful and invisible
being to whom it had been set apart;
so, by the wisdom of Nature, the happiness of every innocent
man is, in the same manner, rendered holy, consecrated, and
hedged round against the approach of every other man; not to
be wantonly trod upon, not even to be, in any respect,
ignorantly and involuntarily violated, without requiring
some expiation, some atonement in proportion to the
greatness of such undesigned violation. A man of humanity,
who accidentally, and without the smallest degree of
blamable negligence, has been the cause of the death of
another man, feels himself piacular, though not guilty.
During his whole life he considers this accident as one of
the greatest misfortunes that could have befallen him. If
the family of the slain is poor, and he himself in tolerable
circumstances, he immediately takes them under his
protection, and, without any other merit, thinks them
entitled to every degree of favour and kindness. If they are
in better circumstances, he endeavours by every submission,
by every expression of sorrow, by rendering them every good
office which he can devise or they accept of, to atone for
what has happened, and to propitiate, as much as possible,
their, perhaps natural, though no doubt most unjust
resentment, for the great, though involuntary, offence which
he has given them.
5The
distress which an innocent person feels, who, by some
accident, has been led to do something which, if it had been
done with knowledge and design, would have justly exposed
him to the deepest reproach, has given occasion to some of
the finest and most interesting scenes both of the ancient
and of the modern drama. It is this fallacious sense of
guilt, if I may call it so, which constitutes the whole
distress of Oedipus and Jocasta upon the Greek, of Monimia
and Isabella upon the English, theatre.
They are all of them in the highest degree piacular, though
not one of them is in the smallest degree guilty.
6Notwithstanding,
however, all these seeming irregularities of sentiment, if
man should unfortunately either give occasion to those evils
which he did not intend, or fail in producing that good
which he intended, Nature has not left his innocence
altogether without consolation, nor his virtue altogether
without reward. He then calls to his assistance that just
and equitable maxim, That those events which did not depend
upon our conduct, ought not to diminish the esteem that is
due to us. He summons up his whole magnanimity and firmness
of soul, and strives to regard himself, not in the light in
which he at present appears, but in that in which he ought
to appear, in which he would have appeared had his generous
designs been crowned with success, and in which he would
still appear, notwithstanding their miscarriage, if the
sentiments of mankind were either altogether candid and
equitable, or even perfectly consistent with themselves. The
more candid and humane part of mankind entirely go along
with the
which he thus makes to
support himself in his own opinion. They exert their whole
generosity and greatness of mind, to correct in themselves
this irregularity of human nature, and endeavour to regard
his unfortunate magnanimity in the same light in which, had
it been successful, they would, without any such generous
exertion, have naturally been disposed to consider it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
PART III
Of the Foundation of our
Judgments concerning our own Sentiments and Conduct, and of
the Sense of Duty
[Back to Table of Contents]
1In
the two foregoing parts of this discourse, I have chiefly
considered the origin and foundation of our judgments
concerning the sentiments and conduct of others. I come now
to consider
the origin of
those concerning our own.
2 some secret reference, either to
what are, or to what, upon a certain condition, would be, or
to what, we imagine, ought to be the
of others.
would examine it. If, upon placing ourselves in his
situation, we thoroughly enter into all the passions and
motives which influenced it, we approve of it, by sympathy
with the approbation of this supposed equitable judge. If
otherwise, we enter into his disapprobation, and condemn it.
3Were
it possible that a human creature could grow up to manhood
in some solitary place, without any communication with his
own species, he could no more think of his own character, of
the propriety or demerit of his own sentiments and conduct,
of the beauty or deformity of his own mind, than of the
beauty or deformity of his own face. All these are objects
which he cannot easily see, which naturally he does not look
at,
Bring him into society, and he is immediately provided with
the mirror which he wanted before.
It is placed in the countenance and behaviour of those he
lives with, which always mark when they enter into, and when
they disapprove of his sentiments; and it is here that he
first views the propriety and impropriety of his own
passions, the beauty and deformity of his own mind. To a man
who from his birth was a stranger to society, the objects of
his passions, the external bodies which either pleased or
hurt him, would occupy his whole attention. The passions
themselves, the desires or aversions, the joys or sorrows,
which those objects excited, though of all things the most
immediately present to him, could scarce ever be the objects
of his thoughts. The idea of them could never interest him
so much as to call upon his attentive consideration. The
consideration of his joy could in him excite no new joy, nor
that of his sorrow any new sorrow, though the consideration
of the causes of those passions might often excite both.
Bring him into society, and all his own passions will
immediately become the causes of new passions. He will
observe that mankind approve of some of them, and are
disgusted by others. He will be elevated in the one case,
and cast down in the other; his desires and aversions, his
joys and sorrows, will now often become the causes of new
desires and new aversions, new joys and new sorrows: they
will now, therefore, interest him deeply, and often call
upon his most attentive consideration.
4Our
first ideas of personal beauty and deformity, are drawn from
the shape and appearance of others, not from our own. We
soon become sensible, however, that others exercise the same
criticism upon us. We are pleased when they approve of our
figure, and are disobliged when they seem to be disgusted.
We become anxious to know how far our appearance deserves
either their blame or approbation. We examine our persons
limb by limb, and by placing ourselves before a
looking–glass, or by some such expedient, endeavour, as much
as possible, to view ourselves at the distance and with the
eyes of other people. If, after this examination, we are
satisfied with our own appearance, we can more easily
support the most disadvantageous judgments of others. If, on
the contrary, we are sensible that we are the natural
objects of distaste, every appearance of their
disapprobation mortifies us beyond all measure. A man who is
tolerably handsome, will allow you to laugh at any little
irregularity in his person; but all such jokes are commonly
unsupportable to one who is really deformed. It is evident,
however, that we are anxious about our own beauty and
deformity, only upon account of its effect upon others. If
we had no connexion with society, we should be altogether
indifferent about either.
5In
the same manner our first moral criticisms are exercised
upon the characters and conduct of other people; and we are
all very forward to observe how each of these affects us.
But we soon learn, that other people are equally frank with
regard to our own. We become anxious to know how far we
deserve their censure or applause, and whether to them we
must necessarily appear those agreeable or disagreeable
creatures which they represent us. We begin, upon this
account, to examine our own passions and conduct, and to
consider how these must appear to them, by considering how
they would appear to us if in their situation. We suppose
ourselves the spectators of our own behaviour, and endeavour
to imagine what effect it would, in this light, produce upon
us. This is the only looking–glass by which we can, in some
measure, with the eyes of other people, scrutinize the
propriety of our own conduct. If in this view it pleases us,
we are tolerably satisfied. We can be more indifferent about
the applause, and, in some measure, despise the censure of
secure that, however
misunderstood or misrepresented, we are the natural and
proper objects of approbation. On the contrary, if we are
it, we are often,
upon that very account, more anxious to gain their
approbation, and, provided we have not already, as they say,
shaken hands with infamy, we are altogether distracted at
the thoughts of their censure, which then strikes us with
double severity.
6
When I endeavour to examine my own conduct, when I endeavour
to pass sentence upon it, and either to approve or condemn
it, it is evident that, in all such cases, I divide myself,
as it were, into two persons; and that I, the examiner and
judge, represent a different character from that other I,
the person whose conduct is examined into and judged of. The
first is the spectator, whose sentiments with regard to my
own conduct I endeavour to enter into, by placing myself in
his situation, and by considering how it would appear to me,
when seen from that particular point of view. The second is
the agent, the person whom I properly call myself, and of
whose conduct, under the character of a spectator, I was
endeavouring to form some opinion. The first is the judge;
the second the
But that the
judge should, in every respect, be the same with the
is as
impossible, as that the cause should, in every respect, be
the same with the effect.
7
To be amiable and to be meritorious; that is, to deserve
love and to deserve reward, are the great characters of
virtue; and to be odious and punishable, of vice. But all
these characters have an immediate reference to the
sentiments of others. Virtue is not said to be amiable, or
to be meritorious, because it is the object of its own love,
or of its own gratitude; but because it excites those
sentiments in other men. The consciousness that it is the
object of such favourable regards, is the source of that
inward tranquillity and self–satisfaction with which it is
naturally attended, as the suspicion of the contrary gives
occasion to the torments of vice. What so great happiness as
to be beloved, and to know that we deserve to be beloved?
What so great misery as to be hated, and to know that we
deserve to be hated?
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap ii
Of the love of
Praise, and of that of Praise–worthiness; and of the dread
of Blame, and of that of Blame–worthiness
1Man
naturally desires, not only to be loved, but to be lovely;
or to be that thing which is the natural and proper object
of love. He naturally dreads, not only to be hated, but to
be hateful; or to be that thing which is the natural and
proper object of hatred. He desires, not only praise, but
praise–worthiness; or to be that thing which, though it
should be praised by nobody, is, however, the natural and
proper object of praise. He dreads, not only blame, but
blame–worthiness; or to be that thing which, though it
should be blamed by nobody, is, however, the natural and
proper object of blame.
2The
love of praise–worthiness is by no means derived altogether
from the love of praise. Those two principles, though they
resemble one another, though they are connected, and often
blended with one another, are yet, in many respects,
distinct and independent of one another.
3The
love and admiration which we naturally conceive for those
whose character and conduct we approve of, necessarily
dispose us to desire to become ourselves the objects of the
like agreeable sentiments, and to be as amiable and as
admirable as those whom we love and admire the most.
Emulation, the anxious desire that we ourselves should
excel, is originally founded in our admiration of the
excellence of others. Neither can we be satisfied with being
merely admired for what other people are admired. We must at
least believe ourselves to be admirable for what they are
admirable. But, in order to attain this satisfaction, we
must become the impartial spectators of our own character
and conduct. We must endeavour to view them with the eyes of
other people, or as other people are likely to view them.
When seen in this light, if they appear to us as we wish, we
are happy and contented. But it greatly confirms this
happiness and contentment when we find that other people,
viewing them with those very eyes with which we, in
imagination only, were endeavouring to view them, see them
precisely in the same light in which we ourselves had seen
them. Their approbation necessarily confirms our own
self–approbation. Their praise necessarily strengthens our
own sense of our own praise–worthiness. In this case, so far
is the love of praise–worthiness from being derived
altogether from that of praise; that the love of praise
seems, at least in a great measure, to be derived from that
of praise–worthiness.
4The
most sincere praise can give little pleasure when it cannot
be considered as some sort of proof of praise–worthiness.
It is
sufficient that,
from ignorance or mistake, esteem and
should, in some way
or other, be bestowed upon us. If we are conscious that we
do not deserve to be so favourably thought of, and that if
the truth were known, we should be regarded with very
different sentiments, our satisfaction is far from being
complete. The man who applauds us either for actions which
we did not perform, or for motives which had no sort of
influence upon our conduct, applauds not us, but another
person. We can derive no sort of satisfaction from his
praises. To us they should be more mortifying than any
censure, and should perpetually call to our minds, the most
humbling of all reflections, the reflection of what we ought
to be, but what we are not. A woman who
These, we should expect, ought
rather to put her in mind of the sentiments which her real
complexion would excite, and mortify her the more by the
contrast. To be pleased with such groundless applause is a
proof of the most superficial levity and weakness. It is
what is properly called vanity, and is the foundation of the
most ridiculous and contemptible vices, the vices of
affectation and common lying; follies which, if experience
did not teach us how common they are, one should imagine the
least spark of common sense would save us from. The foolish
liar, who endeavours to excite the admiration of the company
by the relation of adventures which never had any existence;
the important coxcomb, who gives himself airs of rank and
distinction which he well knows he has no just pretensions
to; are both of them, no doubt, pleased with the applause
which they fancy they meet with. But their vanity arises
from so gross an illusion of the imagination, that it is
difficult to conceive how any rational creature should be
imposed upon by it. When they place themselves in the
situation of those whom they fancy they have deceived, they
are struck with the highest admiration for their own
persons. They look upon themselves, not in that light in
which, they know, they ought to appear to their companions,
but in that in which they believe their companions actually
look upon them. Their superficial weakness and trivial folly
hinder them from ever turning their eyes inwards, or from
seeing themselves in that despicable point of view in which
their own consciences
tell them that they would
appear to every body, if the real truth should ever come to
be known.
5As
ignorant and groundless praise can give no solid joy, no
satisfaction that will bear any serious examination, so, on
the contrary, it often gives real comfort to reflect, that
though no praise should actually be bestowed upon us, our
conduct, however, has been such as to deserve it, and has
been in every respect suitable to those measures and rules
by which praise and approbation are naturally and commonly
bestowed. We are pleased, not only with praise, but with
having done what is praise–worthy. We are pleased to think
that we have rendered ourselves the natural objects of
approbation, though no approbation should ever actually be
bestowed upon us: and we are mortified to reflect that we
have justly
the blame of those we
live with, though that sentiment should never actually be
exerted against us. The man who is conscious to himself that
he has exactly observed those measures of conduct which
experience informs him are generally agreeable, reflects
with satisfaction on the propriety of his own behaviour.
When he views it in the light in which the impartial
spectator would view it, he thoroughly enters into all the
motives which influenced it. He looks back upon every part
of it with pleasure and approbation, and though mankind
should never be acquainted with what he has done, he regards
himself, not so much according to the light in which they
actually regard him, as according to that in which they
would regard him if they were better informed. He
anticipates the applause and admiration which in this case
would be bestowed upon him, and he applauds and admires
himself by sympathy with sentiments, which do not indeed
actually take place, but which the ignorance of the public
alone hinders from taking place, which he knows are the
natural and ordinary effects of such conduct, which his
imagination strongly connects with it, and which he has
acquired a habit of conceiving as something that naturally
and in propriety ought to follow from it. Men
voluntarily thrown away
life to acquire after death a renown which they could no
longer enjoy. Their imagination, in the mean time,
anticipated that fame which was in future times to be
bestowed upon them. Those applauses which they were never to
hear rung in their ears; the thoughts of that admiration,
whose effects they were never to feel, played about their
hearts, banished from their breasts the strongest of all
natural fears, and transported them to perform actions which
seem almost beyond the reach of human nature. But in point
of reality there is surely no great difference between that
approbation which is not to be bestowed till we can no
longer enjoy it, and that which, indeed, is never to be
bestowed, but which would be bestowed, if the world was ever
made to understand properly the real circumstances of our
behaviour. If the one often produces such violent effects,
we cannot wonder that the other should always be highly
regarded.
6Nature,
when she formed man for society, endowed him with an
original desire to please, and an original aversion to
offend his brethren. She taught him to feel pleasure in
their favourable, and pain in their unfavourable regard. She
rendered their approbation most flattering and most
agreeable to him for its own sake; and their disapprobation
most mortifying and most offensive.
7But
this desire of the approbation, and this aversion to the
disapprobation of his brethren, would not alone have
rendered him fit for that society for which he was made.
Nature, accordingly, has endowed him, not only with a desire
of being approved of, but with a desire of being what ought
to be approved of; or of being what he himself approves of
in other men. The first desire could only have made him wish
to appear to be fit for society. The second was necessary in
order to render him anxious to be really fit. The first
could only have prompted him to the affectation of virtue,
and to the concealment of vice. The second was necessary in
order to inspire him with the real love of virtue, and with
the real abhorrence of vice. In every well–formed mind this
second desire seems to be the strongest of the two. It is
only the weakest and most superficial of mankind who can be
much delighted with that praise which they themselves know
to be altogether unmerited. A weak man may sometimes be
pleased with it, but a wise man rejects it upon all
occasions. But, though a wise man feels little pleasure from
praise where he knows there is no praise–worthiness, he
often feels the highest in doing what he knows to be
praise–worthy, though he knows equally well that no praise
is ever to be bestowed upon it. To obtain the approbation of
mankind, where no approbation is due, can never be an object
of any importance to him. To obtain that approbation where
it is really due, may sometimes be an object of no great
importance to him. But to be that thing which deserves
approbation, must always be an object of the highest.
8To
desire, or even to accept of praise, where no praise is due,
can be the effect only of the most contemptible vanity. To
desire it where it is really due, is to desire no more than
that a most essential act of justice should be done to us.
The love of just fame, of true glory, even for its own sake,
and independent of any advantage which he can derive from
it, is not unworthy even of a wise man. He sometimes,
however, neglects, and even despises it; and he is never
more apt to do so than when he has the most perfect
assurance of the perfect propriety of every part of his own
conduct. His self–approbation, in this case, stands in need
of no confirmation from the approbation of other men. It is
alone sufficient, and he is contented with it. This
self–approbation, if not the only, is at least the principal
object, about which he can or ought to be anxious. The love
of it, is the love of virtue.
9As
the love and admiration which we naturally conceive for some
characters, dispose us to wish to become ourselves the
proper objects of such agreeable sentiments; so the hatred
and contempt which we as naturally conceive for others,
dispose us, perhaps still more strongly, to dread the very
thought of resembling them in any respect. Neither is it, in
this case, too, so much the thought of being hated and
despised that we are afraid of, as that of being hateful and
despicable. We dread the thought of doing any thing which
can render us the just and proper objects of the hatred and
contempt of our fellow–creatures; even though we had the
most perfect security that those sentiments were never
actually to be exerted against us.
The man who has broke through all those
measures of conduct, which can alone render him agreeable to
mankind, though he should have the most perfect assurance
that what he had done was for ever to be concealed from
every human eye, it is all to no purpose. When he looks back
upon it, and views it in the light in which the impartial
spectator would view it, he finds that he can enter into
none of the motives which influenced it. He is abashed and
confounded at the thoughts of it, and necessarily feels a
very high degree of that shame which he would be exposed to,
if his actions should ever come to be generally known. His
imagination, in this case too, anticipates the contempt and
derision from which nothing saves him but the ignorance of
those he lives with. He still feels that he is the natural
object of these sentiments, and still trembles at the
thought of what he would suffer, if they were ever actually
exerted against him. But if what he had been guilty of was
not merely one of those improprieties which are the objects
of simple disapprobation, but one of those enormous crimes
which excite detestation and resentment, he could never
think of it, as long as he had any sensibility left, without
feeling all the agony of horror and remorse; and though he
could be assured that no man was ever to know it, and could
even bring himself to believe that there was no God to
revenge it, he would still feel enough of both these
sentiments to embitter the whole of his life: he would still
regard himself as the natural object of the hatred and
indignation of all his fellow–creatures; and, if his heart
was not grown callous by the habit of crimes, he could not
think without terror and astonishment even of the manner in
which mankind would look upon him, of what would be the
expression of their countenance and of their eyes, if the
dreadful truth should ever come to be known. These natural
pangs of an affrighted conscience are the daemons, the
avenging furies, which, in this life, haunt the guilty,
which allow them neither quiet nor repose, which often drive
them to despair and distraction, from which no assurance of
secrecy can protect them, from which no principles of
irreligion can entirely deliver them, and from which nothing
can free them but the vilest and most abject of all states,
a complete insensibility to honour and infamy, to vice and
virtue. Men of the most detestable characters, who, in the
execution of the most dreadful crimes, had taken their
measures so coolly as to avoid even the suspicion of guilt,
have sometimes been driven, by the horror of their
situation, to discover, of their own accord, what no human
sagacity could ever have investigated. By acknowledging
their guilt, by submitting themselves to the resentment of
their offended fellow–citizens, and, by thus satiating that
vengeance of which they were sensible that they had become
the proper objects, they hoped, by their death to reconcile
themselves, at least in their own imagination, to the
natural sentiments of mankind; to be able to consider
themselves as less worthy of hatred and resentment; to
atone, in some measure, for their crimes, and
if
to die in peace and
with the forgiveness of all their fellow–creatures. Compared
to what they felt before the discovery, even the thought of
this, it seems, was happiness.
10
In such cases, the horror of blame–worthiness seems, even in
persons who cannot be suspected of any extraordinary
delicacy or sensibility of character, completely to conquer
the dread of blame. In order to allay that horror, in order
to pacify, in some degree, the remorse of their own
consciences, they voluntarily submitted themselves both to
the reproach and to the punishment which they knew were due
to their crimes, but which, at the same time, they might
easily have avoided.
11They
are the most frivolous and superficial of mankind only who
can be much delighted with that praise which they themselves
know to be altogether unmerited. Unmerited reproach,
however, is frequently capable of mortifying very severely
even men of more than ordinary constancy. Men of the most
ordinary constancy, indeed, easily learn to despise those
foolish tales which are so frequently circulated in society,
and which, from their own absurdity and falsehood, never
fail to die away in the course of a few weeks, or of a few
days. But an innocent man, though of more than ordinary
constancy, is often, not only shocked, but most severely
mortified by the serious, though false, imputation of a
crime; especially when that imputation happens unfortunately
to be supported by some circumstances which give it an air
of probability. He is humbled to find that any body should
think so meanly of his character as to suppose him capable
of being guilty of it. Though perfectly conscious of his own
innocence, the very imputation seems often, even in his own
imagination, to throw a shadow of disgrace and dishonour
upon his character. His just indignation, too, at so very
gross an injury, which, however, it may frequently be
improper, and sometimes even impossible to revenge, is
itself a very painful sensation. There is no greater
tormentor of the human breast than violent resentment which
cannot be gratified. An innocent man, brought to the
scaffold by the false imputation of an infamous or odious
crime, suffers the most cruel misfortune which it is
possible for innocence to suffer. The agony of his mind may,
in this case, frequently be greater than that of those who
suffer for the like crimes, of which they have been actually
guilty. Profligate criminals, such as common thieves and
highwaymen, have frequently little sense of the baseness of
their own conduct, and consequently no remorse. Without
troubling themselves about the justice or injustice of the
punishment, they have always been accustomed to look upon
the gibbet as a lot very likely to fall to them. When it
does fall to them, therefore, they consider themselves only
as not quite so lucky as some of their companions, and
submit to their fortune, without any other uneasiness than
what may arise from the fear of death; a fear which, even by
such worthless wretches, we frequently see, can be so
easily, and so very completely conquered. The innocent man,
on the contrary, over and above the uneasiness which this
fear may occasion, is tormented by his own indignation at
the injustice which has been done to him. He is struck with
horror at the thoughts of the infamy which the punishment
may shed upon his memory, and foresees, with the most
exquisite anguish, that he is hereafter to be remembered by
his dearest friends and relations, not with regret and
affection, but with shame, and even with horror for his
supposed disgraceful conduct: and the shades of death appear
to close round him with a darker and more melancholy gloom
than naturally belongs to them. Such fatal accidents, for
the tranquillity of mankind, it is to be hoped, happen very
rarely in any country; but they happen sometimes in all
countries, even in those where justice is in general very
well administered. The unfortunate Calas, a man of much more
than ordinary constancy (broke upon the wheel and burnt at
Tholouse
for the supposed murder of his own son, of which he was
perfectly innocent), seemed, with his last breath, to
deprecate, not so much the cruelty of the punishment, as the
disgrace which the imputation might bring upon his memory.
After he had been broke, and was just going to be thrown
into the fire, the monk, who attended the execution,
exhorted him to confess the crime for which he had been
condemned. My Father, said Calas, can you yourself bring
yourself to believe that I am guilty?
12To
persons in such unfortunate circumstances, that humble
philosophy which confines its views to this life, can
afford, perhaps, but little consolation. Every thing that
could render either life or death respectable is taken from
them. They are condemned to death and to everlasting infamy.
Religion can alone afford them any effectual comfort. She
alone can tell them, that it is of little importance what
man may think of their conduct, while the all–seeing Judge
of the world approves of it. She alone can present to them
the view of another world; a world of more candour,
humanity, and justice, than the present; where their
innocence is in due time to be declared, and their virtue to
be finally rewarded: and the same great principle which can
alone strike terror into triumphant vice, affords the only
effectual consolation to disgraced and insulted innocence.
13In
smaller offences, as well as in greater crimes, it
frequently happens that a person of sensibility is much more
hurt by the unjust imputation, than the real criminal is by
the actual guilt. A woman of gallantry laughs even at the
well–founded surmises which are circulated concerning her
conduct. The worst founded surmise of the same kind is a
mortal stab to an innocent virgin. The person who is
deliberately guilty of a disgraceful action, we may lay it
down, I believe, as a general rule, can seldom have much
sense of the disgrace; and the person who is habitually
guilty of it, can scarce ever have any.
14When
every man, even of middling understanding, so readily
despises unmerited applause, how it comes to pass that
unmerited reproach should often be capable of mortifying so
severely men of the soundest and best judgment, may,
perhaps, deserve some consideration.
15Pain,
I have already had occasion to observe,
is, in almost all cases, a more pungent sensation than the
opposite and correspondent pleasure. The one, almost always,
depresses us much more below the ordinary, or what may be
called the natural state of our happiness, than the other
ever raises us above it. A man of sensibility is apt to be
more humiliated by just censure than he is ever elevated by
just applause. Unmerited applause a wise man rejects with
contempt upon all occasions; but he often feels very
severely the injustice of unmerited censure. By suffering
himself to be applauded for what he has not performed, by
assuming a merit which does not belong to him, he feels that
he is guilty of a mean falsehood, and deserves, not the
admiration, but the contempt of those very persons who, by
mistake, had been led to admire him. It may, perhaps, give
him some well–founded pleasure to find that he has been, by
many people, thought capable of performing what he did not
perform. But, though he may be obliged to his friends for
their good opinion, he would think himself guilty of the
greatest baseness if he did not immediately undeceive them.
It gives him little pleasure to look upon himself in the
light in which other people actually look upon him, when he
is conscious that, if they knew the truth, they would look
upon him in a very different light. A weak man, however, is
often much delighted with viewing himself in this false and
delusive light. He assumes the merit of every laudable
action that is ascribed to him, and pretends to that of many
which nobody ever thought of ascribing to him. He pretends
to have done what he never did, to have written what another
wrote, to have invented what another discovered; and is led
into all the miserable vices of plagiarism and common lying.
But though no man of middling good sense can derive much
pleasure from the imputation of a laudable action which he
never performed, yet a wise man may suffer great pain from
the serious imputation of a crime which he never committed.
Nature, in this case, has rendered the pain, not only more
pungent than the opposite and correspondent pleasure, but
she has rendered it so in a much greater than the ordinary
degree. A denial rids a man at once of the foolish and
ridiculous pleasure; but it will not always rid him of the
pain. When he refuses the merit which is ascribed to him,
nobody doubts his veracity. It may be doubted when he denies
the crime which he is accused of. He is at once enraged at
the falsehood of the imputation, and mortified to find that
any credit should be given to it. He feels that his
character is not sufficient to protect him. He feels that
his brethren, far from looking upon him in that light in
which he anxiously desires to be viewed by them, think him
capable of being guilty of what he is accused of. He knows
perfectly that he has not been guilty. He knows perfectly
what he has done; but, perhaps, scarce any man can know
perfectly what he himself is capable of doing. What the
peculiar constitution of his own mind may or may not admit
of, is, perhaps, more or less a matter of doubt to every
man. The trust and good opinion of his friends and
neighbours, tends more than any thing to relieve him from
this most disagreeable doubt; their distrust and
unfavourable opinion to increase it. He may think himself
very confident that their unfavourable judgment is wrong:
but this confidence can seldom be so great as to hinder that
judgment from making some impression upon him; and the
greater his sensibility, the greater his delicacy, the
greater his worth in short, this impression is likely to be
the greater.
16The
agreement or disagreement both of the sentiments and
judgments of other people with our own, is, in all cases, it
must be observed, of more or less importance to us, exactly
in proportion as we ourselves are more or less uncertain
about the propriety of our own sentiments, about the
accuracy of our own judgments.
17A
man of sensibility may sometimes feel great uneasiness lest
he should have yielded too much even to what may be called
an honourable passion; to his just indignation, perhaps, at
the injury which may have been done either to himself or to
his friend. He is anxiously afraid lest, meaning only to act
with spirit, and to do justice, he may, from the too great
vehemence of his emotion, have done a real injury to some
other person; who, though not innocent, may not have been
altogether so guilty as he at first apprehended. The opinion
of other people becomes, in this case, of the utmost
importance to him. Their approbation is the most healing
balsam; their disapprobation, the bitterest and most
tormenting poison that can be poured into his uneasy mind.
When he is perfectly satisfied with every part of his own
conduct, the judgment of other people is often of less
importance to him.
18There
are some very noble and beautiful arts, in which the degree
of excellence can be determined only by a certain nicety of
taste, of which the decisions, however, appear always, in
some measure, uncertain. There are others, in which the
success admits, either of clear demonstration, or very
satisfactory proof. Among the candidates for excellence in
those different arts, the anxiety about the public opinion
is always much greater in the former than in the latter.
19The
beauty of poetry is a matter of such nicety, that a young
beginner can scarce ever be certain that he has attained it.
Nothing delights him so much, therefore, as the favourable
judgments of his friends and of the public; and nothing
mortifies him so severely as the contrary. The one
establishes, the other shakes, the good opinion which he is
anxious to entertain concerning his own performances.
Experience and success may in time give him a little more
confidence in his own judgment. He is at all times, however,
liable to be most severely mortified by the unfavourable
judgments of the public. Racine was so disgusted by the
indifferent success of his Phaedra, the finest tragedy,
perhaps, that is extant in any language, that, though in the
vigour of his life, and at the height of his abilities, he
resolved to write no more for the stage. That great poet
used frequently to tell his son, that the most paltry and
impertinent criticism had always given him more pain, than
the highest and justest eulogy had ever given him pleasure.
The extreme sensibility of Voltaire to the slightest censure
of the same kind is well known to every body.
The Dunciad of Mr. Pope is an everlasting monument of how
much the most correct, as well as the most elegant and
harmonious of all the English poets, had been hurt by the
criticisms of the lowest and most contemptible authors.
Gray (who joins to the sublimity of Milton the elegance and
harmony of Pope, and to whom nothing is wanting to render
him, perhaps, the first poet in the English language, but to
have written a little more) is said to have been so much
hurt, by a foolish and impertinent parody of two of his
finest odes, that he never afterwards attempted any
considerable work.
Those men of letters who value themselves upon what is
called fine writing in prose, approach somewhat to the
sensibility of poets.
20Mathematicians,
on the contrary, who may have the most perfect assurance,
both of the truth and of the importance of their
discoveries, are frequently very indifferent about the
reception which they may meet with from the public. The two
greatest mathematicians that I ever have had the honour to
be known to, and, I believe, the two greatest that have
lived in my time, Dr. Robert Simpson of Glasgow, and Dr.
Matthew Stewart of Edinburgh,
never seemed to feel even the slightest uneasiness from the
neglect with which the ignorance of the public received some
of their most valuable works. The great work of Sir Isaac
Newton,
Mathematical Principles of
Natural Philosophy, I have been told, was for several
years neglected by the public. The tranquillity of that
great man, it is probable, never suffered, upon that
account, the interruption of a single quarter of an hour.
Natural philosophers, in their independency upon the public
opinion, approach nearly to mathematicians, and, in their
judgments concerning the merit of their own discoveries and
observations, enjoy some degree of the same security and
tranquillity.
21The
morals of those different classes of men of letters are,
perhaps, sometimes somewhat affected by this very great
difference in their situation with regard to the public.
22Mathematicians
and natural philosophers, from their independency upon the
public opinion, have little temptation to form themselves
into factions and cabals, either for the support of their
own reputation, or for the depression of that of their
rivals. They are almost always men of the most amiable
simplicity of manners, who live in good harmony with one
another, are the friends of one another’s reputation, enter
into no intrigue in order to secure the public applause, but
are pleased when their works are approved of, without being
either much vexed or very angry when they are neglected.
23It
is not always the same case with poets, or with those who
value themselves upon what is called fine writing. They are
very apt to divide themselves into a sort of literary
factions; each cabal being often avowedly, and almost always
secretly, the mortal enemy of the reputation of every other,
and employing all the mean arts of intrigue and solicitation
to preoccupy the public opinion in favour of the works of
its own members, and against those of its enemies and
rivals. In France, Despreaux and Racine did not think it
below them to set themselves at the head of a literary
cabal, in order to depress the reputation, first of Quinault
and Perreault, and afterwards of Fontenelle and La Motte,
and even to treat the good La Fontaine with a species of
most disrespectful kindness.
In England, the amiable Mr. Addison did not think it
unworthy of his gentle and modest character to set himself
at the head of a little cabal of the same kind, in order to
keep down the rising reputation of Mr. Pope.
Mr. Fontenelle, in writing the lives and characters of the
members of the academy of sciences, a society of
mathematicians and natural philosophers, has frequent
opportunities of celebrating the amiable simplicity of their
manners; a quality which, he observes, was so universal
among them as to be characteristical, rather of that whole
class of men of letters, than of any individual
Mr. D’Alembert, in writing the lives and characters of the
members of the French academy, a society of poets and fine
writers, or of those who are supposed to be such, seems not
to have had such frequent opportunities of making any remark
of this kind, and nowhere pretends to represent this amiable
quality as characteristical of that class
men of letters whom he
celebrates.
24Our
uncertainty concerning our own merit, and our anxiety to
think favourably of it, should together naturally enough
make us desirous to know the opinion of other people
concerning it; to be more than ordinarily elevated when that
opinion is favourable, and to be more than ordinarily
mortified when it is otherwise: but they should not make us
desirous either of obtaining the favourable, or of avoiding
the unfavourable opinion, by intrigue and cabal. When a man
has bribed all the judges, the most unanimous decision of
the court, though it may gain him his law–suit, cannot give
him any assurance that he was in the right: and had he
carried on his law–suit merely to satisfy himself that he
was in the right, he never would have bribed the judges. But
though he wished to find himself in the right, he wished
likewise to gain his law–suit; and therefore he bribed the
judges. If praise were of no consequence to us, but as a
proof of our own praise–worthiness, we never should
endeavour to obtain it by unfair means. But, though to wise
men it is, at least in doubtful cases, of principal
consequence upon this account; it is likewise of some
consequence upon its own account: and therefore (we cannot,
indeed, upon such occasions, call them wise men, but) men
very much above the common level have sometimes attempted
both to obtain praise, and to avoid blame, by very unfair
means.
25Praise
and blame express what actually are; praise–worthiness and
blame–worthiness, what naturally ought to be the sentiments
of other people with regard to our character and conduct.
The love of praise is the desire of obtaining the favourable
sentiments of our brethren. The love of praise–worthiness is
the desire of rendering ourselves the proper objects of
those sentiments. So far those two principles resemble and
are akin to one another. The like affinity and resemblance
take place between the dread of blame and that of
blame–worthiness.
26The
man who desires to do, or who actually does, a praise–worthy
action, may likewise desire the praise which is due to it,
and sometimes, perhaps, more than is due to it. The two
principles are in this case blended together. How far his
conduct may have been influenced by the one, and how far by
the other, may frequently be unknown even to himself. It
must almost always be so to other people. They who are
disposed to lessen the merit of his conduct, impute it
chiefly or altogether to the mere love of praise, or to what
they call mere vanity. They who are disposed to think more
favourably of it, impute it chiefly or altogether to the
love of praise–worthiness; to the love of what is really
honourable and noble in human conduct; to the desire, not
merely of obtaining, but of deserving the approbation and
applause of his brethren. The imagination of the spectator
throws upon it either the one colour or the other, according
either to his habits of thinking, or to the favour or
dislike which he may bear to the person whose conduct he is
considering.
27Some
splenetic philosophers, in judging of human nature, have
done as peevish individuals are apt to do in judging of the
conduct of one another, and have imputed to the love of
praise, or to what they call vanity, every action which
ought to be ascribed to that of praise–worthiness. I shall
here–after have occasion to give an account of some of their
systems, and shall not at present stop to examine them.
28Very
few men can be satisfied with their own private
consciousness that they have attained those qualities, or
performed those actions, which they admire and think
praise–worthy in other people; unless it is, at the same
time, generally acknowledged that they possess the one, or
have performed the other; or, in other words, unless they
have actually obtained that praise which they think due both
to the one and to the other. In this respect, however, men
differ considerably from one another. Some seem indifferent
about the praise, when, in their own minds, they are
perfectly satisfied that they have attained the
praise–worthiness. Others appear much less anxious about the
praise–worthiness than about the praise.
29No
man can be completely, or even tolerably satisfied, with
having avoided every thing blame–worthy in his conduct;
unless he has likewise avoided the blame or the reproach. A
wise man may frequently neglect praise, even when he has
best deserved it; but, in all matters of serious
consequence, he will most carefully endeavour so to regulate
his conduct as to avoid, not only blame–worthiness, but, as
much as possible, every probable imputation of blame. He
will never, indeed, avoid blame by doing any thing which he
judges blame–worthy; by omitting any part of his duty, or by
neglecting any opportunity of doing any thing which he
judges to be really and greatly praise–worthy. But, with
these modifications, he will most anxiously and carefully
avoid it. To show much anxiety about praise, even for
praise–worthy actions, is seldom a mark of great wisdom, but
generally of some degree of weakness. But, in being anxious
to avoid the shadow of blame or reproach, there may be no
weakness, but frequently the most praise–worthy prudence.
30‘Many
people,’ says Cicero, ‘despise glory, who are yet most
severely mortified by unjust reproach; and that most
inconsistently.’
This inconsistency, however, seems to be founded in the
unalterable principles of human nature.
31
The all–wise Author of Nature has, in this manner, taught
man to respect the sentiments and judgments of his brethren;
to be more or less pleased when they approve of his conduct,
and to be more or less hurt when they disapprove of it. He
has made man, if I may say so, the immediate judge of
mankind; and has, in this respect, as in many others,
created him after his own image, and appointed him his
vicegerent upon earth, to superintend the behaviour of his
brethren. They are taught by nature, to acknowledge that
power and jurisdiction which has thus been conferred upon
him, to be more or less humbled and mortified when they have
incurred his censure, and to be more or less elated when
they have obtained his applause.
32But
though man has, in this manner, been rendered the immediate
judge of mankind, he has been rendered so only in the first
instance; and an appeal lies from his sentence to a much
higher tribunal, to the tribunal of their own consciences,
to that of the supposed impartial and well–informed
spectator, to that of the man within the breast, the great
judge and arbiter of their conduct. The jurisdictions of
those two tribunals are founded upon principles which,
though in some respects resembling and akin, are, however,
in reality different and distinct. The jurisdiction of the
man without, is founded altogether in the desire of actual
praise, and in the aversion to actual blame. The
jurisdiction of the man within, is founded altogether in the
desire of praise–worthiness, and in the aversion to
blame–worthiness; in the desire of possessing those
qualities, and performing those actions, which we love and
admire in other people; and in the dread of possessing those
qualities, and performing those actions, which we hate and
despise in other people. If the man without should applaud
us, either for actions which we have not performed, or for
motives which had no influence upon us; the man within can
immediately humble that pride and elevation of mind which
such groundless acclamations might otherwise occasion, by
telling us, that as we know that we do not deserve them, we
render ourselves despicable by accepting them. If, on the
contrary, the man without should reproach us, either for
actions which we never performed, or for motives which had
no influence upon those which we may have performed; the man
within may immediately correct this false judgment, and
assure us, that we are by no means the proper objects of
that censure which has so unjustly been bestowed upon us.
But in this and in some other cases, the man within seems
sometimes, as it were, astonished and confounded by the
vehemence and clamour of the man without. The violence and
loudness, with which blame is sometimes poured out upon us,
seems to stupify and benumb our natural sense of
praise–worthiness and blame–worthiness; and the judgments of
the man within, though not, perhaps, absolutely altered or
perverted, are, however, so much shaken in the steadiness
and firmness of their decision, that their natural effect,
in securing the tranquillity of the mind, is frequently in a
great measure destroyed. We scarce dare to absolve
ourselves, when all our brethren appear loudly to condemn
us. The supposed impartial spectator of our conduct seems to
give his opinion in our favour with fear and hesitation;
when that of all the real spectators, when that of all those
with whose eyes and from whose station he endeavours to
consider it, is unanimously and violently against us. In
such cases, this demigod within the breast appears, like the
demigods of the poets, though partly of immortal, yet partly
too of mortal extraction. When his judgments are steadily
and firmly directed by the sense of praise–worthiness and
blame–worthiness, he seems to act suitably to his divine
extraction: But when he suffers himself to be astonished and
confounded by the judgments of ignorant and weak man, he
discovers his connexion with mortality, and appears to act
suitably, rather to the human, than to the divine, part of
his origin.
33In
such cases, the only effectual consolation of humbled and
afflicted man lies in an appeal to a still higher tribunal,
to that of the all–seeing Judge of the world, whose eye can
never be deceived, and whose judgments can never be
perverted. A firm confidence in the unerring rectitude of
this great tribunal, before which his innocence is in due
time to be declared, and his virtue to be finally rewarded,
can alone support him under the weakness and despondency of
his own mind, under the perturbation and astonishment of the
man within the breast, whom nature has set up as, in this
life, the great guardian, not only of his innocence, but of
his tranquillity. Our happiness in this life is thus, upon
many occasions, dependent upon the humble hope and
expectation of a life to come: a hope and expectation deeply
rooted in human nature; which can alone support its lofty
ideas of its own dignity; can alone illumine the dreary
prospect of its continually approaching mortality, and
maintain its cheerfulness under all the heaviest calamities
to which, from the disorders of this life, it may sometimes
be exposed. That there is a world to come, where exact
justice will be done to every man, where every man will be
ranked with those who, in the moral and intellectual
qualities, are really his equals; where the owner of those
humble talents and virtues which, from being depressed by
fortune, had, in this life, no opportunity of displaying
themselves; which were unknown, not only to the public, but
which he himself could scarce be sure that he possessed, and
for which even the man within the breast could scarce
venture to afford him any distinct and clear testimony;
where that modest, silent, and unknown merit, will be placed
upon a level, and sometimes above those who, in this world,
had enjoyed the highest reputation, and who, from the
advantage of their situation, had been enabled to perform
the most splendid and dazzling actions; is a doctrine, in
every respect so venerable, so comfortable to the weakness,
so flattering to the grandeur of human nature, that the
virtuous man who has the misfortune to doubt of it, cannot
possibly avoid wishing most earnestly and anxiously to
believe it. It could never have been exposed to the derision
of the scoffer, had not the distributions of rewards and
punishments, which some of its most zealous assertors have
taught us was to be made in that world to come, been too
frequently in direct opposition to all our moral sentiments.
34That
the assiduous courtier is often more favoured than the
faithful and active servant; that attendance and adulation
are often shorter and surer roads to preferment than merit
or service; and that a campaign at Versailles or St. James’s
is often worth two either in Germany or Flanders, is a
complaint which we have all heard from many a venerable, but
discontented, old officer. But what is considered as the
greatest reproach even to the weakness of earthly
sovereigns, has been ascribed, as an act of justice, to
divine perfection; and the duties of devotion, the public
and private worship of the Deity, have been represented,
even by men of virtue and abilities, as the sole virtues
which can either entitle to reward or exempt from punishment
in the life to come. They were the virtues, perhaps, most
suitable to their station, and in which they themselves
chiefly excelled; and we are all naturally disposed to
over–rate the excellencies of our own characters. In the
discourse which the eloquent and philosophical Massillon
pronounced, on giving his benediction to the standards of
the regiment of Catinat, there is the following address to
the officers: ‘What is most deplorable in your situation,
Gentlemen, is, that in a life hard and painful, in which the
services and the duties sometimes go beyond the rigour and
severity of the most austere cloisters; you suffer always in
vain for the life to come, and frequently even for this
life. Alas! the solitary monk in his cell, obliged to
mortify the flesh and to subject it to the spirit, is
supported by the hope of an assured recompence, and by the
secret unction of that grace which softens the yoke of the
Lord. But you, on the bed of death, can you dare to
represent to Him your fatigues and the daily hardships of
your employment? can you dare to solicit Him for any
recompence? and in all the exertions that you have made, in
all the violences that you have done to yourselves, what is
there that He ought to place to His own account? The best
days of your life, however, have been sacrificed to your
profession, and ten years service has more worn out your
body, than would, perhaps, have done a whole life of
repentance and mortification. Alas! my brother, one single
day of those sufferings, consecrated to the Lord, would,
perhaps, have obtained you an eternal happiness. One single
action, painful to nature, and offered up to Him, would,
perhaps, have secured to you the inheritance of the Saints.
And you have done all this, and in vain, for this world.’
35To
compare, in this manner, the futile mortifications of a
monastery, to the ennobling hardships and hazards of war; to
suppose that one day, or one hour, employed in the former
should, in the eye of the great Judge of the world, have
more merit than a whole life spent honourably in the latter,
is surely contrary to all our moral sentiments; to all the
principles by which nature has taught us to regulate our
contempt or admiration. It is this spirit, however, which,
while it has reserved the celestial regions for monks and
friars, or for those whose conduct and conversation
resembled those of monks and friars, has condemned to the
infernal all the heroes, all the statesmen and lawgivers,
all the poets and philosophers of former ages; all those who
have invented, improved, or excelled in the arts which
contribute to the subsistence, to the conveniency, or to the
ornament of human life; all the great protectors,
instructors, and benefactors of mankind; all those to whom
our natural sense of praise–worthiness forces us to ascribe
the highest merit and most exalted virtue. Can we wonder
that so strange an application of this most respectable
doctrine should sometimes have exposed it to contempt and
derision; with those at least who had themselves, perhaps,
no great taste or turn for the devout and contemplative
virtues
?
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of the Influence
and Authority of Conscience
1But
though the approbation of his own conscience can scarce,
upon some extraordinary occasions, content the weakness of
man; though the testimony of the supposed impartial
of the great inmate
of the breast, cannot always alone support him; yet the
influence and authority of this principle is, upon all
occasions, very great; and
it is only by consulting this judge within,
that we can
relates to
ourselves in its proper shape and dimensions; or that we can
make any proper comparison
between our own interests and those of other people.
2As
to the eye of the body, objects appear great or small, not
so much according to their real dimensions, as according to
the nearness or distance of their situation; so do they
likewise to what may be called the natural eye of the mind:
and we remedy the defects of both these organs pretty much
in the same manner. In my present situation an immense
landscape of lawns, and woods, and distant mountains, seems
to do no more than cover the little window which I write by,
and to be out of all proportion less than the chamber in
which I am sitting. I can form a just comparison between
those great objects and the little objects around me, in no
other way, than by transporting myself, at least in fancy,
to a different station, from whence I can survey both at
nearly equal distances, and thereby form some judgment of
their real proportions. Habit and experience have taught me
to do this so easily and so readily, that I am scarce
sensible that I do it; and a man must be, in some measure,
acquainted with the philosophy of vision,
before he can be thoroughly convinced, how little those
distant objects would appear to the eye, if the imagination,
from a knowledge of their real magnitudes, did not swell and
dilate them.
3
In the same manner, to the selfish and original passions of
human nature, the loss or gain of a very small interest of
our own, appears to be of vastly more importance, excites a
much more passionate joy or sorrow, a much more ardent
desire or aversion, than the greatest concern of another
with whom we have no particular connexion. His interests, as
long as they are surveyed from this station, can never be
put into the balance with our own, can never restrain us
from doing whatever may tend to promote our own, how ruinous
soever to him. Before we can make any proper comparison of
those opposite interests, we must change our position. We
must view them, neither from our own place nor yet from his,
neither with our own eyes nor yet with his, but from the
place and with the eyes of a third person, who has no
particular connexion with either, and who judges with
impartiality between us.
Here, too, habit and experience have taught us
so easily and so
readily, that we are scarce sensible that we
it; and it requires, in this
case too, some degree of reflection, and even of philosophy,
to convince us, how little interest we should take in the
greatest concerns of our neighbour, how little we should be
affected by whatever relates to him, if the sense of
propriety and justice did not correct the otherwise natural
inequality of our sentiments.
4
Let us suppose that the great empire of China, with all its
myriads of inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an
earthquake,
and let us consider how a man of humanity in Europe, who had
no sort of connexion with that part of the world, would be
affected upon receiving intelligence of this dreadful
calamity. He would, I imagine, first of all, express very
strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy
people, he would make many melancholy reflections upon the
precariousness of human life, and the vanity of all the
labours of man, which could thus be annihilated in a moment.
He would too, perhaps, if he was a man of speculation, enter
into many reasonings concerning the effects which this
disaster might produce upon the commerce of Europe, and the
trade and business of the world in general.
And when all this fine philosophy was over, when all these
humane sentiments had been once fairly expressed, he would
pursue his business or his pleasure, take his repose or his
diversion, with the same ease and tranquillity, as if no
such accident had happened. The most frivolous disaster
which could befal himself would occasion a more real
disturbance. If he was to lose his little finger to–morrow,
he would not sleep to–night; but, provided he never saw
them, he will snore with the most profound security over the
ruin of a hundred millions of his brethren, and the
destruction of that immense multitude seems plainly an
object less interesting to him, than this paltry misfortune
of his own.
To prevent, therefore, this paltry misfortune to himself,
would a man of humanity be willing to sacrifice the lives of
a hundred millions of his brethren, provided he had never
seen them? Human nature startles with horror at the thought,
and the world, in its greatest depravity and corruption,
never produced such a villain as could be capable of
entertaining it. But what makes this difference? When our
passive feelings are almost always so sordid and so selfish,
how comes it that our active principles should often be so
generous and so noble? When we are always so much more
deeply affected by whatever concerns ourselves, than by
whatever concerns other men; what is it which prompts the
generous, upon all occasions, and the mean upon many, to
sacrifice their own interests to the greater interests of
others? It is not the soft power of humanity, it is not that
feeble spark of benevolence which Nature has lighted up in
the human heart, that is thus capable of counteracting the
strongest impulses of self–love.
It is a stronger power, a more forcible motive, which exerts
itself upon such occasions. It is reason, principle,
conscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man within,
the great judge and arbiter of our conduct. It is he who,
whenever we are about to act so as to affect the happiness
of others, calls to us, with a voice capable of astonishing
the most presumptuous of our passions, that we are but one
of the multitude, in no respect better than any other in it;
and that when we prefer ourselves so shamefully and so
blindly to others, we become the proper objects of
resentment, abhorrence, and execration.
It is not the love of our
neighbour, it is not the love of mankind, which upon many
occasions prompts us to the practice of those divine
virtues. It is a stronger love, a more powerful affection,
which generally takes place upon such occasions; the love of
what is honourable and noble, of the grandeur, and dignity,
and superiority of our own characters.
5When
the happiness or misery of others depends in any respect
upon our conduct, we dare not,
Neither is this sentiment confined to men of extraordinary
magnanimity and virtue. It is deeply impressed upon every
tolerably good soldier, who feels that he would become the
scorn of his companions, if he could be supposed capable of
shrinking from danger, or of hesitating, either to expose or
to throw away his life, when the good of the service
required it.
6One
individual must never prefer himself so much even to any
other individual, as to hurt or injure that other, in order
to benefit himself, though the benefit to the one should be
much greater than the hurt or injury to the other. The poor
man must neither defraud nor steal from the rich, though the
acquisition might be much more beneficial to the one than
the loss could be hurtful to the other. The man within
immediately calls to him, in this case too, that he is no
better than his neighbour, and that by this unjust
preference he renders himself the proper object of the
contempt and indignation of mankind; as well as of the
punishment which that contempt and indignation must
naturally dispose them to inflict, for having thus violated
one of those sacred rules, upon the tolerable observation of
which depend the whole security and peace of human society.
There is no commonly honest man who does not more dread the
inward disgrace of such an action, the indelible stain which
it would for ever stamp upon his own mind, than the greatest
external calamity which, without any fault of his own, could
possibly befal him; and who does not inwardly feel the truth
of that great stoical maxim, that for one man to deprive
another unjustly of any thing, or unjustly to promote his
own advantage by the loss or disadvantage of another, is
more contrary to nature, than death, than poverty, than
pain, than all the misfortunes which can affect him, either
in his body, or in his external circumstances.
7
in no respect depends upon our conduct, when our interests
are altogether separated and detached from theirs, so that
there is neither connexion nor competition between them,
The most vulgar education teaches us to act, upon all
important occasions, with some sort of impartiality between
ourselves and others, and even the ordinary commerce of the
world is capable of adjusting our active principles to some
degree of propriety. But it is the most artificial and
refined education
the inequalities of our passive feelings; and we must for
this
recourse to the severest, as well as to the profoundest
philosophy.
8Two
different sets of philosophers have attempted to teach us
this hardest of all the lessons of morality. One set have
laboured to increase our sensibility to the interests of
others; another, to diminish that to our own. The first
would have us feel for others as we naturally feel for
ourselves. The second would have us feel for ourselves as we
naturally feel for others.
9The
first are those
melancholy
moralists, who are perpetually reproaching us with our
happiness, while so many of our brethren are in
,
whot regard as impious the natural joy of
prosperity, which does not think of the many wretches that
are at every instant labouring under all sorts of
calamities, in the languor of poverty, in the agony of
disease, in the horrors of death, under the insults and
oppression of their enemies. Commiseration for those
miseries which we never saw, which we never heard of, but
which we may be assured are at all times infesting such
numbers of our fellow–creatures, ought, they think, to damp
the pleasures of the fortunate, and to render a certain
melancholy dejection habitual to all men. But first of all,
this extreme sympathy with misfortunes which we know nothing
about, seems altogether absurd and unreasonable. Take the
whole earth at an average, for one man who suffers pain or
misery, you will find twenty in prosperity and joy, or at
least in tolerable circumstances. No reason, surely, can be
assigned why we should rather weep with the one than rejoice
with the twenty. This artificial commiseration, besides, is
not only absurd, but seems altogether unattainable; and
those who affect this character have commonly nothing but a
certain
sadness, which, without reaching the heart, serves only to
render the countenance and conversation impertinently dismal
and disagreeable. And last of all, this disposition of mind,
though it could be attained, would be perfectly useless, and
could serve no other purpose than to render miserable the
person who possessed it. Whatever interest we take in the
fortune of those with whom we have no acquaintance or
connexion, and who are placed altogether out of the sphere
of our activity, can produce only anxiety to ourselves,
without any manner of advantage to them. To what purpose
should we trouble ourselves about the world in the moon? All
men, even those at the greatest distance, are no doubt
entitled to our good wishes, and our good wishes we
naturally give them. But if, notwithstanding, they should be
unfortunate, to give ourselves any anxiety upon that
account, seems to be no part of our duty. That we should be
but little interested, therefore, in the fortune of those
whom we can neither serve nor hurt, and who are in every
respect so very remote from us, seems wisely ordered by
Nature; and if it were possible to alter in this respect the
original constitution of our frame, we could yet gain
nothing by the change.
10
It is never objected to us that we have too little
fellow–feeling with the joy of success. Wherever envy does
not prevent it, the favour which we bear to prosperity is
rather apt to be too great; and the same moralists who blame
us for want of sufficient sympathy with the miserable,
reproach us for the levity with which we are too apt to
admire and almost to worship the fortunate, the powerful,
and the rich.
11Among
the moralists who endeavour to correct the natural
inequality of our passive feelings by diminishing our
sensibility to what peculiarly concerns ourselves, we may
count all the ancient sects of philosophers, but
particularly the ancient Stoics. Man, according to the
Stoics, ought to regard himself, not as something separated
and detached, but as a citizen of the world, a member of the
vast commonwealth of nature. To the interest of this great
community, he ought at all times to be willing that his own
little interest should be sacrificed. Whatever concerns
himself, ought to affect him no more than whatever concerns
any other equally important part of this immense system. We
should view ourselves, not in the light in which our own
selfish passions are apt to place us, but in the light in
which any other citizen of the world would view us.
What befalls ourselves we should regard as
what befalls our neighbour, or, what comes to the same
thing, as our neighbour regards what befalls us. ‘When our
neighbour,’ says Epictetus,
‘loses his wife, or his son, there is nobody who is not
sensible that this is a human calamity, a natural event
altogether according to the ordinary course of things; but,
when the same thing happens to ourselves, then we cry out,
as if we had suffered the most dreadful misfortune. We
ought, however, to remember how we were affected when this
accident happened to another, and such as we were in his
case, such ought we to be in our own.’
12
Those private misfortunes, for which our feelings are apt to
go beyond the bounds of propriety, are of two different
kinds. They are either such as affect us only indirectly, by
affecting, in the first place, some other persons who are
particularly dear to us; such as our parents, our children,
our brothers and sisters, our intimate friends; or they are
such as affect ourselves immediately and directly, either in
our body, in our fortune, or in our reputation; such as
pain, sickness, approaching death, poverty, disgrace, etc.
13In
misfortunes of the first kind, our emotions may, no doubt,
go very much beyond what exact propriety will admit of; but
they may likewise fall short of it, and they frequently do
so. The man who should feel no more for the death or
distress of his own father, or son, than for those of any
other man’s father or son, would appear neither a good son
nor a good father. Such unnatural indifference, far from
exciting our applause, would incur our highest
disapprobation. Of those domestic affections, however, some
are most apt to offend by their excess, and others by their
defect. Nature, for the wisest purposes, has rendered, in
most men, perhaps in all men, parental tenderness a much
stronger affection than filial piety. The continuance and
propagation of the species depend altogether upon the
former, and not upon the latter. In ordinary cases, the
existence and preservation of the child depend altogether
upon the care of the parents. Those of the parents seldom
depend upon that of the child. Nature, therefore, has
rendered the former affection so strong, that it generally
requires not to be excited, but to be moderated; and
moralists seldom endeavour to teach us how to indulge, but
generally how to restrain our fondness, our excessive
attachment, the unjust preference which we are disposed to
give to our own children above those of other people. They
exhort us, on the contrary, to an affectionate attention to
our parents, and to make a proper return to them, in their
old age, for the kindness which they had shown to us in our
infancy and youth. In the Decalogue we are commanded to
honour our fathers and mothers. No mention is made of the
love of our children. Nature had sufficiently prepared us
for the performance of this latter duty. Men are seldom
accused of affecting to be fonder of their children than
they really are. They have sometimes been suspected of
displaying their piety to their parents with too much
ostentation. The ostentatious sorrow of widows has, for a
like reason, been suspected of insincerity. We should
respect, could we believe it sincere, even the excess of
such kind affections; and though we might not perfectly
approve, we should not severely condemn it. That it appears
praise–worthy, at least in the eyes of those who affect it,
the very affectation is a proof.
14Even
the excess of those kind affections which are most apt to
offend by their excess, though it may appear blameable,
never appears odious. We blame the excessive fondness and
anxiety of a parent, as something which may, in the end,
prove hurtful to the child, and which, in the mean time, is
excessively inconvenient to the parent; but we easily pardon
it, and never regard it with hatred and detestation. But the
defect of this usually excessive affection appears always
peculiarly odious. The man who appears to feel nothing for
his own children, but who treats them upon all occasions
with unmerited severity and harshness, seems of all brutes
the most detestable. The sense of propriety, so far from
requiring us to eradicate altogether that extraordinary
sensibility, which we naturally feel for the misfortunes of
our nearest connections, is always much more offended by the
defect, than it ever is by the excess of that sensibility.
The stoical apathy
is, in such cases, never agreeable, and all the metaphysical
sophisms by which it is supported can seldom serve any other
purpose than to blow up the hard insensibility of a coxcomb
to ten times its native impertinence. The poets and romance
writers, who best paint the refinements and delicacies of
love and friendship, and of all other private and domestic
affections, Racine and Voltaire; Richardson, Maurivaux, and
Riccoboni;
are, in such cases, much better instructors than Zeno,
Chrysippus, or Epictetus.
15That
moderated sensibility to the misfortunes of others, which
does not disqualify us for the performance of any duty; the
melancholy and affectionate remembrance of our departed
friends; the pang, as Gray says, to secret sorrow
dear;
are by no means undelicious sensations. Though they
outwardly wear the features of pain and grief, they are all
inwardly stamped with the ennobling characters of virtue and
self–approbation.
16It
is otherwise in the misfortunes which affect ourselves
immediately and directly, either in our body, in our
fortune, or in our reputation. The sense of propriety is
much more apt to be offended by the excess, than by the
defect of our sensibility, and there are but very few cases
in which we can approach too near to the stoical apathy and
indifference.
17That
we have very little fellow–feeling with any of the passions
which take their origin from the body, has already been
observed.
That pain which is occasioned by an evident cause; such as,
the cutting or tearing of the flesh; is, perhaps, the
affection of the body with which the spectator feels the
most lively sympathy. The approaching death of his
neighbour, too, seldom fails to affect him a good deal. In
both cases, however, he feels so very little in comparison
of what the person principally concerned feels, that the
latter can scarce ever offend the former by appearing to
suffer with too much ease.
18The
mere want of fortune, mere poverty, excites little
compassion. Its complaints are too apt to be the objects
rather of contempt than of fellow–feeling.
We despise a beggar; and, though his importunities may
extort an alms from us, he is scarce ever the object of any
serious commiseration. The fall from riches to poverty, as
it commonly occasions the most real distress to the
sufferer, so it seldom fails to excite the most sincere
commiseration in the spectator. Though, in the present state
of society, this misfortune can seldom happen without some
misconduct, and some very considerable misconduct too, in
the sufferer; yet he is almost always so much pitied that he
is scarce ever allowed to fall into the lowest state of
poverty; but by the means of his friends, frequently by the
indulgence of those very creditors who have much reason to
complain of his imprudence, is almost always supported in
some degree of decent, though humble, mediocrity. To persons
under such misfortunes, we could, perhaps, easily pardon
some degree of weakness; but, at the same time, they who
carry the firmest countenance, who accommodate themselves
with the greatest ease to their new situation, who seem to
feel no humiliation from the change, but to rest their rank
in the society, not upon their fortune, but upon their
character and conduct, are always the most approved of, and
never fail to command our highest and most affectionate
admiration.
19As,
of all the external misfortunes which can affect an innocent
man immediately and directly, the undeserved loss of
reputation is certainly the greatest; so a considerable
degree of sensibility to whatever can bring on so great a
calamity, does not always appear ungraceful or disagreeable.
We often esteem a young man the more, when he resents,
though with some degree of violence, any unjust reproach
that may have been thrown upon his character or his honour.
The affliction of an innocent young lady, on account of the
groundless surmises which may have been circulated
concerning her conduct, appears often perfectly amiable.
Persons of an advanced age, whom long experience of the
folly and injustice of the world, has taught to pay little
regard, either to its censure or to its applause, neglect
and despise obloquy, and do not even deign to honour its
futile authors with any serious resentment. This
indifference, which is founded altogether on a firm
confidence in their own well–tried and well–established
characters, would be disagreeable in young people, who
neither can nor ought to have any such confidence. It might
in them be supposed to forebode, in their advancing years, a
most improper insensibility to real honour and infamy.
20In
all other private misfortunes which affect ourselves
immediately and directly, we can very seldom offend by
appearing to be too little affected. We frequently remember
our sensibility to the misfortunes of others with pleasure
and satisfaction. We can seldom remember that to our own,
without some degree of shame and humiliation.
21If
we examine the different shades and gradations of weakness
and self–command, as we meet with them in common life, we
shall very easily satisfy ourselves that this control of our
passive feelings must be acquired, not from the abstruse
syllogisms of a quibbling dialectic, but from that great
discipline which Nature has established for the acquisition
of this and of every other virtue; a regard to the
sentiments of the real or supposed spectator of our conduct.
22A
very young child has no self–command; but, whatever are its
emotions, whether fear, or grief, or anger, it endeavours
always, by the violence of its outcries, to alarm, as much
as it can, the attention of its nurse, or of its parents.
While it remains under the custody of such partial
protectors, its anger is the first and, perhaps, the only
passion which it is taught to moderate. By noise and
threatening they are, for their own ease, often obliged to
frighten it into good temper; and the passion which incites
it to attack, is restrained by that which teaches it to
attend to its own safety. When it is old enough to go to
school, or to mix with its equals, it soon finds that they
have no such indulgent partiality. It naturally wishes to
gain their favour, and to avoid their hatred or contempt.
Regard even to its own safety teaches it to do so; and it
soon finds that it can do so in no other way than by
moderating, not only its anger, but all its other passions,
to the degree which its play–fellows and companions are
likely to be pleased with. It thus enters into the great
school of self–command, it studies to be more and more
master of itself, and begins to exercise over its own
feelings a discipline which the practice of the longest life
is very seldom sufficient to bring to complete perfection.
23In
all private misfortunes, in pain, in sickness, in sorrow,
the weakest man, when his friend, and still more when a
stranger visits him, is immediately impressed with the view
in which they are likely to look upon his situation. Their
view calls off his attention from his own view; and his
breast is, in some measure, becalmed the moment they come
into his presence. This effect is produced instantaneously
and, as it were, mechanically; but, with a weak man, it is
not of long continuance. His own view of his situation
immediately recurs upon him. He abandons himself, as before,
to sighs and tears and lamentations; and endeavours, like a
child that has not yet gone to school, to produce some sort
of harmony between his own grief and the compassion of the
spectator, not by moderating the former, but by
importunately calling upon the latter.
24With
a man of a little more firmness, the effect is somewhat more
permanent. He endeavours, as much as he can, to fix his
attention upon the view which the company are likely to take
of his situation. He feels, at the same time, the esteem and
approbation which they naturally conceive for him when he
thus preserves his tranquillity; and, though under the
pressure of some recent and great calamity, appears to feel
for himself no more than what they really feel for him. He
approves and applauds himself by sympathy with their
approbation, and the pleasure which he derives from this
sentiment supports and enables him more easily to continue
this generous effort. In most cases he avoids mentioning his
own misfortune; and his company, if they are tolerably well
bred, are careful to say nothing which can put him in mind
of it. He endeavours to entertain them, in his usual way,
upon indifferent subjects, or, if he feels himself strong
enough to venture to mention his misfortune, he endeavours
to talk of it as, he thinks, they are capable of talking of
it, and even to feel it no further than they are capable of
feeling it. If he has not, however, been well inured to the
hard discipline of self–command, he soon grows weary of this
restraint. A long visit fatigues him; and, towards the end
of it, he is constantly in danger of doing, what he never
fails to do the moment it is over, of abandoning himself to
all the weakness of excessive sorrow. Modern good manners,
which are extremely indulgent to human weakness, forbid, for
some time, the visits of strangers to persons under great
family distress, and permit those only of the nearest
relations and most intimate friends. The presence of the
latter, it is thought, will impose less restraint than that
of the former; and the sufferers can more easily accommodate
themselves to the feelings of those, from whom they have
reason to expect a more indulgent sympathy. Secret enemies,
who fancy that they are not known to be such, are frequently
fond of making those charitable visits as early as the most
intimate friends. The weakest man in the world, in this
case, endeavours to support his manly countenance, and, from
indignation and contempt of their malice, to behave with as
much gaiety and ease as he can.
25The
man of real constancy and firmness, the wise and just man
who has been thoroughly bred in the great school of
self–command, in the bustle and business of the world,
exposed, perhaps, to the violence and injustice of faction,
and to the hardships and hazards of war, maintains this
control of his passive feelings upon all occasions; and
whether in solitude or in society, wears nearly the same
countenance, and is affected very nearly in the same manner.
In success and in disappointment, in prosperity and in
adversity, before friends and before enemies, he has often
been under the necessity of supporting this manhood. He has
never dared to forget for one moment the judgment which the
impartial spectator would pass upon his sentiments and
conduct. He has never dared to suffer the man within the
breast to be absent one moment from his attention. With the
eyes of this great inmate he has always been accustomed to
regard whatever relates to himself. This habit has become
perfectly familiar to him. He has been in the constant
practice, and, indeed, under the constant necessity, of
modelling, or of endeavouring to model, not only his outward
conduct and behaviour, but, as much as he can, even his
inward sentiments and feelings, according to those of this
awful and respectable judge. He does not merely affect the
sentiments of the impartial spectator. He really adopts
them. He almost identifies himself with, he almost becomes
himself that impartial spectator, and scarce even feels but
as that great arbiter of his conduct directs him to feel.
26The
degree of the self–approbation with which every man, upon
such occasions, surveys his own conduct, is higher or lower,
exactly in proportion to the degree of self–command which is
necessary in order to obtain that self–approbation. Where
little self–command is necessary, little self–approbation is
due. The man who has only scratched his finger, cannot much
applaud himself, though he should immediately appear to have
forgot this paltry misfortune. The man who has lost his leg
by a cannon shot, and who, the moment after, speaks and acts
with his usual coolness and tranquillity, as he exerts a
much higher degree of self–command, so he naturally feels a
much higher degree of self–approbation. With most men, upon
such an accident, their own natural view of their own
misfortune would force itself upon them with such a vivacity
and strength of colouring, as would entirely efface all
thought of every other view. They would feel nothing, they
could attend to nothing, but their own pain and their own
fear; and not only the judgment of the ideal man within the
breast, but that of the real spectators who might happen to
be present, would be entirely overlooked and disregarded.
27The
reward which Nature bestows upon good behaviour under
misfortune, is thus exactly proportioned to the degree of
that good behaviour. The only compensation she could
possibly make for the bitterness of pain and distress is
thus too, in equal degrees of good behaviour, exactly
proportioned to the degree of that pain and distress. In
proportion to the degree of the self–command which is
necessary in order to conquer our natural sensibility, the
pleasure and pride of the conquest are so much the greater;
and this pleasure and pride are so great that no man can be
altogether unhappy who completely enjoys them. Misery and
wretchedness can never enter the breast in which dwells
complete self–satisfaction; and though it may be too much,
perhaps, to say, with the Stoics, that, under such an
accident as that above mentioned, the happiness of a wise
man is in every respect equal to what it could have been
under any other circumstances; yet it must be acknowledged,
at least, that this complete enjoyment of his own
self–applause, though it may not altogether extinguish, must
certainly very much alleviate his sense of his own
sufferings.
28In
such paroxysms of distress, if I may be allowed to call them
so, the wisest and firmest man, in order to preserve his
equanimity, is obliged, I imagine, to make a considerable,
and even a painful exertion. His own natural feeling of his
own distress, his own natural view of his own situation,
presses hard upon him, and he cannot, without a very great
effort, fix his attention upon that of the impartial
spectator. Both views present themselves to him at the same
time. His sense of honour, his regard to his own dignity,
directs him to fix his whole attention upon the one view.
His natural, his untaught and undisciplined feelings, are
continually calling it off to the other. He does not, in
this case, perfectly identify himself with the ideal man
within the breast, he does not become himself the impartial
spectator of his own conduct. The different views of both
characters exist in his mind separate and distinct from one
another, and each directing him to a behaviour different
from that to which the other directs him. When he follows
that view which honour and dignity point out to him, Nature
does not, indeed, leave him without a recompense. He enjoys
his own complete self–approbation, and the applause of every
candid and impartial spectator. By her unalterable laws,
however, he still suffers; and the recompense which she
bestows, though very considerable, is not sufficient
completely to compensate the sufferings which those laws
inflict. Neither is it fit that it should. If it did
completely compensate them, he could, from self–interest,
have no motive for avoiding an accident which must
necessarily diminish his utility both to himself and to
society; and Nature, from her parental care of both, meant
that he should anxiously avoid all such accidents. He
suffers, therefore, and though, in the agony of the
paroxysm, he maintains, not only the manhood of his
countenance, but the sedateness and sobriety of his
judgment, it requires his utmost and most fatiguing
exertions, to do so.
29By
the constitution of human nature, however, agony can never
be permanent; and, if he survives the paroxysm, he soon
comes, without any effort, to enjoy his ordinary
tranquillity. A man with a wooden leg suffers, no doubt, and
foresees that he must continue to suffer during the
remainder of his life, a very considerable inconveniency. He
soon comes to view it, however, exactly as every impartial
spectator views it; as an inconveniency under which he can
enjoy all the ordinary pleasures both of solitude and of
society. He soon identifies himself with the ideal man
within the breast, he soon becomes himself the impartial
spectator of his own situation. He no longer weeps, he no
longer laments, he no longer grieves over it, as a weak man
may sometimes do in the beginning. The view of the impartial
spectator becomes so perfectly habitual to him, that,
without any effort, without any exertion, he never thinks of
surveying his misfortune in any other view.
30The
never–failing certainty with which all men, sooner or later,
accommodate themselves to whatever becomes their permanent
situation, may, perhaps, induce us to think that the Stoics
were, at least, thus far very nearly in the right; that,
between one permanent situation and another, there was, with
regard to real happiness, no essential difference: or that,
if there were any difference, it was no more than just
sufficient to render some of them the objects of simple
choice or preference; but not of any earnest or anxious
desire: and others, of simple rejection, as being fit to be
set aside or avoided; but not of any earnest or anxious
aversion. Happiness consists in tranquillity and enjoyment.
Without tranquillity there can be no enjoyment; and where
there is perfect tranquillity there is scarce any thing
which is not capable of amusing. But in every permanent
situation, where there is no expectation of change, the mind
of every man, in a longer or shorter time, returns to its
natural and usual state of tranquillity. In prosperity,
after a certain time, it falls back to that state; in
adversity, after a certain time, it rises up to it. In the
confinement and solitude of the Bastile, after a certain
time, the fashionable and frivolous Count de Lauzun
recovered tranquillity enough to be capable of amusing
himself with feeding a spider.
A mind better furnished would, perhaps, have both sooner
recovered its tranquillity, and sooner found, in its own
thoughts, a much better amusement.
31The
great source of both the misery and disorders of human life,
seems to arise from over–rating the difference between one
permanent situation and another. Avarice over–rates the
difference between poverty and riches: ambition, that
between a private and a public station: vain–glory, that
between obscurity and extensive reputation. The person under
the influence of any of those extravagant passions, is not
only miserable in his actual situation, but is often
disposed to disturb the peace of society, in order to arrive
at that which he so foolishly admires. The slightest
observation, however, might satisfy him, that, in all the
ordinary situations of human life, a well–disposed mind may
be equally calm, equally cheerful, and equally contented.
Some of those situations may, no doubt, deserve to be
preferred to others: but none of them can deserve to be
pursued with that passionate ardour which drives us to
violate the rules either of prudence or of justice; or to
corrupt the future tranquillity of our minds, either by
shame from the remembrance of our own folly, or by remorse
from the horror of our own injustice. Wherever prudence does
not direct, wherever justice does not permit, the attempt to
change our situation, the man who does attempt it, plays at
the most unequal of all games of hazard, and stakes every
thing against scarce any thing. What the favourite of the
king of Epirus said to his master, may be applied to men in
all the ordinary situations of human life. When the King had
recounted to him, in their proper order, all the conquests
which he proposed to make, and had come to the last of them;
And what does your Majesty propose to do then? said the
Favourite.—I propose then, said the King, to enjoy myself
with my friends, and endeavour to be good company over a
bottle.—And what hinders your Majesty from doing so now?
replied the Favourite.
In the most glittering and exalted situation that our idle
fancy can hold out to us, the pleasures from which we
propose to derive our real happiness, are almost always the
same with those which, in our actual, though humble station,
we have at all times at hand, and in our power. Except the
frivolous pleasures of vanity and superiority, we may find,
in the most humble station, where there is only personal
liberty, every other which the most exalted can afford; and
the pleasures of vanity and superiority are seldom
consistent with perfect
the principle and
foundation of all real and satisfactory enjoyment. Neither
is it always certain that, in the splendid situation which
we aim at, those real and satisfactory pleasures can be
enjoyed with the same security as in the humble one which we
are so very eager to abandon. Examine the records of
history, recollect what has happened within the circle of
your own experience, consider with attention what has been
the conduct of almost all the greatly unfortunate, either in
private or public life, whom you may have either read of, or
heard of, or remember; and you will find that the
misfortunes of by far the greater part of them have arisen
from their not knowing when they were well, when it was
proper for them to sit still and to be contented. The
inscription upon the tomb–stone of the man who had
endeavoured to mend a tolerable constitution by taking
physic; ‘I was well, I wished to be better; here I am;
may generally be applied with great justness to the distress
of disappointed avarice and ambition.
32It
may be thought a singular, but I believe it to be a just
observation, that, in the misfortunes which admit of some
remedy, the greater part of men do not either so readily or
so universally recover their natural and usual tranquillity,
as in those which plainly admit of none. In misfortunes of
the latter kind, it is chiefly in what may be called the
paroxysm, or in the first attack, that we can discover any
sensible difference between the sentiments and behaviour of
the wise and those of the weak man. In the end, Time, the
great and universal comforter, gradually composes the weak
man to the same degree of tranquillity which a regard to his
own dignity and manhood teaches the wise man to assume in
the beginning. The case of the man with the wooden leg is an
obvious example of this. In the irreparable misfortunes
occasioned by the death of children, or of friends and
relations, even a wise man may for some time indulge himself
in some degree of moderated sorrow. An affectionate, but
weak woman, is often, upon such occasions, almost perfectly
distracted. Time, however, in a longer or shorter period,
never fails to compose the weakest woman to the same degree
of tranquillity as the strongest man. In all the irreparable
calamities which affect himself immediately and directly, a
wise man endeavours, from the beginning, to anticipate and
to enjoy before–hand, that tranquillity which he foresees
the course of a few months, or a few years, will certainly
restore to him in the end.
33In
the misfortunes for which the nature of things admits, or
seems to admit, of a remedy, but in which the means of
applying that remedy are not within the reach of the
sufferer, his vain and fruitless attempts to restore himself
to his former situation, his continual anxiety for their
success, his repeated disappointments upon their
miscarriage, are what chiefly hinder him from resuming his
natural tranquillity, and frequently render miserable,
during the whole of his life, a man to whom a greater
misfortune, but which plainly admitted of no remedy, would
not have given a fortnight’s disturbance. In the fall from
royal favour to disgrace, from power to insignificancy, from
riches to poverty, from liberty to confinement, from strong
health to some lingering, chronical, and perhaps incurable
disease, the man who struggles the least, who most easily
and readily acquiesces in the fortune which has fallen to
him, very soon recovers his usual and natural tranquillity,
and surveys the most disagreeable circumstances of his
actual situation in the same light, or, perhaps, in a much
less unfavourable light, than that in which the most
indifferent spectator is disposed to survey them. Faction,
intrigue, and cabal, disturb the quiet of the unfortunate
statesman. Extravagant projects, visions of gold mines,
interrupt the repose of the ruined bankrupt. The prisoner,
who is continually plotting to escape from his confinement,
cannot enjoy that careless security which even a prison can
afford him. The medicines of the physician are often the
greatest torment of the incurable patient. The monk who, in
order to comfort Joanna of Castile, upon the death of her
husband Philip, told her of a King, who, fourteen years
after his decease, had been restored to life again, by the
prayers of his afflicted queen, was not likely, by his
legendary tale, to restore sedateness to the distempered
mind of that unhappy Princess. She endeavoured to repeat the
same experiment in hopes of the same success; resisted for a
long time the burial of her husband, soon after raised his
body from the grave, attended it almost constantly herself,
and watched, with all the impatient anxiety of frantic
expectation, the happy moment when her wishes were to be
gratified by the revival of her beloved Philip
.
34Our
sensibility to the feelings of others, so far from being
inconsistent with the manhood of self–command, is the very
principle upon which that manhood is founded. The very same
principle or instinct which, in the misfortune of our
neighbour, prompts us to compassionate his sorrow; in our
own misfortune, prompts us to restrain the abject and
miserable lamentations of our own sorrow. The same principle
or instinct which, in his prosperity and success, prompts us
to congratulate his joy; in our own prosperity and success,
prompts us to restrain the levity and intemperance of our
own joy. In both cases, the propriety of our own sentiments
and feelings seems to be exactly in proportion to the
vivacity and force with which we enter into and conceive his
sentiments and feelings.
35The
man of the most perfect virtue, the man whom we naturally
love and revere the most, is he who joins, to the most
perfect command of his own original and selfish feelings,
the most exquisite sensibility both to the original and
sympathetic feelings of others. The man who, to all the
soft, the amiable, and the gentle virtues, joins all the
great, the awful, and the respectable, must surely be the
natural and proper object of our highest love and
admiration.
.
36The
person best fitted by nature for acquiring the former of
those two sets of virtues, is likewise best fitted for
acquiring the latter. The man who feels the most for the
joys and sorrows of others, is best fitted for acquiring the
most complete control of his own joys and sorrows. The man
of the most exquisite humanity, is naturally the most
capable of acquiring the highest degree of self–command. He
may not, however, always have acquired it; and it very
frequently happens that he has not. He may have lived too
much in ease and tranquillity. He may have never been
exposed to the violence of faction, or to the hardships and
hazards of war. He may have never experienced the insolence
of his superiors, the jealous and malignant envy of his
equals, or the pilfering injustice of his inferiors. When,
in an advanced age, some accidental change of fortune
exposes him to all these, they all make too great an
impression upon him. He has the disposition which fits him
for acquiring the most perfect self–command; but he has
never had the opportunity of acquiring it. Exercise and
practice have been wanting; and without these no habit can
ever be tolerably established. Hardships, dangers, injuries,
misfortunes, are the only masters under whom we can learn
the exercise of this virtue. But these are all masters to
whom nobody willingly puts himself to school.
37The
situations in which the gentle virtue of humanity can be
most happily cultivated, are by no means the same with those
which are best fitted for forming the austere virtue of
self–command. The man who is himself at ease can best attend
to the distress of others. The man who is himself exposed to
hardships is most immediately called upon to attend to, and
to control his own feelings. In the mild sunshine of
undisturbed tranquillity, in the calm retirement of
undissipated and philosophical leisure, the soft virtue of
humanity flourishes the most, and is capable of the highest
improvement. But, in such situations, the greatest and
noblest exertions of self–command have little exercise.
Under the boisterous and stormy sky of war and faction, of
public tumult and confusion, the sturdy severity of
self–command prospers the most, and can be the most
successfully cultivated. But, in such situations, the
strongest suggestions of humanity must frequently be stifled
or neglected; and every such neglect necessarily tends to
weaken the principle of humanity. As it may frequently be
the duty of a soldier not to take, so it may sometimes be
his duty not to give quarter; and the humanity of the man
who has been several times under the necessity of submitting
to this disagreeable duty, can scarce fail to suffer a
considerable diminution. For his own ease, he is too apt to
learn to make light of the misfortunes which he is so often
under the necessity of occasioning; and the situations which
call forth the noblest exertions of self–command, by
imposing the necessity of violating sometimes the property,
and sometimes the life of our neighbour, always tend to
diminish, and too often to extinguish altogether, that
sacred regard to both, which is the foundation of justice
and humanity. It is upon this account, that we so frequently
find in the world men of great humanity who have little
self–command, but who are indolent and irresolute, and
easily disheartened, either by difficulty or danger, from
the most honourable pursuits; and, on the contrary, men of
the most perfect self–command, whom no difficulty can
discourage, no danger appal, and who are at all times ready
for the most daring and desperate enterprises, but who, at
the same time, seem to be hardened against all sense either
of justice or humanity.
38In
solitude, we are apt to feel too strongly whatever relates
to ourselves: we are apt to over–rate the good offices we
may have done, and the injuries we may have suffered: we are
apt to be too much elated by our own good, and too much
dejected by our own bad fortune. The conversation of a
friend brings us to a better, that of a stranger to a still
better temper. The man within the breast, the abstract and
ideal spectator of our sentiments and conduct, requires
often to be awakened and put in mind of his duty, by the
presence of the real spectator: and it is always from that
spectator, from whom we can expect the least sympathy and
indulgence, that we are likely to learn the most complete
lesson of self–command.
39Are
you in adversity? Do not mourn in the darkness of solitude,
do not regulate your sorrow according to the indulgent
sympathy of your intimate friends; return, as soon as
possible, to the day–light of the world and of society. Live
with strangers, with those who know nothing, or care nothing
about your misfortune; do not even shun the company of
enemies; but give yourself the pleasure of mortifying their
malignant joy, by making them feel how little you are
affected by your calamity, and how much you are above it.
40Are
you in prosperity? Do not confine the enjoyment of your good
fortune to your own house, to the company of your own
friends, perhaps of your flatterers, of those who build upon
your fortune the hopes of mending their own; frequent those
who are independent of you, who can value you only for your
character and conduct, and not for your fortune. Neither
seek nor shun, neither intrude yourself into nor run away
from the society of those who were once your superiors, and
who may be hurt at finding you their equal, or, perhaps,
even their superior. The impertinence of their pride may,
perhaps, render their company too disagreeable: but if it
should not, be assured that it is the best company you can
possibly keep; and if, by the simplicity of your unassuming
demeanour, you can gain their favour and kindness, you may
rest satisfied that you are modest enough, and that your
head has been in no respect turned by your good fortune.
41The
propriety of our moral sentiments is never so apt to be
corrupted, as when the indulgent and partial spectator is at
hand, while the indifferent and impartial one is at a great
distance.
42Of
the conduct of one independent nation towards another,
neutral nations are the only indifferent and impartial
spectators. But they are placed at so great a distance that
they are almost quite out of sight. When two nations are at
variance, the citizen of each pays little regard to the
sentiments which foreign nations may entertain concerning
his conduct. His whole ambition is to obtain the approbation
of his own fellow–citizens; and as they are all animated by
the same hostile passions which animate himself, he can
never please them so much as by enraging and offending their
enemies. The partial spectator is at hand: the impartial one
at a great distance. In war and negotiation, therefore, the
laws of justice are very seldom observed. Truth and fair
dealing are almost totally disregarded. Treaties are
violated; and the violation, if some advantage is gained by
it, sheds scarce any dishonour upon the violator. The
ambassador who dupes the minister of a foreign nation, is
admired and applauded. The just man who disdains either to
take or to give any advantage, but who would think it less
dishonourable to give than to take one; the man who, in all
private transactions, would be the most beloved and the most
esteemed; in those public transactions is regarded as a fool
and an idiot, who does not understand his business; and he
incurs always the contempt, and sometimes even the
detestation of his fellow–citizens. In war, not only what
are called the laws of nations, are frequently violated,
without bringing (among his own fellow–citizens, whose
judgments he only regards) any considerable dishonour upon
the violator; but those laws themselves are, the greater
part of them, laid down with very little regard to the
plainest and most obvious rules of justice. That the
innocent, though they may have some connexion or dependency
upon the guilty (which, perhaps, they themselves cannot
help), should not, upon that account, suffer or be punished
for the guilty, is one of the plainest and most obvious
rules of justice. In the most unjust war, however, it is
commonly the sovereign or the rulers only who are guilty.
The subjects are almost always perfectly innocent. Whenever
it suits the conveniency of a public enemy, however, the
goods of the peaceable citizens are seized both at land and
at sea; their lands are laid waste, their houses are burnt,
and they themselves, if they presume to make any resistance,
are murdered or led into captivity; and all this in the most
perfect conformity to what are called the laws of nations.
43The
animosity of hostile factions, whether civil or
ecclesiastical, is often still more furious than that of
hostile nations; and their conduct towards one another is
often still more atrocious. What may be called the laws of
faction have often been laid down by grave authors with
still less regard to the rules of justice than what are
called the laws of nations. The most ferocious patriot never
stated it as a serious question, Whether faith ought to be
kept with public enemies?—Whether faith ought to be kept
with rebels? Whether faith ought to be kept with heretics?
are questions which have been often furiously agitated by
celebrated doctors both civil and ecclesiastical. It is
needless to observe, I presume, that both rebels and
heretics are those unlucky persons, who, when things have
come to a certain degree of violence, have the misfortune to
be of the weaker party. In a nation distracted by faction,
there are, no doubt, always a few, though commonly but a
very few, who preserve their
untainted by the
general contagion. They seldom amount to more than, here and
there, a solitary individual, without any influence,
excluded, by his own candour, from the confidence of either
party, and who, though he may be one of the wisest, is
necessarily, upon that very account, one of the most
insignificant men in the society. All such people are held
in contempt and derision, frequently in detestation, by the
furious zealots of both parties. A true party–man hates and
despises candour; and, in reality, there is no vice which
could so effectually disqualify him for the trade of a
party–man as that single virtue. The real, revered, and
impartial spectator, therefore, is, upon no occasion, at a
greater distance than amidst the violence and rage of
contending parties. To them, it may be said, that such a
spectator scarce exists any where in the universe. Even to
the great Judge of the universe, they impute all their own
prejudices, and often view that Divine Being as animated by
all their own vindictive and implacable passions. Of all the
corrupters of moral sentiments, therefore, faction and
fanaticism have always been by far the greatest.
44Concerning
the subject of self–command, I shall only observe further,
that our admiration for the man who, under the heaviest and
most unexpected misfortunes, continues to behave with
fortitude and firmness, always supposes that his sensibility
to those misfortunes is very great, and such as it requires
a very great effort to conquer or command. The man who was
altogether insensible to bodily pain, could deserve no
applause from enduring the torture with the most perfect
patience and equanimity. The man who had been created
without the natural fear of death, could claim no merit from
preserving his coolness and presence of mind in the midst of
the most dreadful dangers. It is one of the extravagancies
of Seneca,
that the Stoical wise man was, in this respect, superior
even to a God; that the security of the God was altogether
the benefit of nature, which had exempted him from
suffering; but that the security of the wise man was his own
benefit, and derived altogether from himself and from his
own exertions.
45The
sensibility of some men, however, to some of the objects
which immediately affect themselves, is sometimes so strong
as to render all self–command impossible. No sense of honour
can control the fears of the man who is weak enough to
faint, or to fall into convulsions, upon the approach of
danger. Whether such weakness of nerves, as it has been
called, may not, by gradual exercise and proper discipline,
admit of some cure, may, perhaps, be doubtful. It seems
certain that it ought never to be trusted or employed.
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chap. iv
Of the Nature of
Self–deceit, and of the Origin and Use of general Rules
1In
order to pervert the rectitude of our own judgments
concerning the propriety of our own conduct, it is not
always necessary that the real and impartial spectator
should be at a great distance. When he is at hand, when he
is present, the violence and injustice of our own selfish
passions are sometimes sufficient to induce the man within
the breast to make a report very different from what the
real circumstances of the case are capable of authorising.
2There
are two different occasions upon which we examine our own
conduct, and endeavour to view it in the light in which the
impartial spectator would view it: first, when we are about
to act; and secondly, after we have acted. Our views are
very partial in both
cases; but they are
when it
is of most importance that they should be otherwise.
3When
we are about to act, the eagerness of passion will seldom
allow us to consider what we are doing, with the candour of
an indifferent person. The violent emotions which at that
time agitate us, discolour our views of
even when we are
endeavouring to place ourselves in the situation of another,
and to regard the objects that interest us in the light in
which they will naturally appear to
fury of our own
passions constantly calls us back to our own place, where
every thing appears magnified and misrepresented by
self–love. Of the manner in which those objects would appear
to another, of the view which he would take of them, we can
obtain, if I may say so, but instantaneous glimpses, which
vanish in a moment, and which, even while they last, are not
altogether just. We cannot even for that moment divest
ourselves entirely of the heat and keenness with which our
peculiar situation inspires us, nor consider what we are
about to do with the complete impartiality of an equitable
judge. The passions, upon this account, as father
Malebranche says, all justify themselves, and seem
reasonable and proportioned to their objects, as long as we
continue to feel them.
4When
the action is over, indeed, and the passions which prompted
it have subsided, we can enter more coolly into the
sentiments of the indifferent spectator. What before
interested us is now become almost as indifferent to us as
it always was to him, and we can now examine our own conduct
with his candour and impartiality.
But
our judgments now are
of little importance in
comparison of what they were before;
nothing but vain regret and unavailing repentance; without
securing us from the like
errors in time to come. It is seldom, however, that they are
quite candid even in this case. The opinion which we
entertain of our own character depends entirely on our
concerning our past
conduct. It is so disagreeable to think ill of ourselves,
that we often purposely turn away our view from those
circumstances which might render that
unfavourable. He is a
bold surgeon, they say, whose hand does not tremble when he
performs an operation upon his own person; and he is often
equally bold who does not hesitate to pull off the
mysterious veil of self–delusion, which covers from his view
the deformities of his own conduct. Rather than see our own
behaviour under so disagreeable an aspect, we too often,
foolishly and weakly, endeavour to exasperate anew those
unjust passions which had formerly misled us; we endeavour
by artifice to awaken our old hatreds, and irritate afresh
our almost forgotten resentments: we even exert ourselves
for this miserable purpose, and thus persevere in injustice,
merely because we once were unjust, and because we are
ashamed and afraid to see that we were so.
5So
partial are the views of mankind with regard to the
propriety of their own conduct, both at the time of action
and after it; and so difficult is it for them to view it in
the light in which any indifferent spectator would consider
it. But if it was by a peculiar faculty, such as the moral
sense is supposed to be, that they judged of their own
conduct, if they were endued with a particular power of
perception, which distinguished the beauty or deformity of
passions and affections; as their own passions would be more
immediately exposed to the view of this faculty, it would
judge with more accuracy concerning them, than concerning
those of other men, of which it had only a more distant
prospect.
6This
self–deceit, this fatal weakness of mankind, is the source
of half the disorders of human life. If we saw ourselves in
the light in which others see us, or in which they would see
us if they knew all, a reformation would generally be
unavoidable. We could not otherwise endure the sight.
7Nature,
however, has not left this weakness, which is of so much
importance, altogether without a remedy; nor has she
abandoned us entirely to the delusions of self–love. Our
continual observations upon the conduct of others,
insensibly lead us to form to ourselves certain general
rules concerning what is fit and proper either to be done or
to be avoided. Some of their actions shock all our natural
sentiments. We hear every body about us express the like
detestation against them. This still further confirms, and
even exasperates our natural sense of their deformity. It
satisfies us that we view them in the proper light, when we
see other people view them in the same light. We resolve
never to be guilty of the like, nor ever, upon any account,
to render ourselves in this manner the objects of universal
disapprobation. We thus naturally lay down to ourselves a
general rule, that all such actions are to be avoided, as
tending to render us odious, contemptible, or punishable,
the objects of all those sentiments for which we have the
greatest dread and aversion. Other actions, on the contrary,
call forth our approbation, and we hear every body around us
express the same favourable opinion concerning them. Every
body is eager to honour and reward them. They excite all
those sentiments for which we have by nature the strongest
desire; the love, the gratitude, the admiration of mankind.
We become ambitious of performing the like; and thus
naturally lay down to ourselves a rule of another kind, that
every opportunity of acting in this manner is carefully to
be sought after.
8It
is thus that the general rules of morality are formed. They
are ultimately founded upon experience of what, in
particular instances, our moral faculties, our natural sense
of merit and propriety, approve, or disapprove of. We do not
originally approve or condemn particular actions; because,
upon examination, they appear to be agreeable or
inconsistent with a certain general rule. The general rule,
on the contrary, is formed, by finding from experience, that
all actions of a certain kind, or circumstanced in a certain
manner, are approved or disapproved of. To the man who first
saw an inhuman murder, committed from avarice, envy, or
unjust resentment, and upon one too that loved and trusted
the murderer, who beheld the last agonies of the dying
person, who heard him, with his expiring breath, complain
more of the perfidy and ingratitude of his false friend,
than of the violence which had been done to him, there could
be no occasion, in order to conceive how horrible such an
action was, that he should reflect, that one of the most
sacred rules of conduct was what prohibited the taking away
the life of an innocent person, that this was a plain
violation of that rule, and consequently a very blamable
action. His detestation of this crime, it is evident, would
arise instantaneously and antecedent to his having formed to
himself any such general rule. The general rule, on the
contrary, which he might afterwards form, would be founded
upon the detestation which he felt necessarily arise in his
own breast, at the thought of this, and every other
particular action of the same kind.
9When
we read in history or romance, the account of actions either
of generosity or of baseness, the admiration which we
conceive for the one, and the contempt which we feel for the
other, neither of them arise from reflecting that there are
certain general rules which declare all actions of the one
kind admirable, and all actions of the other contemptible.
Those general rules, on the contrary, are all formed from
the experience we have had of the effects which actions of
all different kinds naturally produce upon us.
10An
amiable action, a respectable action, an horrid action, are
all of them actions which naturally excite for the person
who performs them, the love, the respect, or the horror of
the spectator. The general rules which determine what
actions are, and what are not, the objects of each of those
sentiments, can be formed no other way than by observing
what actions actually and in fact excite them.
11When
these general rules, indeed, have been formed, when they are
universally acknowledged and established, by the concurring
sentiments of mankind, we frequently appeal to them as to
the standards of
in debating concerning
the degree of praise or blame that is due to certain actions
of a complicated and dubious nature. They are upon these
occasions commonly cited as the ultimate foundations of what
is just and unjust in human conduct; and this circumstance
seems to have misled several very eminent authors, to draw
up their systems in such a manner, as if they had supposed
that the original judgments of mankind with regard to right
and wrong, were formed like the decisions of a court of
judicatory, by considering first the general rule, and then,
secondly, whether the particular action under consideration
fell properly within its comprehension.
12Those
general rules of conduct, when they have been fixed in our
mind by habitual reflection, are of great use in correcting
the misrepresentations of self–love concerning what is fit
and proper to be done in our particular situation. The man
of furious resentment, if he was to listen to the dictates
of that passion, would perhaps regard the death of his
enemy, as but a small compensation for the wrong, he
imagines, he has received; which, however, may be no more
than a very slight provocation. But his observations upon
the conduct of others, have taught him how horrible all such
sanguinary revenges appear. Unless his education has been
very singular, he has laid it down to himself as an
inviolable rule, to abstain from them upon all occasions.
This rule preserves its authority with him, and renders him
incapable of being guilty of such a violence. Yet the fury
of his own temper may be such, that had this been the first
time in which he considered such an action, he would
undoubtedly have determined it to be quite just and proper,
and what every impartial spectator would approve of. But
that reverence for the rule which past experience has
impressed upon him, checks the impetuosity of his passion,
and helps him to correct the too partial views which
self–love might otherwise suggest, of what was proper to be
done in his situation. If he should allow himself to be so
far transported by passion as to violate this rule, yet,
even in this case, he cannot throw off altogether the awe
and respect with which he has been accustomed to regard it.
At the very time of acting, at the moment in which passion
mounts the highest, he hesitates and trembles at the thought
of what he is about to do: he is secretly conscious to
himself that he is breaking through those measures of
conduct which, in all his cool hours, he had resolved never
to infringe, which he had never seen infringed by others
without the highest disapprobation, and of which the
infringement, his own mind forebodes, must soon render him
the object of the same disagreeable sentiments. Before he
can take the last fatal resolution, he is tormented with all
the agonies of doubt and uncertainty; he is terrified at the
thought of violating so sacred a rule, and at the same time
is urged and goaded on by the fury of his desires to violate
it. He changes his purpose every moment; sometimes he
resolves to adhere to his principle, and not indulge a
passion which may corrupt the remaining part of his life
with the horrors of shame and repentance; and a momentary
calm takes possession of his breast, from the prospect of
that security and tranquillity which he will enjoy when he
thus determines not to expose himself to the hazard of a
contrary conduct. But immediately the passion rouses anew,
and with fresh fury drives him on to commit what he had the
instant before resolved to abstain from. Wearied and
distracted with those continual irresolutions, he at length,
from a sort of despair, makes the last fatal and
irrecoverable step; but with that terror and amazement with
which one flying from an enemy, throws himself over a
precipice, where he is sure of meeting with more certain
destruction than from any thing that pursues him from
behind. Such are his sentiments even at the time of acting;
though he is then, no doubt, less sensible of the
impropriety of his own conduct than afterwards, when his
passion being gratified and palled, he begins to view what
he has done in the light in which others are apt to view it;
and actually feels, what he had only foreseen very
imperfectly before, the stings of remorse and repentance
begin to agitate and torment him.
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Of the influence
and authority of the general Rules of Morality, and that
they are justly regarded as the Laws of the Deity
1The
regard to those general rules of conduct, is what is
properly called a sense of duty, a principle of the greatest
consequence in human life, and the only principle by which
the bulk of mankind are capable of directing their actions.
Many men behave very decently, and through the whole of
their lives avoid any considerable degree of blame, who yet,
perhaps, never felt the sentiment upon the propriety of
which we found our approbation of their conduct, but acted
merely from a regard to what they saw were the established
rules of behaviour. The man who has received great benefits
from another person, may, by the natural coldness of his
temper, feel but a very small degree of the sentiment of
gratitude. If he has been virtuously educated, however, he
will often have been made to observe how odious those
actions appear which denote a want of this sentiment, and
how amiable the contrary. Though his heart therefore is not
warmed with any grateful affection, he will strive to act as
if it was, and will endeavour to pay all those regards and
attentions to his patron which the liveliest gratitude could
suggest. He will visit him regularly; he will behave to him
respectfully; he will never talk of him but with expressions
of the highest esteem, and of the many obligations which he
owes to him. And what is more, he will
embrace every
opportunity of making a proper return for past services. He
may do all this too without any hypocrisy or blamable
dissimulation, without any selfish intention of obtaining
new favours, and without any design of imposing either upon
his benefactor or the public. The motive of his actions may
be no other than a reverence for the established rule of
duty, a serious and earnest desire of acting, in every
respect, according to the law of gratitude. A wife, in the
same manner, may sometimes not feel that tender regard for
her husband which is suitable to the relation that subsists
between them. If she has been virtuously educated, however,
she will endeavour to act as if she felt it, to be careful,
officious, faithful, and sincere, and to be deficient in
none of those attentions which the sentiment of conjugal
affection could have prompted her to perform. Such a friend,
and such a wife, are neither of them, undoubtedly, the very
best of their kinds; and though both of them may have the
most serious and earnest desire to fulfil every part of
their duty, yet they will fail in many nice and delicate
regards, they will miss many opportunities of obliging,
which they could never have overlooked if they had possessed
the sentiment that is proper to their situation. Though not
the very first of their kinds, however, they are perhaps the
second; and if the regard to the general rules of conduct
has been very strongly impressed upon them, neither of them
will fail in any very essential part of their duty. None but
those of the happiest mould are capable of suiting, with
exact justness, their sentiments and behaviour to the
smallest difference of situation, and of acting upon all
occasions with the most delicate and accurate propriety. The
coarse clay of which the bulk of mankind are formed, cannot
be wrought up to such perfection. There is scarce any man,
however, who by discipline, education, and example, may not
be so impressed with a regard to general rules, as to act
upon almost every occasion with tolerable decency, and
through the whole of his life to avoid any considerable
degree of blame.
2Without
this sacred regard to general rules, there is no man whose
conduct can be much depended upon. It is this which
constitutes the most essential difference between a man of
principle and honour and a worthless fellow. The one
adheres, on all occasions, steadily and resolutely to his
maxims, and preserves through the whole of his life one even
tenour of conduct. The other, acts variously and
accidentally, as humour, inclination, or interest chance to
be uppermost. Nay, such are the inequalities of humour to
which all men are subject, that without this principle, the
man who, in all his cool hours, had the most delicate
sensibility to the propriety of conduct, might often be led
to act absurdly upon the most frivolous occasions, and when
it was scarce possible to assign any serious motive for his
behaving in this manner. Your friend makes you a visit when
you happen to be in a humour which makes it disagreeable to
receive him: in your present mood his civility is very apt
to appear an impertinent intrusion; and if you were to give
way to the views of things which at this time occur, though
civil in your temper, you would behave to him with coldness
and contempt. What renders you incapable of such a rudeness,
is nothing but a regard to the general rules of civility and
hospitality, which prohibit it. That habitual reverence
which your former experience has taught you for these,
enables you to act, upon all such occasions, with nearly
equal propriety, and hinders those inequalities of temper,
to which all men are subject, from influencing your conduct
in any very sensible degree. But if without regard to these
general rules, even the duties of politeness, which are so
easily observed, and which one can scarce have any serious
motive to violate, would yet be so frequently violated, what
would become of the duties of justice, of truth, of
chastity, of fidelity, which it is often so difficult to
observe, and which there may be so many strong motives to
violate? But upon the tolerable observance of these duties,
depends the very existence of human society, which would
crumble into nothing if mankind were not generally impressed
with a reverence for those important rules of conduct.
3This
reverence is still further enhanced by an opinion which is
first impressed by nature, and afterwards confirmed by
reasoning and philosophy, that those important rules of
morality are the commands and laws of the Deity, who will
finally reward the obedient, and punish the transgressors of
their duty.
4This
opinion or apprehension, I say, seems first to be impressed
by nature. Men are naturally led to ascribe to those
mysterious beings, whatever they are, which happen, in any
country, to be the objects of religious fear, all their own
sentiments and passions. They have no other, they can
conceive no other to ascribe to them. Those unknown
intelligences which they imagine but see not, must
necessarily be formed with some sort of resemblance to those
intelligences of which they have experience. During the
ignorance and darkness of pagan superstition, mankind seem
to have formed the ideas of their divinities with so little
delicacy, that they ascribed to them, indiscriminately, all
the passions of human nature, those not excepted which do
the least honour to our species, such as lust, hunger,
avarice, envy, revenge. They could not fail, therefore, to
ascribe to those beings, for the excellence of whose nature
they still conceived the highest admiration, those
sentiments and qualities which are the great ornaments of
humanity, and which seem to raise it to a resemblance of
divine perfection, the love of virtue and beneficence, and
the abhorrence of vice and injustice. The man who was
injured, called upon Jupiter to be witness of the wrong that
was done to him, and could not doubt, but that divine being
would behold it with the same indignation which would
animate the meanest of mankind, who looked on when injustice
was committed. The man who did the injury, felt himself to
be the proper object of the detestation and resentment of
mankind; and his natural fears led him to impute the same
sentiments to those awful beings, whose presence he could
not avoid, and whose power he could not resist. These
natural hopes and fears, and suspicions, were propagated by
sympathy, and confirmed by education; and the gods were
universally represented and believed to be the rewarders of
humanity and mercy, and the avengers of perfidy and
injustice. And thus religion, even in its rudest form, gave
a sanction to the rules of morality, long before the age of
artificial reasoning and philosophy. That the terrors of
religion should thus enforce the natural sense of duty, was
of too much importance to the happiness of mankind, for
nature to leave it dependent upon the slowness and
uncertainty of philosophical researches.
5
These researches, however, when they came to take place,
confirmed those original anticipations of nature. Upon
whatever we suppose that our moral faculties are founded,
whether upon a certain modification of reason, upon an
original instinct, called a moral sense, or upon some other
principle of our nature, it cannot be doubted, that they
were given us for the direction of our conduct in this life.
They carry along with them the most evident badges of this
authority, which denote that they were set up within us to
be the supreme arbiters of all our actions, to superintend
all our senses, passions, and appetites, and to judge how
far each of them was either to be indulged or restrained.
Our moral faculties are by no means, as some have pretended,
upon a level in this respect with the other faculties and
appetites of our nature, endowed with no more right to
restrain these last, than these last are to restrain them.
No other faculty or principle of action judges of any other.
Love does not judge of resentment, nor resentment of love.
Those two passions may be opposite to one another, but
cannot, with any propriety, be said to approve or disapprove
of one another. But it is the peculiar office of those
faculties now under our consideration to judge, to bestow
censure or applause upon all the other principles of our
nature. They may be considered as a sort of senses of which
those principles are the objects. Every sense is supreme
over its own objects. There is no appeal from the eye with
regard to the beauty of colours, nor from the ear with
regard to the harmony of sounds, nor from the taste with
regard to the agreeableness of flavours. Each of those
senses judges in the last resort of its own objects.
Whatever gratifies the taste is sweet, whatever pleases the
eye is beautiful, whatever soothes the ear is harmonious.
The very essence of each of those qualities consists in its
being fitted to please the sense to which it is addressed.
It belongs to our moral faculties, in the same manner to
determine when the ear ought to be soothed, when the eye
ought to be indulged, when the taste ought to be gratified,
when and how far every other principle of our nature ought
either to be indulged or restrained. What is agreeable to
our moral faculties, is fit, and right, and proper to be
done; the contrary wrong, unfit, and improper. The
sentiments which they approve of, are graceful and becoming:
the contrary, ungraceful and unbecoming. The very words,
right, wrong, fit, improper, graceful, unbecoming, mean only
what pleases or displeases those faculties.
6Since
these, therefore, were plainly intended to be the governing
principles of human nature, the rules which they prescribe
are to be regarded as the commands and laws of the Deity,
promulgated by those vicegerents which he has thus set up
within us. All general rules are commonly denominated laws:
thus the general rules which bodies observe in the
communication of motion, are called the laws of motion. But
those general rules which our moral faculties observe in
approving or condemning whatever sentiment or action is
subjected to their examination, may much more justly be
denominated such. They have a much greater resemblance to
what are properly called laws, those general rules which the
sovereign lays down to direct the conduct of his subjects.
Like them they are rules to direct the free actions of men:
they are prescribed most surely by a lawful superior, and
are attended too with the sanction of rewards and
punishments. Those vicegerents of God within us, never fail
to punish the violation of them, by the torments of inward
shame, and self–condemnation; and on the contrary, always
reward obedience with tranquility of mind, with contentment,
and self–satisfaction.
7There
are innumerable other considerations which serve to confirm
the same conclusion. The happiness of mankind, as well as of
all other rational creatures, seems to have been the
original purpose intended by the Author of nature, when he
brought them into existence. No other end seems worthy of
that supreme wisdom and divine benignity which we
necessarily ascribe to him; and this opinion, which we are
led to by the abstract consideration of his infinite
perfections, is still more confirmed by the examination of
the works of nature, which seem all intended to promote
happiness, and to guard against misery. But by acting
according to the dictates of our moral faculties, we
necessarily pursue the most effectual means for promoting
the happiness of mankind, and may therefore be said, in some
sense, to co–operate with the Deity, and to advance as far
as in our power the plan of Providence. By acting otherways,
on the contrary, we seem to obstruct, in some measure, the
scheme which the Author of nature has established for the
happiness and perfection of the world, and to declare
ourselves, if I may say so, in some measure the enemies of
God. Hence we are naturally encouraged to hope for his
extraordinary favour and reward in the one case, and to
dread his vengeance and punishment in the other.
8There
are besides many other reasons, and many other natural
principles, which all tend to confirm and inculcate the same
salutary doctrine. If we consider the general rules by which
external prosperity and adversity are commonly distributed
in this life, we shall find, that notwithstanding the
disorder in which all things appear to be in this world, yet
even here every virtue naturally meets with its proper
reward, with the recompense which is most fit to encourage
and promote it; and this too so surely, that it requires a
very extraordinary concurrence of circumstances entirely to
disappoint it. What is the reward most proper for
encouraging industry, prudence, and circumspection? Success
in every sort of business. And is it possible that in the
whole of life these virtues should fail of attaining it?
Wealth and external honours are their proper recompense, and
the recompense which they can seldom fail of acquiring. What
reward is most proper for promoting the practice of truth,
justice, and humanity? The confidence, the esteem, and love
of those we live with. Humanity does not desire to be great,
but to be beloved. It is not in being rich that truth and
justice would rejoice, but in being trusted and believed,
recompenses which those virtues must almost always acquire.
By some very extraordinary and unlucky circumstance, a good
man may come to be suspected of a crime of which he was
altogether incapable, and upon that account be most unjustly
exposed for the remaining part of his life to the horror and
aversion of mankind. By an accident of this kind he may be
said to lose his all, notwithstanding his integrity and
justice; in the same manner as a cautious man,
notwithstanding his utmost circumspection, may be ruined by
an earthquake or an inundation. Accidents of the first kind,
however, are perhaps still more rare, and still more
contrary to the common course of things than those of the
second; and it still remains true, that the practice of
truth, justice, and humanity is a certain and almost
infallible method of acquiring what those virtues chiefly
aim at, the confidence and love of those we live with. A
person may be very easily misrepresented with regard to a
particular action; but it is scarce possible that he should
be so with regard to the general tenor of his conduct. An
innocent man may be believed to have done wrong: this,
however, will rarely happen. On the contrary, the
established opinion of the innocence of his manners, will
often lead us to absolve him where he has really been in the
fault, notwithstanding very strong presumptions. A knave, in
the same manner, may escape censure, or even meet with
applause, for a particular knavery, in which his conduct is
not understood. But no man was ever habitually such, without
being almost universally known to be so, and without being
even frequently suspected of guilt, when he was in reality
perfectly innocent. And so far as vice and virtue can be
either punished or rewarded by the sentiments and opinions
of mankind, they both, according to the common course of
things, meet even here with something more than exact and
impartial justice.
9But
though the general rules by which prosperity and adversity
are commonly distributed, when considered in this cool and
philosophical light, appear to be perfectly suited to the
situation of mankind in this life, yet they are by no means
suited to some of our natural sentiments. Our natural love
and admiration for some virtues is such, that we should wish
to bestow on them all sorts of honours and rewards, even
those which we must acknowledge to be the proper recompenses
of other qualities, with which those virtues are not always
accompanied. Our detestation, on the contrary, for some
vices is such, that we should desire to heap upon them every
sort of disgrace and disaster, those not excepted which are
the natural consequences of very different qualities.
Magnanimity, generosity, and justice, command so high a
degree of admiration, that we desire to see them crowned
with wealth, and power, and honours of every kind, the
natural consequences of prudence, industry, and application;
qualities with which those virtues are not inseparably
connected. Fraud, falsehood, brutality, and violence, on the
other hand, excite in every human breast such scorn and
abhorrence, that our indignation rouses to see them possess
those advantages which they may in some sense be said to
have merited, by the diligence and industry with which they
are sometimes attended. The industrious knave cultivates the
soil; the indolent good man leaves it uncultivated. Who
ought to reap the harvest?
starve, and who live in
plenty? The natural course of things decides it in favour of
the knave: the natural sentiments of mankind in favour of
the man of virtue. Man judges, that the good qualities of
the one are greatly over–recompensed by those advantages
which they tend to procure him, and that the omissions of
the other are by far too severely punished by the distress
which they naturally bring upon him; and human laws, the
consequences of human sentiments, forfeit the life and the
estate of the industrious and cautious traitor, and reward,
by extraordinary recompenses, the fidelity and public spirit
of the improvident and careless good citizen. Thus man is by
Nature directed to correct, in some measure, that
distribution of things which she herself would otherwise
have made. The rules which for this purpose she prompts him
to follow, are different from those which she herself
observes. She bestows upon every virtue, and upon every
vice, that precise reward or punishment which is best fitted
to encourage the one, or to restrain the other. She is
directed by this sole consideration, and pays little regard
to the different degrees of merit and demerit, which they
may seem to possess in the sentiments and passions of man.
Man, on the contrary, pays regard to this only, and would
endeavour to render the state of every virtue precisely
proportioned to that degree of love and esteem, and of every
vice to that degree of contempt and abhorrence, which he
himself conceives for it. The rules which she follows are
fit for her, those which he follows for him: but both are
calculated to promote the same great end, the order of the
world, and the perfection and happiness of human nature.
10But
though man is thus employed to alter that distribution of
things which natural events would make, if left to
themselves; though, like the gods of the poets, he is
perpetually interposing, by extraordinary means, in favour
of virtue, and in opposition to vice, and, like them,
endeavours to turn away the arrow that is aimed at the head
of the righteous, but to accelerate the sword of destruction
that is lifted up against the wicked; yet he is by no means
able to render the fortune of either quite suitable to his
own sentiments and wishes. The natural course of things
cannot be entirely controlled by the impotent endeavours of
man: the current is too rapid and too strong for him to stop
it; and though the rules which direct it appear to have been
established for the wisest and best purposes, they sometimes
produce effects which shock all his natural sentiments. That
a great combination of men should prevail over a small one;
that those who engage in an enterprise with forethought and
all necessary preparation, should prevail over such as
oppose them without any; and that every end should be
acquired by those means only which Nature has established
for acquiring it, seems to be a rule not only necessary and
unavoidable in itself, but even useful and proper for
rousing the industry and attention of mankind. Yet, when, in
consequence of this rule, violence and artifice prevail over
sincerity and justice, what indignation does it not excite
in the breast of every human spectator? What sorrow and
compassion for the sufferings of the innocent, and what
furious resentment against the success of the oppressor? We
are equally grieved and enraged at the wrong that is done,
but often find it altogether out of our power to redress it.
When we thus despair of finding any force upon earth which
can check the triumph of injustice, we naturally appeal to
heaven, and hope, that the great Author of our nature will
himself execute hereafter, what all the principles which he
has given us for the direction of our conduct, prompt us to
attempt even here; that he will complete the plan which he
himself has thus taught us to begin; and will, in a life to
come, render to every one according to the works which he
has performed in this world. And thus we are led to the
belief of a future state, not only by the weaknesses, by the
hopes and fears of human nature, but by the noblest and best
principles which belong to it, by the love of virtue, and by
the abhorrence of vice and injustice.
11‘Does
it suit the greatness of God,’ says the eloquent and
philosophical bishop of Clermont,
with that passionate and exaggerating force of imagination,
which seems sometimes to exceed the bounds of decorum; ‘does
it suit the greatness of God, to leave the world which he
has created in so universal a disorder? To see the wicked
prevail almost always over the just; the innocent dethroned
by the usurper; the father become the victim of the ambition
of an unnatural son; the husband expiring under the stroke
of a barbarous and faithless wife? From the height of his
greatness ought God to behold those melancholy events as a
fantastical amusement, without taking any share in them?
Because he is great, should he be weak, or unjust, or
barbarous? Because men are little, ought they to be allowed
either to be dissolute without punishment, or virtuous
without reward? O God! if this is the character of your
Supreme Being; if it is you whom we adore under such
dreadful ideas; I can no longer acknowledge you for my
father, for my protector, for the comforter of my sorrow,
the support of my weakness, the rewarder of my fidelity. You
would then be no more than an indolent and fantastical
tyrant, who sacrifices mankind to his insolent vanity, and
who has brought them out of nothing, only to make them serve
for the sport of his leisure and of his caprice.’
12When
the general rules which determine the merit and demerit of
actions, come thus to be regarded as the laws of an
All–powerful Being, who watches over our conduct, and who,
in a life to come, will reward the observance, and punish
the breach of them; they necessarily acquire a new
sacredness from this consideration. That our regard to the
will of the Deity ought to be the supreme rule of our
conduct, can be doubted of by nobody who believes his
existence. The very thought of disobedience appears to
involve in it the most shocking impropriety. How vain, how
absurd would it be for man, either to oppose or to neglect
the commands that were laid upon him by Infinite Wisdom, and
Infinite Power! How unnatural, how impiously ungrateful not
to reverence the precepts that were prescribed to him by the
infinite goodness of his Creator, even though no punishment
was to follow their violation. The sense of propriety too is
here well supported by the strongest motives of
self–interest. The idea that, however we may escape the
observation of man, or be placed above the reach of human
punishment, yet we are always acting under the eye, and
exposed to the punishment of God, the great avenger of
injustice, is a motive capable of restraining the most
headstrong passions, with those at least who, by constant
have rendered it
familiar to them.
13It
is in this manner that religion enforces the natural sense
of duty: and hence it is, that mankind are generally
disposed to place great confidence in the probity of those
who seem deeply impressed with religious sentiments. Such
persons, they imagine, act under an additional tie, besides
those which regulate the conduct of other men. The regard to
the propriety of action, as well as to reputation, the
regard to the applause of his own breast, as well as to that
of others, are motives which they suppose have the same
influence over the religious man, as over the man of the
world. But the former lies under another restraint, and
never acts deliberately but as in the presence of that Great
Superior who is finally to recompense him according to his
deeds. A greater trust is reposed, upon this account, in the
regularity and exactness of his conduct. And wherever the
natural principles of religion are not corrupted by the
factious and party zeal of some worthless cabal; wherever
the first duty which it requires, is to fulfil all the
obligations of morality; wherever men are not taught to
regard frivolous observances, as more immediate duties of
religion, than acts of justice and beneficence; and to
imagine, that by sacrifices, and ceremonies, and vain
supplications, they can bargain with the Deity for fraud,
and perfidy, and violence, the world undoubtedly judges
right in this respect, and justly places a double confidence
in the rectitude of the religious man’s behaviour.
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In what cases the
Sense of Duty ought to be the sole principle of our conduct;
and in what cases it ought to concur with other motives
1Religion
affords such strong motives to the practice of virtue, and
guards us by such powerful restraints from the temptations
of vice, that many have been led to suppose, that religious
principles were the sole laudable motives of action. We
ought neither, they said, to reward from gratitude, nor
punish from resentment; we ought neither to protect the
helplessness of our children, nor afford support to the
infirmities of our parents, from natural affection. All
affections for particular objects, ought to be extinguished
in our breast, and one great affection take the place of all
others, the love of the Deity, the desire of rendering
ourselves agreeable to him, and of directing our conduct, in
every respect, according to his will. We ought not to be
grateful from gratitude, we ought not to be charitable from
humanity, we ought not to be public–spirited from the love
of our country, nor generous and just from the love of
mankind. The sole principle and motive of our conduct in the
performance of all those different duties, ought to be a
sense that God has commanded us to perform them. I shall not
at present take time to examine this opinion particularly; I
shall only observe, that we should not have expected to have
found it entertained by any sect, who professed themselves
of a religion in which, as it is the first precept to love
the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our soul, and
with all our strength, so it is the second to love our
neighbour as we love ourselves; and we love ourselves surely
for our own sakes, and not merely because we are commanded
to do so. That the sense of duty should be the sole
principle of our conduct, is no where the precept of
Christianity; but that it should be the ruling and the
governing one, as philosophy, and as, indeed, common sense
directs. It may be a question, however, in what cases our
actions ought to arise chiefly or entirely from a sense of
duty, or from a regard to general rules; and in what cases
some other sentiment or affection ought to concur, and have
a principal influence.
2The
decision of this question, which cannot, perhaps, be given
with any very great accuracy, will depend upon two different
circumstances; first, upon the natural agreeableness or
deformity of the sentiment or affection which would prompt
us to any action independent of all regard to general rules;
and, secondly, upon the precision and exactness, or the
looseness and inaccuracy, of the general rules themselves.
3I.
First, I say, it will depend upon the natural
agreeableness or deformity of the affection itself, how far
our actions ought to arise from it, or entirely proceed from
a regard to the general rule.
4All
those graceful and admired actions, to which the benevolent
affections would prompt us, ought to proceed as much from
the passions themselves, as from any regard to the general
rules of conduct. A benefactor thinks himself but ill
requited, if the person upon whom he has bestowed his good
offices, repays them merely from a cold sense of duty, and
without any affection to his person. A husband is
dissatisfied with the most obedient wife, when he imagines
her conduct is animated by no other principle besides her
regard to what the relation she stands in requires. Though a
son should fail in none of the offices of filial duty, yet
if he wants that affectionate reverence which it so well
becomes him to feel, the parent may justly complain of his
indifference. Nor could a son be quite satisfied with a
parent who, though he performed all the duties of his
situation, had nothing of that fatherly fondness which might
have been expected from him. With regard to all such
benevolent and social affections, it is agreeable to see the
sense of duty employed rather to restrain than to enliven
them, rather to hinder us from doing too much, than to
prompt us to do what we ought. It gives us pleasure to see a
father obliged to check his own fondness, a friend obliged
to set bounds to his natural generosity, a person who has
received a benefit, obliged to restrain the too sanguine
gratitude of his own temper.
5The
contrary maxim takes place with regard to the malevolent and
unsocial passions. We ought to reward from the gratitude and
generosity of our own hearts, without any reluctance, and
without being obliged to reflect how great the propriety of
rewarding: but we ought always to punish with reluctance,
and more from a sense of the propriety of punishing, than
from any savage disposition to revenge. Nothing is more
graceful than the behaviour of the man who appears to resent
the greatest injuries, more from a sense that they deserve,
and are the proper objects of resentment, than from feeling
himself the furies of that disagreeable passion; who, like a
judge, considers only the general rule, which determines
what vengeance is due for each particular offence; who, in
executing that rule, feels less for what himself has
suffered, than for what the offender is about to suffer;
who, though in
remembers mercy, and is
disposed to interpret the rule in the most gentle and
favourable manner, and to allow all the alleviations which
the most candid humanity could, consistently with good
sense, admit of.
6As
the selfish passions, according to what has formerly been
observed, hold, in other respects, a sort of middle place,
between the social and unsocial affections, so do they
likewise in this. The pursuit of the objects of private
interest, in all common, little, and ordinary cases, ought
to flow rather from a regard to the general rules which
prescribe such conduct, than from any passion for the
objects themselves; but upon more important and
extraordinary occasions, we should be awkward, insipid, and
ungraceful, if the objects themselves did not appear to
animate us with a considerable degree of passion. To be
anxious, or to be laying a plot either to gain or to save a
single shilling, would degrade the most vulgar tradesman in
the opinion of all his neighbours. Let his circumstances be
ever so mean, no attention to any such small matters, for
the sake of the things themselves, must appear in his
conduct. His situation may require the most severe oeconomy
and the most exact assiduity: but each particular exertion
of that oeconomy and assiduity must proceed, not so much
from a regard for that particular saving or gain, as for the
general rule which to him prescribes, with the utmost
rigour, such a tenor of conduct. His parsimony to–day must
not arise from a desire of the particular three–pence which
he will save by it, nor his attendance in his shop from a
passion for the particular tenpence which he will acquire by
it: both the one and the other ought to proceed solely from
a regard to the general rule, which prescribes, with the
most unrelenting severity, this plan of conduct to all
persons in his way of life. In this consists the difference
between the character of a miser and that of a person of
exact oeconomy and assiduity. The one is anxious about small
matters for their own sake; the other attends to them only
in consequence of the scheme of life which he has laid down
to himself.
7It
is quite otherwise with regard to the more extraordinary and
important objects of self–interest. A person appears
mean–spirited, who does not pursue these with some degree of
earnestness for their own sake. We should despise a prince
who was not anxious about conquering or defending a
province. We should have little respect for a private
gentleman who did not exert himself to gain an estate, or
even a considerable office, when he could acquire them
without either meanness or injustice. A member of parliament
who shews no keenness about his own election, is abandoned
by his friends, as altogether unworthy of their attachment.
Even a tradesman is thought a poor–spirited fellow among his
neighbours, who does not bestir himself to get what they
call an extraordinary job, or some uncommon advantage. This
spirit and keenness constitutes the difference between the
man of enterprise and the man of dull regularity. Those
great objects of self–interest, of which the loss or
acquisition quite changes the rank of the person, are the
objects of the passion properly called ambition; a passion,
which when it keeps within the bounds of prudence and
justice, is always admired in the world, and has even
sometimes a certain irregular greatness, which dazzles the
imagination, when it passes the limits of both these
virtues, and is not only unjust but extravagant. Hence the
general admiration for heroes and conquerors, and even for
statesmen, whose projects have been very daring and
extensive, though altogether devoid of justice; such as
those of the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. The objects
of avarice and ambition differ only in their greatness. A
miser is as furious about a halfpenny, as a man of ambition
about the conquest of a kingdom.
8II.
Secondly, I say, it will depend partly upon the
precision and exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy of
the general rules themselves, how far our conduct ought to
proceed entirely from a regard to them.
9The
general rules of almost all the virtues, the general rules
which determine what are the offices of prudence, of
charity, of generosity, of gratitude, of friendship, are in
many respects loose and inaccurate, admit of many
exceptions, and require so many modifications, that it is
scarce possible to regulate our conduct entirely by a regard
to them. The common proverbial maxims of prudence, being
founded in universal experience, are perhaps the best
general rules which can be given about it. To affect,
however, a very strict and literal adherence to them would
evidently be the most absurd and ridiculous pedantry. Of all
the virtues I have just now mentioned, gratitude is that,
perhaps, of which the rules are the most precise, and admit
of the fewest exceptions. That as soon as we can we should
make a return of equal, and if possible of superior value to
the services we have received, would seem to be a pretty
plain rule, and one which admitted of scarce any exceptions.
Upon the most superficial examination, however, this rule
will appear to be in the highest degree loose and
inaccurate, and to admit of ten thousand exceptions. If your
benefactor attended you in your sickness, ought you to
attend him in his? or can you fulfil the obligation of
gratitude, by making a return of a different kind? If you
ought to attend him, how long ought you to attend him? The
same time which he attended you, or longer, and how much
longer? If your friend lent you money in your distress,
ought you to lend him money in his? How much ought you to
lend him? When ought you to lend him? Now, or to–morrow, or
next month? And for how long a time? It is evident, that no
general rule can be laid down, by which a precise answer
can, in all cases, be given to any of these questions. The
difference between his character and yours, between his
circumstances and yours, may be such, that you may be
perfectly grateful, and justly refuse to lend him a
halfpenny: and, on the contrary, you may be willing to lend,
or even to give him ten times the sum which he lent you, and
yet justly be accused of the blackest ingratitude, and of
not having fulfilled the hundredth part of the obligation
you lie under. As the duties of gratitude, however, are
perhaps the most sacred of all those which the beneficent
virtues prescribe to us, so the general rules which
determine them are, as I said before, the most accurate.
Those which ascertain the actions required by friendship,
humanity, hospitality, generosity, are still more vague and
indeterminate.
10There
is, however, one virtue of which the general rules determine
with the greatest exactness every external action which it
requires. This virtue is justice. The rules of justice are
accurate in the highest degree, and admit of no exceptions
or modifications, but such as may be ascertained as
accurately as the rules themselves, and which generally,
indeed, flow from the very same principles with them. If I
owe a man ten pounds, justice requires that I should
precisely pay him ten pounds, either at the time agreed
upon, or when he demands it. What I ought to perform, how
much I ought to perform, when and where I ought to perform
it, the whole nature and circumstances of the action
prescribed, are all of them precisely fixt and determined.
Though it may be awkward and pedantic, therefore, to affect
too strict an adherence to the common rules of prudence or
generosity, there is no pedantry in sticking fast by the
rules of justice. On the contrary, the most sacred regard is
due to them; and the actions which this virtue requires are
never so properly performed, as when the chief motive for
performing them is a reverential and religious regard to
those general rules which require them. In the practice of
the other virtues, our conduct should rather be directed by
a certain idea of propriety, by a certain taste for a
particular tenor of conduct, than by any regard to a precise
maxim or rule; and we should consider the end and foundation
of the rule, more than the rule itself. But it is otherwise
with regard to justice: the man who in that refines the
least, and adheres with the most obstinate stedfastness to
the general rules themselves, is the most commendable, and
the most to be depended upon. Though the end of the rules of
justice be, to hinder us from hurting our neighbour, it may
frequently be a crime to violate them, though we could
pretend, with some pretext of reason, that this particular
violation could do no hurt. A man often becomes a villain
the moment he begins, even in his own heart, to chicane in
this manner. The moment he thinks of departing from the most
staunch and positive adherence to what those inviolable
precepts prescribe to him, he is no longer to be trusted,
and no man can say what degree of guilt he may not arrive
at. The thief imagines he does no evil, when he steals from
the rich, what he supposes they may easily want, and what
possibly they may never even know has been stolen from them.
The adulterer imagines he does no evil, when he corrupts the
wife of his friend, provided he covers his intrigue from the
suspicion of the husband, and does not disturb the peace of
the family. When once we begin to give way to such
refinements, there is no enormity so gross of which we may
not be capable.
11The
rules of justice may be compared to the rules of grammar;
the rules of the other virtues, to the rules which critics
lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and elegant
in composition. The one, are precise, accurate, and
indispensable. The other, are loose, vague, and
indeterminate, and present us rather with a general idea of
the perfection we ought to aim at, than afford us any
certain and infallible directions for acquiring it. A man
may learn to write grammatically by rule, with the most
absolute infallibility; and so, perhaps, he may be taught to
act justly. But there are no rules whose observance will
infallibly lead us to the attainment of elegance or
sublimity in writing; though there are some which may help
us, in some measure, to correct and ascertain the vague
ideas which we might otherwise have entertained of those
perfections. And there are no rules by the knowledge of
which we can infallibly be taught to act upon all occasions
with prudence, with just magnanimity, or proper beneficence:
though there are some which may enable us to correct and
ascertain, in several respects, the imperfect ideas which we
might otherwise have entertained of those virtues.
12It
may sometimes happen, that with the most serious and earnest
desire of acting so as to deserve approbation, we may
mistake the proper rules of conduct, and thus be misled by
that very principle which ought to direct us. It is in vain
to expect, that in this case mankind should entirely approve
of our behaviour. They cannot enter into that absurd idea of
duty which influenced us, nor go along with any of the
actions which follow from it. There is still, however,
something respectable in the character and behaviour of one
who is thus betrayed into vice, by a wrong sense of duty, or
by what is called an erroneous conscience. How fatally
soever he may be misled by it, he is still, with the
generous and humane, more the object of commiseration than
of hatred or resentment. They lament the weakness of human
nature, which exposes us to such unhappy delusions, even
while we are most sincerely labouring after perfection, and
endeavouring to act according to the best principle which
can possibly direct us. False notions of religion are almost
the only causes which can occasion any very gross perversion
of our natural sentiments in this way; and that principle
which gives the greatest authority to the rules of duty, is
alone capable of distorting our ideas of them in any
considerable degree. In all other cases common sense is
sufficient to direct us, if not to the most exquisite
propriety of conduct, yet to something which is not very far
from it; and provided we are in earnest desirous to do well,
our behaviour will always, upon the whole, be praise–worthy.
That to obey the will of the Deity, is the first rule of
duty, all men are agreed. But concerning the particular
commandments which that will may impose upon us, they differ
widely from one another. In this, therefore, the greatest
mutual forbearance and toleration is due; and though the
defence of society requires that crimes should be punished,
from whatever motives they proceed, yet a good man will
always punish them with reluctance, when they evidently
proceed from false notions of religious duty. He will never
feel against those who commit them that indignation which he
feels against other criminals, but will rather regret, and
sometimes even admire their unfortunate firmness and
magnanimity, at the very time that he punishes their crime.
In the tragedy of Mahomet, one of the finest of Mr.
Voltaire’s,
it is well represented, what ought to be our sentiments for
crimes which proceed from such motives. In that tragedy, two
young people of different sexes, of the most innocent and
virtuous dispositions, and without any other weakness except
what endears them the more to us, a mutual fondness for one
another, are instigated by the strongest motives of a false
religion, to commit a horrid murder, that shocks all the
principles of human nature. A venerable old man, who had
expressed the most tender affection for them both, for whom,
notwithstanding he was the avowed enemy of their religion,
they had both conceived the highest reverence and esteem,
and who was in reality their father, though they did not
know him to be such, is pointed out to them as a sacrifice
which God had expressly required at their hands, and they
are commanded to kill him. While they are about executing
this crime, they are tortured with all the agonies which can
arise from the struggle between the idea of the
indispensableness of religious duty on the one side, and
compassion, gratitude, reverence for the age, and love for
the humanity and virtue of the person whom they are going to
destroy, on the other. The representation of this exhibits
one of the most interesting, and perhaps the most
instructive spectacle that was ever introduced upon any
theatre. The sense of duty, however, at last prevails over
all the amiable weaknesses of human nature. They execute the
crime imposed upon them; but immediately discover their
error, and the fraud which had deceived them, and are
distracted with horror, remorse, and resentment. Such as are
our sentiments for the unhappy Seid and Palmira, such ought
we to feel for every person who is in this manner misled by
religion, when we are sure that it is really religion which
misleads him, and not the pretence of it, which is made a
cover to some of the worst of human passions.
13As
a person may act wrong by following a wrong sense of duty,
so nature may sometimes prevail, and lead him to act right
in opposition to it. We cannot in this case be displeased to
see that motive prevail, which we think ought to prevail,
though the person himself is so weak as to think otherwise.
As his conduct, however, is the effect of weakness, not
principle, we are far from bestowing upon it any thing that
approaches to complete approbation. A bigoted Roman
Catholic, who, during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, had
been so overcome by compassion, as to save some unhappy
Protestants, whom he thought it his duty to destroy, would
not seem to be entitled to that high applause which we
should have bestowed upon him, had he exerted the same
generosity with complete self–approbation. We might be
pleased with the humanity of his temper, but we should still
regard him with a sort of pity which is altogether
inconsistent with the admiration that is due to perfect
virtue. It is the same case with all the other passions. We
do not dislike to see them exert themselves properly, even
when a false notion of duty would direct the person to
restrain them. A very devout Quaker, who upon being struck
upon one cheek, instead of turning up the other, should so
far forget his literal interpretation of our Saviour’s
precept, as to bestow some good discipline upon the brute
that insulted him, would not be disagreeable to us. We
should laugh and be diverted with his spirit, and rather
like him the better for it. But we should by no means regard
him with that respect and esteem which would seem due to one
who, upon a like occasion, had acted properly from a just
sense of what was proper to be done. No action can properly
be called virtuous, which is not accompanied with the
sentiment of self–approbation.
[Back to Table of Contents]
PART IV
Of the Effect
of Utility upon the Sentiment of
Approbation
[Back to Table of Contents]
Of the beauty which the
appearance ofUtilitybestows
upon all the productions of art, and of the extensive
influence of this species of Beauty
1That
utility is one of the principal sources of beauty has been
observed by every body, who has considered with any
attention what constitutes the nature of beauty. The
conveniency of a house gives pleasure to the spectator as
well as its regularity, and he is as much hurt when he
observes the contrary defect, as when he sees the
correspondent windows of different forms, or the door not
placed exactly in the middle of the building. That the
fitness of any system or machine to produce the end for
which it was intended, bestows a certain propriety and
beauty upon the whole, and renders the very thought and
contemplation of it agreeable, is so very obvious that
nobody has overlooked it.
2The
cause too, why utility pleases, has of late been assigned by
an ingenious and agreeable philosopher,
who joins the greatest depth of thought to the greatest
elegance of expression, and possesses the singular and happy
talent of treating the abstrusest subjects not only with the
most perfect perspicuity, but with the most lively
eloquence. The utility of any object, according to him,
pleases the master by perpetually suggesting to him the
pleasure or conveniency which it is fitted to promote. Every
time he looks at it, he is put in mind of this pleasure; and
the object in this manner becomes a source of perpetual
satisfaction and enjoyment. The spectator enters by sympathy
into the sentiments of the master, and necessarily views the
object under the same agreeable aspect. When we visit the
palaces of the great, we cannot help conceiving the
satisfaction we should enjoy if we ourselves were the
masters, and were possessed of so much artful and
ingeniously contrived accommodation. A similar account is
given why the appearance of inconveniency should render any
object disagreeable both to the owner and to the spectator.
3But
that this fitness, this happy contrivance of any production
of art, should often be more valued, than the very end for
which it was intended; and that the exact adjustment of the
means for attaining any conveniency or pleasure, should
frequently be more regarded, than that very conveniency or
pleasure, in the attainment of which their whole merit would
seem to consist, has not, so far as I know, been yet taken
notice of by any body.
That this however is very frequently the case, may be
observed in a thousand instances, both in the most frivolous
and in the most important concerns of human life.
4When
a person comes into his chamber, and finds the chairs all
standing in the middle of the room, he is angry with his
servant, and rather than see them continue in that disorder,
perhaps takes the trouble himself to set them all in their
places with their backs to the wall. The whole propriety of
this new situation arises from its superior conveniency in
leaving the floor free and disengaged. To attain this
conveniency he voluntarily puts himself to more trouble than
all he could have suffered from the want of it; since
nothing was more easy, than to have set himself down upon
one of them, which is probably what he does when his labour
is over. What he wanted therefore, it seems, was not so much
this conveniency, as that arrangement of things which
promotes it. Yet it is this conveniency which ultimately
recommends that arrangement, and bestows upon it the whole
of its propriety and beauty.
5A
watch, in the same manner, that falls behind above two
minutes in a day, is despised by one curious in watches. He
sells it perhaps for a couple of guineas, and purchases
another at fifty, which will not lose above a minute in a
fortnight. The sole use of watches however, is to tell us
what o’clock it is, and to hinder us from breaking any
engagement, or suffering any other inconveniency by our
ignorance in that particular point. But the person so nice
with regard to this machine, will not always be found either
more scrupulously punctual than other men, or more anxiously
concerned upon any other account, to know precisely what
time of day it is. What interests him is not so much the
attainment of this piece of knowledge, as the perfection of
the machine which serves to attain it.
6How
many people ruin themselves by laying out money on trinkets
of frivolous utility? What pleases these lovers of toys is
not so much the utility, as the aptness of the machines
which are fitted to promote it. All their pockets are
stuffed with little conveniencies. They contrive new
pockets, unknown in the clothes of other people, in order to
carry a greater number. They walk about loaded with a
multitude of baubles, in weight and sometimes in value not
inferior to an ordinary Jew’s–box,
some of which may sometimes be of some little use, but all
of which might at all times be very well spared, and of
which the whole utility is certainly not worth the fatigue
of bearing the burden.
7Nor
is it only with regard to such frivolous objects that our
conduct is influenced by this principle; it is often the
secret motive of the most serious and important pursuits of
both private and public life.
8The
poor man’s son, whom heaven in its anger has visited with
ambition, when he begins to look around him, admires the
condition of the rich. He finds the cottage of his father
too small for his accommodation, and fancies he should be
lodged more at his ease in a palace. He is displeased with
being obliged to walk a–foot, or to endure the fatigue of
riding on horseback. He sees his superiors carried about in
machines, and imagines that in one of these he could travel
with less inconveniency. He feels himself naturally
indolent, and willing to serve himself with his own hands as
little as possible; and judges, that a numerous retinue of
servants would save him from a great deal of trouble. He
thinks if he had attained all these, he
sit still contentedly, and
be quiet, enjoying himself in the thought of the happiness
and tranquillity of his situation. He is enchanted with the
distant idea of this felicity. It appears in his fancy like
the life of some superior rank of beings, and, in order to
arrive at it, he devotes himself for ever to the pursuit of
wealth and greatness. To obtain the conveniencies which
these afford, he submits in the first year, nay in the first
month of his application, to more fatigue of body and more
uneasiness of mind than he could have suffered through the
whole of his life from the want of them. He studies to
distinguish himself in some laborious profession. With the
most unrelenting industry he labours night and day to
acquire talents superior to all his competitors. He
endeavours next to bring those talents into public view, and
with equal assiduity solicits every opportunity of
employment. For this purpose he makes his court to all
mankind; he serves those whom he hates, and is obsequious to
those whom he despises. Through the whole of his life he
pursues the idea of a certain artificial and elegant repose
which he may never arrive at, for which he sacrifices a real
tranquillity that is at all times in his power, and which,
if in the extremity of old age he should at last attain to
it, he will find to be in no respect preferable to that
humble security and contentment which he had abandoned for
it. It is then, in the last dregs of life, his body wasted
with toil and diseases, his mind galled and ruffled by the
memory of a thousand injuries and disappointments which he
imagines he has met with from the injustice of his enemies,
or from the perfidy and ingratitude of his friends, that he
begins at last to find that wealth and greatness are mere
trinkets of frivolous utility, no more adapted for procuring
ease of body or tranquillity of mind than the tweezer–cases
of the lover of toys; and like them too, more troublesome to
the person who carries them about with him than all the
advantages they can afford him are commodious. There is no
other real difference between them, except that the
conveniencies of the one are somewhat more observable than
those of the other. The palaces, the gardens, the equipage,
the retinue of the great, are objects of which the obvious
conveniency strikes every body. They do not require that
their masters should point out to us wherein consists their
utility. Of our own accord we readily enter into it, and by
sympathy enjoy and thereby applaud the satisfaction which
they are fitted to afford him. But the curiosity of a
tooth–pick, of an ear–picker, of a machine for cutting the
nails, or of any other trinket of the same kind, is not so
obvious. Their conveniency may perhaps be equally great, but
it is not so striking, and we do not so readily enter into
the satisfaction of the man who possesses them. They are
therefore less reasonable subjects of vanity than the
magnificence of wealth and greatness; and in this consists
the sole advantage of these last. They more effectually
gratify that love of distinction so natural to man. To one
who was to live alone in a desolate island it might be a
matter of doubt, perhaps, whether a palace, or a collection
of such small conveniencies as are commonly contained in a
tweezer–case, would contribute most to his happiness and
enjoyment. If he is to live in society, indeed, there can be
no comparison, because in this, as in all other cases, we
constantly pay more regard to the sentiments of the
spectator, than to those of the person principally
concerned, and consider rather how his situation will appear
to other people, than how it will appear to himself. If we
examine, however, why the spectator distinguishes with such
admiration the condition of the rich and the great, we shall
find that it is not so much upon account of the superior
ease or pleasure which they are supposed to enjoy, as of the
numberless artificial and elegant contrivances for promoting
this ease or pleasure. He does not even imagine that they
are really happier than other people: but he imagines that
they possess more means of happiness. And it is the
ingenious and artful adjustment of those means to the end
for which they were intended, that is the principal source
of his admiration. But in the languor of disease and the
weariness of old age, the pleasures of the vain and empty
distinctions of greatness disappear. To one, in this
situation, they are no longer capable of recommending those
toilsome pursuits in which they had formerly engaged him. In
his heart he curses ambition, and vainly regrets the ease
and the indolence of youth, pleasures which are fled for
ever, and which he has foolishly sacrificed for what, when
he has got it, can afford him no real satisfaction. In this
miserable aspect does greatness appear to every man when
reduced either by spleen or disease to observe with
attention his own situation, and to consider what it is that
is really wanting to his happiness. Power and riches appear
then to be, what they are, enormous and operose machines
contrived
to produce a few trifling conveniencies to the body,
consisting of springs the most nice and delicate, which must
be kept in order with the most anxious attention, and which
in spite of all our care are ready every moment to burst
into pieces, and to crush in their ruins their unfortunate
possessor. They are immense fabrics, which it requires the
labour of a life to raise, which threaten every moment to
overwhelm the person that dwells in them, and which while
they stand, though they may save him from some smaller
inconveniencies, can protect him from none of the severer
inclemencies of the season. They keep off the summer shower,
not the winter storm, but leave him always as much, and
sometimes more exposed than before, to anxiety, to fear, and
to sorrow; to diseases, to danger, and to death.
9But
though this splenetic philosophy, which in time of sickness
or low spirits is familiar to every man, thus entirely
depreciates those great objects of human desire, when in
better health and in better humour, we never fail to regard
them under a more agreeable aspect. Our imagination, which
in pain and sorrow seems to be confined and cooped up within
our own persons, in times of ease and prosperity expands
itself to every thing around us. We are then charmed with
the beauty of that accommodation which reigns in the palaces
and oeconomy of the great; and admire how every thing is
adapted to promote their ease, to prevent their wants, to
gratify their wishes, and to amuse and entertain their most
frivolous desires. If we consider the real satisfaction
which all these things are capable of affording, by itself
and separated from the beauty of that arrangement which is
fitted to promote it, it will always appear in the highest
degree contemptible and trifling. But we rarely view it in
this abstract and philosophical light. We naturally confound
it in our imagination with the order, the regular and
harmonious movement of the system, the machine or oeconomy
by means of which it is produced. The pleasures of wealth
and greatness, when considered in this complex view, strike
the imagination as something grand and beautiful and noble,
of which the attainment is well worth all the toil and
anxiety which we are so apt to bestow upon it.
10And
it is well that nature imposes upon us in this manner. It is
this deception which rouses and keeps in continual motion
the industry of mankind. It is this which first prompted
them to cultivate the ground, to build houses, to found
cities and commonwealths, and to invent and improve all the
sciences and arts, which ennoble and embellish human life;
which have entirely changed the whole face of the globe,
have turned the rude forests of nature into agreeable and
fertile plains,
and made the trackless and barren ocean a new fund of
subsistence, and the great high road of communication to the
different nations of the earth. The earth by these labours
of mankind has been obliged to redouble her natural
fertility, and to maintain a greater multitude of
inhabitants. It is to no purpose, that the proud and
unfeeling landlord views his extensive fields, and without a
thought for the wants of his brethren, in imagination
consumes himself the whole harvest that grows upon them. The
homely and vulgar proverb, that the eye is larger than the
belly, never was more fully verified than with regard to
him. The capacity of his stomach bears no proportion to the
immensity of his desires, and will receive no more than that
of the meanest peasant.
The rest he is obliged to distribute among those, who
prepare, in the nicest manner, that little which he himself
makes use of, among those who fit up the palace in which
this little is to be consumed, among those who provide and
keep in order all the different baubles and trinkets, which
are employed in the oeconomy of greatness; all of whom thus
derive from his luxury and caprice, that share of the
necessaries of life, which they would in vain have expected
from his humanity or his justice. The produce of the soil
maintains at all times nearly that number of inhabitants
which it is capable of maintaining. The rich only select
from the heap what is most precious and agreeable. They
consume little more than the poor, and in spite of their
natural selfishness and rapacity, though they mean only
their own conveniency, though the sole end which they
propose from the labours of all the thousands whom they
employ, be the gratification of their own vain and
insatiable desires, they divide with the poor the produce of
all their improvements. They are led by an invisible hand
to make nearly the same distribution of the necessaries of
life, which would have been made, had the earth been divided
into equal portions among all its inhabitants, and thus
without intending it, without knowing it, advance the
interest of the society, and afford means to the
multiplication of the species. When Providence divided the
earth among a few lordly masters, it neither forgot nor
abandoned those who seemed to have been left out in the
partition. These last too enjoy their share of all that it
produces. In what constitutes the real happiness of human
life, they are in no respect inferior to those who would
seem so much above them. In ease of body and peace of mind,
all the different ranks of life are nearly upon a level, and
the beggar, who suns himself by the side of the highway,
possesses that security which kings are fighting for.
11The
same principle, the same love of system, the same regard to
the beauty of order, of art and contrivance, frequently
serves to recommend those institutions which tend to promote
the public welfare. When a patriot exerts himself for the
improvement of any part of the public police, his conduct
does not always arise from pure sympathy with the happiness
of those who are to reap the benefit of it. It is not
commonly from a fellow–feeling with carriers and waggoners
that a public–spirited man encourages the mending of high
roads. When the legislature establishes premiums and other
encouragements to advance the linen or woollen manufactures,
its conduct seldom proceeds from pure sympathy with the
wearer of cheap or fine cloth, and much less from that with
the manufacturer or merchant. The perfection of police, the
extension of trade and manufactures, are noble and
magnificent objects. The contemplation of them pleases us,
and we are interested in whatever can tend to advance them.
They make part of the great system of government, and the
wheels of the political machine seem to move with more
harmony and ease by means of them. We take pleasure in
beholding the perfection of so beautiful and grand a system,
and we are uneasy till we remove any obstruction that can in
the least disturb or encumber the regularity of its motions.
All constitutions of government, however, are valued only in
proportion as they tend to promote the happiness of those
who live under them. This is their sole use and end. From a
certain spirit of system, however, from a certain love of
art and contrivance, we sometimes seem to value the means
more than the end, and to be eager to promote the happiness
of our fellow–creatures, rather from a view to perfect and
improve a certain beautiful and orderly system, than from
any immediate sense or feeling of what they either suffer or
enjoy. There have been men of the greatest public spirit,
who have shown themselves in other respects not very
sensible to the feelings of humanity. And on the contrary,
there have been men of the greatest humanity, who seem to
have been entirely devoid of public spirit. Every man may
find in the circle of his acquaintance instances both of the
one kind and the other. Who had ever less humanity, or more
public spirit, than the celebrated legislator of Muscovy?
The social and well–natured James the First of Great Britain
seems, on the contrary, to have had scarce any passion,
either for the glory or the interest of his country. Would
you awaken the industry of the man who seems almost dead to
ambition, it will often be to no purpose to describe to him
the happiness of the rich and the great; to tell him that
they are generally sheltered from the sun and the rain, that
they are seldom hungry, that they are seldom cold, and that
they are rarely exposed to weariness, or to want of any
kind. The most eloquent exhortation of this kind will have
little effect upon him. If you would hope to succeed, you
must describe to him the conveniency and arrangement of the
different apartments in their palaces; you must explain to
him the propriety of their equipages, and point out to him
the number, the order, and the different offices of all
their attendants. If any thing is capable of making
impression upon him, this will. Yet all these things tend
only to keep off the sun and the rain, to save them from
hunger and cold, from want and weariness. In the same
manner, if you would implant public virtue in the breast of
him who seems heedless of the interest of his country, it
will often be to no purpose to tell him, what superior
advantages the subjects of a well–governed state enjoy; that
they are better lodged, that they are better clothed, that
they are better fed. These considerations will commonly make
no great impression. You will be more likely to persuade, if
you describe the great system of public police which
procures these advantages, if you explain the connexions and
dependencies of its several parts, their mutual
subordination to one another, and their general subserviency
to the happiness of the society; if you show how this system
might be introduced into his own country, what it is that
hinders it from taking place there at present, how those
obstructions might be removed, and all the several wheels of
the machine of government be made to move with more harmony
and smoothness, without grating upon one another, or
mutually retarding one another’s motions. It is scarce
possible that a man should listen to a discourse of this
kind, and not feel himself animated to some degree of public
spirit. He will, at least for the moment, feel some desire
to remove those obstructions, and to put into motion so
beautiful and so orderly a machine. Nothing tends so much to
promote public spirit as the study of politics, of the
several systems of civil government, their advantages and
disadvantages, of the constitution of our own country, its
situation, and interest with regard to foreign nations, its
commerce, its defence, the disadvantages it labours under,
the dangers to which it may be exposed, how to remove the
one, and how to guard against the other. Upon this account
political disquisitions, if just, and reasonable, and
practicable, are of all the works of speculation the most
useful. Even the weakest and the worst of them are not
altogether without their utility. They serve at least to
animate the public passions of men, and rouse them to seek
out the means of promoting the happiness of the society.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Of the beauty which
the appearance of Utility bestows upon the characters and
actions of men; and how far the perception of this beauty
may be regarded as one of the original principles of
approbation
1The
characters of men, as well as the contrivances of art, or
the institutions of civil government, may be fitted either
to promote or to disturb the happiness both of the
individual and of the society. The prudent, the equitable,
the active, resolute, and sober character promises
prosperity and satisfaction, both to the person himself and
to every one connected with him. The rash, the insolent, the
slothful, effeminate, and voluptuous, on the contrary,
forebodes ruin to the individual, and misfortune to all who
have any thing to do with him. The first turn of mind has at
least all the beauty which can belong to the most perfect
machine that was ever invented for promoting the most
agreeable purpose: and the second, all the deformity of the
most awkward and clumsy contrivance. What institution of
government could tend so much to promote the happiness of
mankind as the general prevalence of wisdom and virtue? All
government is but an imperfect remedy for the deficiency of
these. Whatever beauty, therefore, can belong to civil
government upon account of its utility, must in a far
superior degree belong to these. On the contrary, what civil
policy can be so ruinous and destructive as the vices of
men? The fatal effects of bad government arise from nothing,
but that it does not sufficiently guard against the
mischiefs which human wickedness gives occasion to.
2This
beauty and deformity which characters appear to derive from
their usefulness or inconveniency, are apt to strike, in a
peculiar manner, those who consider, in an abstract and
philosophical light, the actions and conduct of mankind.
When a philosopher goes to examine why humanity is approved
of, or cruelty condemned, he does not always form to
himself, in a very clear and distinct manner, the conception
of any one particular action either of cruelty or of
humanity, but is commonly contented with the vague and
indeterminate idea which the general names of those
qualities suggest to him. But it is in particular instances
only that the propriety or impropriety, the merit or demerit
of actions is very obvious and discernible. It is only when
particular examples are given that we perceive distinctly
either the concord or disagreement between our own
affections and those of the agent, or feel a social
gratitude arise towards him in the one case, or a
sympathetic resentment in the other. When we consider virtue
and vice in an abstract and general manner, the qualities by
which they excite these several sentiments seem in a great
measure to disappear, and the sentiments themselves become
less obvious and discernible. On the contrary, the happy
effects of the one and the fatal consequences of the other
seem then to rise up to the view, and as it were to stand
out and distinguish themselves from all the other qualities
of either.
3The
same ingenious and agreeable author who first explained why
utility pleases, has been so struck with this view of
things, as to resolve our whole approbation of virtue into a
perception of this species of beauty which results from the
appearance of utility. No qualities of the mind, he
observes, are approved of as virtuous, but such as are
useful or agreeable either to the person himself or to
others;
and no qualities are disapproved of as vicious but such as
have a contrary tendency. And Nature, indeed, seems to have
so happily adjusted our sentiments of approbation and
disapprobation, to the conveniency both of the individual
and of the society, that after the strictest examination it
will be found, I believe, that this is universally the case.
But still I affirm, that it is not the view of this utility
or hurtfulness which is either the first or principal source
of our approbation and disapprobation. These sentiments are
no doubt enhanced and enlivened by the perception of the
beauty or deformity which results from this utility or
hurtfulness. But still, I say, they are originally and
essentially different from this perception.
4For
first of all, it seems impossible that the approbation of
virtue should be a sentiment of the same kind with that by
which we approve of a convenient and well–contrived
building; or that we should have no other reason for
praising a man than that for which we commend a chest of
drawers.
5And
secondly, it will be found, upon examination, that the
usefulness of any disposition of mind is seldom the first
ground of our approbation; and that the sentiment of
approbation always involves in it a sense of propriety quite
distinct from the perception of utility. We may observe this
with regard to all the qualities which are approved of as
virtuous, both those which, according to this system, are
originally valued as useful to ourselves, as well as those
which are esteemed on account of their usefulness to others.
6The
qualities most useful to ourselves are, first of all,
superior reason and understanding, by which we are capable
of discerning the remote consequences of all our actions,
and of foreseeing the advantage or detriment which is likely
to result from them: and secondly, self–command, by which we
are enabled to abstain from present pleasure or to endure
present pain, in order to obtain a greater pleasure or to
avoid a greater pain in some future time. In the union of
those two qualities consists the virtue of prudence, of all
the virtues that which is most useful to the individual.
7With
regard to the first of those qualities, it has been observed
on a former occasion,
that superior reason and understanding are originally
approved of as just and right and accurate, and not merely
as useful or advantageous. It is in the abstruser sciences,
particularly in the higher parts of mathematics, that the
greatest and most admired exertions of human reason have
been displayed. But the utility of those sciences, either to
the individual or to the public, is not very obvious, and to
prove it, requires a discussion which is not always very
easily comprehended. It was not, therefore, their utility
which first recommended them to the public admiration. This
quality was but little insisted upon, till it became
necessary to make some reply to the reproaches of those,
who, having themselves no taste for such sublime
discoveries, endeavoured to depreciate them as useless.
8That
self–command, in the same manner, by which we restrain our
present appetites, in order to gratify them more fully upon
another occasion, is approved of, as much under the aspect
of propriety, as under that of utility. When we act in this
manner, the sentiments which influence our conduct seem
exactly to coincide with those of the spectator. The
spectator does not feel the solicitations of our present
appetites. To him the pleasure which we are to enjoy a week
hence, or a year hence, is just as interesting as that which
we are to enjoy this moment. When for the sake of the
present, therefore, we sacrifice the future, our conduct
appears to him absurd and extravagant in the highest degree,
and he cannot enter into the principles which influence it.
On the contrary, when we abstain from present pleasure, in
order to secure greater pleasure to come, when we act as if
the remote object interested us as much as that which
immediately presses upon the senses, as our affections
exactly correspond with his own, he cannot fail to approve
of our behaviour: and as he knows from experience, how few
are capable of this self–command, he looks upon our conduct
with a considerable degree of wonder and admiration. Hence
arises that eminent esteem with which all men naturally
regard a steady perseverance in the practice of frugality,
industry, and application, though directed to no other
purpose than the acquisition of fortune. The resolute
firmness of the person who acts in this manner, and in order
to obtain a great though remote advantage, not only gives up
all present pleasures, but endures the greatest labour both
of mind and body, necessarily commands our approbation. That
view of his interest and happiness which appears to regulate
his conduct, exactly tallies with the idea which we
naturally form of it. There is the most perfect
correspondence between his sentiments and our own, and at
the same time, from our experience of the common weakness of
human nature, it is a correspondence which we could not
reasonably have expected. We not only approve, therefore,
but in some measure admire his conduct, and think it worthy
of a considerable degree of applause. It is the
consciousness of this merited approbation and esteem which
is alone capable of supporting the agent in this tenour of
conduct. The pleasure which we are to enjoy ten years hence
interests us so little in comparison with that which we may
enjoy to–day, the passion which the first excites, is
naturally so weak in comparison with that violent emotion
which the second is apt to give occasion to, that the one
could never be any balance to the other, unless it was
supported by the sense of propriety, by the consciousness
that we merited the esteem and approbation of every body, by
acting in the one way, and that we became the proper objects
of their contempt and derision by behaving in the other.
9Humanity,
justice, generosity, and public spirit, are the qualities
most useful to others. Wherein consists the propriety of
humanity and justice has been explained upon a former
occasion,
where it was shewn how much our esteem and approbation of
those qualities depended upon the concord between the
affections of the agent and those of the spectators.
10The
propriety of generosity and public spirit is founded upon
the same principle with that of justice. Generosity is
different from humanity. Those two qualities, which at first
sight seem so nearly allied, do not always belong to the
same person. Humanity is the virtue of a woman, generosity
of a man. The fair–sex, who have commonly much more
tenderness than ours, have seldom so much generosity. That
women rarely make considerable donations, is an observation
of the civil law
. Humanity consists merely in the exquisite fellow–feeling
which the spectator entertains with the sentiments of the
persons principally concerned, so as to grieve for their
sufferings, to resent their injuries, and to rejoice at
their good fortune. The most humane actions require no
self–denial, no self–command, no great exertion of the sense
of propriety. They consist only in doing what this exquisite
sympathy would of its own accord prompt us to do. But it is
otherwise with generosity. We never are generous except when
in some respect we prefer some other person to ourselves,
and sacrifice some great and important interest of our own
to an equal interest of a friend or of a superior. The man
who gives up his pretensions to an office that was the great
object of his ambition, because he imagines that the
services of another are better entitled to it; the man who
exposes his life to defend that of his friend, which he
judges to be of more
neither of them act
from humanity, or because they feel more exquisitely what
concerns that other person than what concerns themselves.
They both consider those opposite interests, not in the
light in which they naturally appear to themselves, but in
that in which they appear to others. To every bystander, the
success or preservation of this other person may justly be
more interesting than their own; but it cannot be so to
themselves. When to the interest of this other person,
therefore, they sacrifice their own, they accommodate
themselves to the sentiments of the spectator, and by an
effort of magnanimity act according to those views of things
must naturally
occur to any third person. The soldier who throws away his
life in order to defend that of his officer, would perhaps
be but little affected by the death of that officer, if it
should happen without any fault of his own; and a very small
disaster which had befallen himself might excite a much more
lively sorrow. But when he endeavours to act so as to
deserve applause, and to make the impartial spectator enter
into the principles of his conduct, he feels, that to every
body but himself, his own life is a trifle compared with
that of his officer, and that when he sacrifices the one to
the other, he acts quite properly and agreeably to what
would be the natural apprehensions of every impartial
bystander.
11It
is the same case with the greater exertions of public
spirit. When a young officer exposes his life to acquire
some inconsiderable addition to the dominions of his
sovereign, it is not because the acquisition of the new
territory is, to himself, an object more desireable than the
preservation of his own life. To him his own life is of
infinitely more value than the conquest of a whole kingdom
for the state which he serves. But when he compares those
two objects with one another, he does not view them in the
light in which they naturally appear to himself, but in that
in which they appear to the nation he fights for. To them
the success of the war is of the highest importance; the
life of a private person of scarce any consequence. When he
puts himself in their situation, he immediately feels that
he cannot be too prodigal of his blood, if, by shedding it,
he can promote so valuable a purpose. In thus thwarting,
from a sense of duty and propriety, the strongest of all
natural propensities, consists the heroism of his conduct.
There is many an honest Englishman, who, in his private
station, would be more seriously disturbed by the loss of a
guinea, than by the national loss of Minorca, who yet, had
it been in his power to defend that fortress, would have
sacrificed his life a thousand times rather than, through
his fault, have let it fall into the hands of the enemy.
When the first Brutus led forth his own sons to a capital
punishment, because they had conspired against the rising
liberty of Rome,
he sacrificed what, if he had consulted his own breast only,
would appear to be the stronger to the weaker affection.
Brutus ought naturally to have felt much more for the death
of his own sons, than for all that probably Rome could have
suffered from the want of so great an example. But he viewed
them, not with the eyes of a father, but with those of a
Roman citizen. He entered so thoroughly into the sentiments
of this last character, that he paid no regard to that tie,
by which he himself was connected with them; and to a Roman
citizen, the sons even of Brutus seemed contemptible, when
put into the balance with the smallest interest of Rome. In
these and in all other cases of this kind, our admiration is
not so much founded upon the utility, as upon the
unexpected, and on that account the great, the noble, and
exalted propriety of such actions. This utility, when we
come to view it, bestows upon them, undoubtedly, a new
beauty, and upon that account still further recommends them
to our approbation. This beauty, however, is chiefly
perceived by men of reflection and speculation, and is by no
means the quality which first recommends such actions to the
natural sentiments of the bulk of mankind.
12It
is to be observed, that so far as the sentiment of
approbation arises from the perception of this beauty of
utility, it has no reference of any kind to the sentiments
of others. If it was possible, therefore, that a person
should grow up to manhood without any communication with
society, his own actions might, notwithstanding, be
agreeable or disagreeable to him on account of their
tendency to his happiness or disadvantage.
might perceive a beauty of
this kind in prudence, temperance, and good conduct, and a
deformity in the opposite behaviour: he might view his own
temper and character with that sort of satisfaction with
which we consider a well–contrived machine, in the one case;
or with that sort of distaste and dissatisfaction with which
we regard a very awkward and clumsy contrivance, in the
other. As these perceptions, however, are merely a matter of
taste, and have all the feebleness and delicacy of that
species of perceptions, upon the justness of which what is
properly called taste is founded, they probably would not be
much attended to by one in
solitary and miserable
condition. Even though they should occur to him, they would
by no means have the same effect upon him, antecedent to his
connexion with society, which they would have in consequence
of that connexion. He would not be cast down with inward
shame at the thought of this deformity; nor would he be
elevated with secret triumph of mind from the consciousness
of the contrary beauty. He would not exult from the notion
of deserving reward in the one case, nor tremble from the
suspicion of meriting punishment in the other. All such
sentiments suppose the idea of some other being, who is the
natural judge of the person that feels them; and it is only
by sympathy with the decisions of this arbiter of his
conduct, that he can conceive, either the triumph of
self–applause, or the shame of self–condemnation.
[Back to Table of Contents]
PART V
Of the
Influence of Custom and
Fashion upon the Sentiments of
Moral Approbation and Disapprobation
[Back to Table of Contents]
Of the Influence of
Custom and Fashion upon our Notions of Beauty and Deformity
1There
are other principles besides those already enumerated, which
have a considerable influence upon the moral sentiments of
mankind, and are the chief causes of the many irregular and
discordant opinions which prevail in different ages and
nations concerning what is blameable or praise–worthy. These
principles are custom and fashion, principles which extend
their dominion over our judgments concerning beauty of every
kind.
2When
two objects have frequently been seen together, the
imagination acquires a habit of passing easily from the one
to the other. If the first appear, we lay our account that
the second is to follow. Of their own accord they put us in
mind of one another, and the attention glides easily along
them. Though, independent of custom, there should be no real
beauty in their union, yet when custom has thus connected
them together, we feel an impropriety in their separation.
The one we think is awkward when it appears without its
usual companion. We miss something which we expected to
find, and the habitual arrangement of our ideas is disturbed
by the disappointment. A suit of clothes, for example, seems
to want something if they are without the most insignificant
ornament which usually accompanies them, and we find a
meanness or awkwardness in the absence even of a haunch
button. When there is any natural propriety in the union,
custom increases our sense of it, and makes a different
arrangement appear still more disagreeable than it would
otherwise seem to be. Those who have been accustomed to see
things in a good taste, are more disgusted by whatever is
clumsy or awkward. Where the conjunction is improper, custom
either diminishes, or takes away altogether, our sense of
the impropriety. Those who have been accustomed to slovenly
disorder lose all sense of neatness or elegance. The modes
of furniture or dress which seem ridiculous to strangers,
give no offence to the people who are used to them.
3Fashion
is different from custom, or rather is a particular species
of it. That is not the fashion which every body wears, but
which those wear who are of a high rank, or character. The
graceful, the easy, and commanding manners of the great,
joined to the usual richness and magnificence of their
dress, give a grace to the very form which they happen to
bestow upon it. As long as they continue to use this form,
it is connected in our imaginations with the idea of
something that is genteel and magnificent, and though in
itself it should be indifferent, it seems, on account of
this relation, to have something about it that is genteel
and magnificent too. As soon as they drop it, it loses all
the grace, which it had appeared to possess before, and
being now used only by the inferior ranks of people, seems
to have something of their meanness and awkwardness.
4Dress
and furniture are allowed by all the world to be entirely
under the dominion of custom and fashion. The influence of
those principles, however, is by no means confined to so
narrow a sphere, but extends itself to whatever is in any
respect the object of taste, to music, to poetry, to
architecture. The modes of dress and furniture are
continually changing, and that fashion appearing ridiculous
to–day which was admired five years ago, we are
experimentally convinced that it owed its vogue chiefly or
entirely to custom and fashion. Clothes and furniture are
not made of very durable materials. A well–fancied coat is
done in a twelve–month, and cannot continue longer to
propagate, as the fashion, that form according to which it
was made. The modes of furniture change less rapidly than
those of dress; because furniture is commonly more durable.
In five or six years, however, it generally undergoes an
entire revolution, and every man in his own time sees the
fashion in this respect change many different ways. The
productions of the other arts are much more lasting, and,
when happily imagined, may continue to propagate the fashion
of their make for a much longer time. A well–contrived
building may endure many centuries: a beautiful air may be
delivered down by a sort of tradition, through many
successive generations: a well–written poem may last as long
as the world; and all of them continue for ages together, to
give the vogue to that particular style, to that particular
taste or manner, according to which each of them was
composed. Few men have an opportunity of seeing in their own
times the fashion in any of these arts change very
considerably. Few men have so much experience and
acquaintance with the different modes which have obtained in
remote ages and nations, as to be thoroughly reconciled to
them, or to judge with impartiality between them, and what
takes place in their own age and country. Few men therefore
are willing to allow, that custom or fashion have much
influence upon their judgments concerning what is beautiful,
or otherwise, in the productions of any of those arts; but
imagine, that all the rules, which they think ought to be
observed in each of them, are founded upon reason and
nature, not upon habit or prejudice. A very little
attention, however, may convince them of the contrary, and
satisfy them, that the influence of custom and fashion over
dress and furniture, is not more absolute than over
architecture, poetry, and music.
5Can
any reason, for example, be assigned why the Doric capital
should be appropriated to a pillar, whose height is equal to
eight diameters; the Ionic volute to one of nine; and the
Corinthian foliage to one of ten? The propriety of each of
those appropriations can be founded upon nothing but habit
and custom. The eye having been used to see a particular
proportion connected with a particular ornament, would be
offended if they were not joined together. Each of the five
orders has its peculiar ornaments, which cannot be changed
for any other, without giving offence to all those who know
any thing of the rules of architecture. According to some
architects, indeed, such is the exquisite judgment with
which the ancients have assigned to each order its proper
ornaments, that no others can be found which are equally
suitable. It seems, however, a little difficult to be
conceived that these forms, though, no doubt, extremely
agreeable, should be the only forms which can suit those
proportions, or that there should not be five hundred others
which, antecedent to established custom, would have fitted
them equally well. When custom, however, has established
particular rules of building, provided they are not
absolutely unreasonable, it is absurd to think of altering
them for others which are only equally good, or even for
others which, in point of elegance and beauty, have
naturally some little advantage over them. A man would be
ridiculous who should appear in public with a suit of
clothes quite different from those which are commonly worn,
though the new dress should in itself be ever so graceful or
convenient. And there seems to be an absurdity of the same
kind in ornamenting a house after a quite different manner
from that which custom and fashion have prescribed; though
the new ornaments should in themselves be somewhat superior
to the common ones.
6According
to the ancient rhetoricians, a certain measure
verse was by nature
appropriated to each particular species of writing, as being
naturally expressive of that character, sentiment, or
passion, which ought to predominate in it. One verse, they
said, was fit for grave and another for gay works, which
could not, they thought, be interchanged without the
greatest impropriety.
The experience of modern times, however, seems to contradict
this principle, though in itself it would appear to be
extremely probable. What is the burlesque verse in English,
is the heroic verse in French. The tragedies of Racine and
the Henriad of Voltaire, are
in the same verse with,
The burlesque verse in French, on the contrary, is pretty
much the same with the heroic verse of ten syllables in
English. Custom has made the one nation associate the ideas
of gravity, sublimity, and seriousness, to that measure
which the other has connected with whatever is gay,
flippant, and ludicrous. Nothing would appear more absurd in
English, than a tragedy written in the Alexandrine verses of
the French; or in French, than a work of the same kind in
verses of ten syllables.
7An
eminent artist will bring about a considerable change in the
established modes of each of those arts, and introduce a new
fashion of writing, music, or architecture. As the dress of
an agreeable man of high rank recommends itself, and how
peculiar and fantastical soever, comes soon to be admired
and imitated; so the excellencies of an eminent master
recommend his peculiarities, and his manner becomes the
fashionable style in the art which he practises. The taste
of the Italians in music and architecture has, within these
fifty years, undergone a considerable change, from imitating
the peculiarities of some eminent masters in each of those
arts. Seneca is accused by Quintilian
of having corrupted the taste of the Romans, and of having
introduced a frivolous prettiness in the room of majestic
reason and masculine eloquence. Sallust and Tacitus have by
others been charged with the same accusation, though in a
different manner. They gave reputation, it is pretended, to
a style, which though in the highest degree concise,
elegant, expressive, and even poetical, wanted, however,
ease, simplicity, and nature, and was evidently the
production of the most laboured and studied affectation. How
many great qualities must that writer possess, who can thus
render his very faults agreeable? After the praise of
refining the taste of a nation, the highest eulogy, perhaps,
which can be bestowed upon any author, is to say, that he
corrupted it. In our own language, Mr. Pope and Dr. Swift
have each of them introduced a manner different from what
was practised before, into all works that are written in
rhyme, the one in long verses, the other in short. The
quaintness of Butler
has given place to the plainness of Swift. The rambling
freedom of Dryden, and the correct but often tedious and
prosaic languor of Addison, are no longer the objects of
imitation, but all long verses are now written after the
manner of the nervous precision of Mr. Pope.
8Neither
is it only over the productions of the arts, that custom and
fashion exert their dominion. They influence our judgments,
in the same manner, with regard to the beauty of natural
objects. What various and opposite forms are deemed
beautiful in different species of things? The proportions
which are admired in one animal, are altogether different
from those which are esteemed in another. Every class of
things has its own peculiar conformation, which is approved
of, and has a beauty of its own, distinct from that of every
other species. It is upon this account that a learned
Jesuit, father Buffier,
has determined that the beauty of every object consists in
that form and colour, which is most usual among things of
that particular sort to which it belongs. Thus, in the human
form, the beauty of each feature lies in a certain middle,
equally removed from a variety of other forms that are ugly.
A beautiful nose, for example, is one that is neither very
long, nor very short, neither very straight, nor very
crooked, but a sort of middle among all these extremes, and
less different from any one of them, than all of them are
from one another. It is the form which Nature seems to have
aimed at in them all, which, however, she deviates from in a
great variety of ways, and very seldom hits exactly; but to
which all those deviations still bear a very strong
resemblance. When a number of drawings are made after one
pattern, though they may all miss it in some respects, yet
they will all resemble it more than they resemble one
another; the general character of the pattern will run
through them all; the most singular and odd will be those
which are most wide of it; and though very few will copy it
exactly, yet the most accurate delineations will bear a
greater resemblance to the most careless, than the careless
ones will bear to one another. In the same manner, in each
species of creatures, what is most beautiful bears the
strongest characters of the general fabric of the species,
and has the strongest resemblance to the greater part of the
individuals with which it is classed. Monsters, on the
contrary, or what is perfectly deformed, are always most
singular and odd, and have the least resemblance to the
generality of that species to which they belong. And thus
the beauty of each species, though in one sense the rarest
of all things, because few individuals hit this middle form
exactly, yet in another, is the most common, because all the
deviations from it resemble it more than they resemble one
another. The most customary form, therefore, is in each
species of things, according to him, the most beautiful. And
hence it is that a certain practice and experience in
contemplating each species of objects is requisite, before
we can judge of its beauty, or know wherein the middle and
most usual form consists. The nicest judgment concerning the
beauty of the human species, will not help us to judge of
that of flowers, or horses, or any other species of things.
It is for the same reason that in different climates, and
where different customs and ways of living take place, as
the generality of any species receives a different
conformation from those circumstances, so different ideas of
its beauty prevail. The beauty of a Moorish is not exactly
the same with that of an English horse. What different ideas
are formed in different nations concerning the beauty of the
human shape and countenance? A fair complexion is a shocking
deformity upon the coast of Guinea. Thick lips and a flat
nose are a beauty. In some nations long ears that hang down
upon the shoulders are the objects of universal admiration.
In China if a lady’s foot is so large as to be fit to walk
upon, she is regarded as a monster of ugliness. Some of the
savage nations in North–America tie four boards round the
heads of their children, and thus squeeze them, while the
bones are tender and gristly, into a form that is almost
perfectly square. Europeans are astonished at the absurd
barbarity of this practice, to which some missionaries have
imputed the singular stupidity of those nations among whom
it prevails. But when they condemn those savages, they do
not reflect that the ladies in Europe had, till within these
very few years, been endeavouring, for near a century past,
to squeeze the beautiful roundness of their natural shape
into a square form of the same kind. And that,
notwithstanding the many distortions and diseases which this
practice was known to occasion, custom had rendered it
agreeable among some of the most civilized nations which,
perhaps, the world ever beheld.
9Such
is the system of this learned and ingenious Father,
concerning the nature of beauty; of which the whole charm,
according to him, would thus seem to arise from its falling
in with the habits which custom had impressed upon the
imagination, with regard to things of each particular kind.
I cannot, however, be induced to believe that our sense even
of external beauty is founded altogether on custom. The
utility of any form, its fitness for the useful purposes for
which it was intended, evidently recommends it, and renders
it agreeable to us, independent of custom. Certain colours
are more agreeable than others, and give more delight to the
eye the first time it ever beholds them. A smooth surface is
more agreeable than a rough one. Variety is more pleasing
than a tedious undiversified uniformity. Connected variety,
in which each new appearance seems to be introduced by what
went before it, and in which all the adjoining parts seem to
have some natural relation to one another, is more agreeable
than a disjointed and disorderly assemblage of unconnected
objects. But though I cannot admit that custom is the sole
principle of beauty, yet I can so far allow the truth of
this ingenious system as to grant, that there is scarce any
one external form so beautiful as to please, if quite
contrary to custom and unlike whatever we have been used to
in that particular species of things: or so deformed as not
to be agreeable, if custom uniformly supports it, and
habituates us to see it in every single individual of the
kind.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Of the Influence of
Custom and Fashion upon Moral Sentiments
1Since
our sentiments concerning beauty of every kind, are so much
influenced by custom and fashion, it cannot be expected,
that those, concerning the beauty of conduct, should be
entirely exempted from the dominion of those principles.
Their influence here, however, seems to be much less than it
is every where else. There is, perhaps, no form of external
objects, how absurd and fantastical soever, to which custom
will not reconcile us, or which fashion will not render even
agreeable. But the characters and conduct of a Nero, or a
Claudius, are what no custom will ever reconcile us to, what
no fashion will ever render agreeable; but the one will
always be the object of dread and hatred; the other of scorn
and derision. The principles of the imagination, upon which
our sense of beauty depends, are of a very nice and delicate
nature, and may easily be altered by habit and education:
but the sentiments of moral approbation and disapprobation,
are founded on the strongest and most vigorous passions of
human nature; and though they may be somewhat warpt, cannot
be entirely perverted.
2But
though the influence of custom and fashion upon moral
sentiments, is not altogether so
it is however perfectly
similar to what it is every where else. When custom and
fashion coincide with the natural principles of right and
wrong, they heighten the delicacy of our sentiments, and
increase our abhorrence for every thing which approaches to
evil. Those who have been educated in what is really good
company, not in what is commonly called such, who have been
accustomed to see nothing in the persons whom they esteemed
and lived with, but justice, modesty, humanity, and good
order; are more shocked with whatever seems to be
inconsistent with the rules which those virtues prescribe.
Those, on the contrary, who have had the misfortune to be
brought up amidst violence, licentiousness, falsehood, and
injustice; lose, though not all sense of the impropriety of
such conduct, yet all sense of its dreadful enormity, or of
the vengeance and punishment due to it. They have been
familiarized with it from their infancy, custom has rendered
it habitual to them, and they are very apt to regard it as,
what is called, the way of the world, something which either
may, or must be practised, to hinder us from being the dupes
of our own integrity.
3Fashion
too will sometimes give reputation to a certain degree of
disorder, and, on the contrary, discountenance qualities
which deserve esteem. In the reign of Charles II. a degree
of licentiousness was deemed the characteristic of a liberal
education. It was connected, according to the notions of
those times, with generosity, sincerity, magnanimity,
loyalty, and proved that the person who acted in this
manner, was a gentleman, and not a puritan. Severity of
manners, and regularity of conduct, on the other hand, were
altogether unfashionable, and were connected, in the
imagination of that age, with cant, cunning, hypocrisy, and
low manners. To superficial minds, the vices of the great
seem at all times agreeable. They connect them, not only
with the splendour of fortune, but with many superior
virtues, which they ascribe to their superiors; with the
spirit of freedom and independency, with frankness,
generosity, humanity, and politeness. The virtues of the
inferior ranks of people, on the contrary, their
parsimonious frugality, their painful industry, and rigid
adherence to rules, seem to them mean and disagreeable. They
connect them, both with the meanness of the station to which
those qualities commonly belong, and with many great vices,
which, they suppose, usually accompany them; such as an
abject, cowardly, ill–natured, lying, pilfering disposition.
4The
objects with which men in the different professions and
states of life are conversant, being very different, and
habituating them to very different passions, naturally form
in them very different characters and manners. We expect in
each rank and profession, a degree of those manners, which,
experience has taught us, belong to it. But as in each
species of things, we are particularly pleased with the
middle conformation, which, in every part and feature,
agrees most exactly with the general standard which nature
seems to have established for things of that kind; so in
each rank, or, if I may say so, in each species of men, we
are particularly pleased, if they have neither too much, nor
too little of the character which usually accompanies their
particular condition and situation. A man, we say, should
look like his trade and profession; yet the pedantry of
every profession is disagreeable. The different periods of
life have, for the same reason, different manners assigned
to them. We expect in old age, that gravity and sedateness
which its infirmities, its long experience, and its worn–out
sensibility seem to render both natural and respectable; and
we lay our account to find in youth that sensibility, that
gaiety and sprightly vivacity which experience teaches us to
expect from the lively impressions that all interesting
objects are apt to make upon the tender and unpractised
senses of that early period of life. Each of those two ages,
however, may easily have too much of
peculiarities which belong
to it. The flirting levity of youth, and the immovable
insensibility of old age, are equally disagreeable. The
young, according to the common saying, are most agreeable
when in their behaviour there is something of the manners of
the old, and the old, when they retain something of the
gaiety of the young. Either of them, however, may easily
have too much of the manners of the other. The extreme
coldness, and dull formality, which are pardoned in old age,
make youth ridiculous. The levity, the carelessness, and the
vanity, which are indulged in youth, render old age
contemptible.
5The
peculiar character and manners which we are led by custom to
appropriate to each rank and profession, have sometimes
perhaps a propriety independent of custom; and are what we
should approve of for their own sakes, if we took into
consideration all the different circumstances which
naturally affect those in each different state of life. The
propriety of a person’s behaviour, depends not upon its
suitableness to any one circumstance of his situation, but
to all the circumstances, which, when we bring his case home
to ourselves, we feel, should naturally call upon his
attention. If he appears to be so much occupied by any one
of them, as entirely to neglect the rest, we disapprove of
his conduct, as something which we cannot entirely go along
with, because not
adjusted to all the
circumstances of his situation:
perhaps, the emotion he
expresses for the object which principally interests him,
does not exceed what we should entirely sympathize with, and
approve of, in one whose attention was not required by any
other thing. A parent in private life might, upon the loss
of an only son, express without blame a degree of grief and
tenderness, which would be unpardonable in a general at the
head of an army, when glory, and the public safety, demanded
so great a part of his attention. As different objects
ought, upon common occasions, to occupy the attention of men
of different professions, so different passions ought
naturally to become habitual to them; and when we bring home
to ourselves their situation in this particular respect, we
must be sensible, that every occurrence should naturally
affect them more or less, according as the emotion which it
excites, coincides or disagrees with the fixt habit and
temper of their minds. We cannot expect the same sensibility
to the gay pleasures and amusements of life in a clergyman,
which we lay our account with in an officer. The man whose
peculiar occupation it is to keep the world in mind of that
awful futurity which awaits them, who is to announce what
may be the fatal consequences of every deviation from the
rules of duty, and who is himself to set the example of the
most exact conformity,
the messenger of
tidings, which cannot, in propriety, be delivered either
with levity or indifference. His mind
continually
occupied with what is too grand and solemn, to leave any
room for the impressions of those frivolous objects, which
fill up the attention of the dissipated and the gay. We
readily feel therefore, that, independent of custom, there
is a propriety in the manners which custom has allotted to
this profession; and that nothing can be more suitable to
the character of a clergyman than that grave, that austere
and abstracted severity, which we are habituated to expect
in his behaviour. These reflections are so very obvious,
that there is scarce any man so inconsiderate, as not, at
some time, to have made them, and to have accounted to
himself in this manner for his approbation of the usual
character of this order.
6The
foundation of the customary character of some other
professions is not so obvious, and our approbation of it is
founded entirely in habit, without being either confirmed,
or enlivened by any reflections of this kind. We are led by
custom, for example, to annex the character of gaiety,
levity, and sprightly freedom, as well as of some degree of
dissipation, to the military profession. Yet, if we were to
consider what mood or tone of temper would be most suitable
to this situation, we should be apt to determine, perhaps,
that the most serious and thoughtful turn of mind would best
become those whose lives are continually exposed to uncommon
danger, and who should therefore be more constantly occupied
with the thoughts of death and its consequences than other
men. It is this very circumstance, however, which is not
improbably the occasion why the contrary turn of mind
prevails so much among men of this profession. It requires
so great an effort to conquer the fear of death, when we
survey it with steadiness and attention, that those who are
constantly exposed to it, find it easier to turn away their
thoughts from it altogether, to wrap themselves up in
careless security and indifference, and to plunge
themselves, for this purpose, into every sort of amusement
and dissipation. A camp is not the element of a thoughtful
or a melancholy man: persons of that cast, indeed, are often
abundantly determined, and are capable, by a great effort,
of going on with inflexible resolution to the most
unavoidable death. But to be exposed to continual, though
less imminent danger, to be obliged to exert, for a long
time, a degree of this effort, exhausts and depresses the
mind, and renders it incapable of all happiness and
enjoyment. The gay and careless, who have occasion to make
no effort at all, who fairly resolve never to look before
them, but to lose in continual pleasures and amusements all
anxiety about their situation, more easily support such
circumstances. Whenever, by any peculiar circumstances, an
officer has no reason to lay his account with being exposed
to any uncommon danger, he is very apt to lose the gaiety
and dissipated thoughtlessness of his character. The captain
of a city guard is commonly as sober, careful, and penurious
an animal as the rest of his fellow–citizens.
A long peace is, for the same reason, very apt to diminish
the difference between the civil and the military character.
The ordinary situation, however, of men of this profession,
renders gaiety, and a degree of dissipation, so much their
usual character; and custom has, in our imagination, so
strongly connected this character with this state of life,
that we are very apt to despise any man, whose peculiar
humour or situation, renders him incapable of acquiring it.
We laugh at the grave and careful faces of a city guard,
which so little resemble those of their profession. They
themselves seem often to be ashamed of the regularity of
their own manners, and, not to be out of the fashion of
their trade, are fond of affecting that levity, which is by
no means natural to them. Whatever is the deportment which
we have been accustomed to see in a respectable order of
men, it comes to be so associated in our imagination with
that order, that whenever we see the one, we lay our account
that we are to meet with the other, and when disappointed,
miss something which we expected to find. We are
embarrassed, and put to a stand, and know not how to address
ourselves to a character, which plainly affects to be of a
different species from those with which we should have been
disposed to class it.
7The
different situations of different ages and countries are
apt, in the same manner, to give different characters to the
generality of those who live in them, and their sentiments
concerning the particular degree of each quality, that is
either blamable or praise–worthy, vary, according to that
degree which is usual in their own country, and in their own
times. That degree of politeness, which would be highly
esteemed,
would be thought
effeminate adulation, in Russia, would be regarded as
rudeness and barbarism at the court of France. That degree
of order and frugality, which, in a Polish nobleman, would
be considered as excessive parsimony, would be regarded as
extravagance in a citizen of Amsterdam. Every age and
country look upon that degree of each quality, which is
commonly to be met with in those who are esteemed among
themselves, as the golden mean of that particular talent or
virtue. And as this varies, according as their different
circumstances render different qualities more or less
habitual to them, their sentiments concerning the exact
propriety of character and behaviour vary accordingly.
8Among
civilized nations, the virtues which are founded upon
humanity, are more cultivated than those which are founded
upon self–denial and the command of the passions. Among rude
and barbarous nations, it is quite otherwise, the virtues of
self–denial are more cultivated than those of humanity. The
general security and happiness which prevail in ages of
civility and politeness, afford little exercise to the
contempt of danger, to patience in enduring labour, hunger,
and pain. Poverty may easily be avoided, and the contempt of
it therefore almost ceases to be a virtue. The abstinence
from pleasure becomes less necessary, and the mind is more
at liberty to unbend itself, and to indulge its natural
inclinations in all those particular respects.
9Among
savages and barbarians it is quite otherwise. Every savage
undergoes a sort of Spartan discipline, and by the necessity
of his situation is inured to every sort of hardship. He is
in continual danger: he is often exposed to the greatest
extremities of hunger, and frequently dies of pure want. His
circumstances not only habituate him to every sort of
distress, but teach him to give way to none of the passions
which that distress is apt to excite. He can expect from his
countrymen no sympathy or indulgence for such weakness.
Before we can feel much for others, we must in some measure
be at ease ourselves. If our own misery pinches us very
severely, we have no leisure to attend to that of our
neighbour: and all savages are too much occupied with their
own wants and necessities, to give much attention to those
of another person. A savage, therefore, whatever be the
nature of his distress, expects no sympathy from those about
him, and disdains, upon that account, to expose himself, by
allowing the least weakness to escape him. His passions, how
furious and violent soever, are never permitted to disturb
the serenity of his countenance or the composure of his
conduct and behaviour. The savages in North America, we are
told, assume upon all occasions the greatest indifference,
and would think themselves degraded if they should ever
appear in any respect to be overcome, either by love, or
grief, or resentment. Their magnanimity and selfcommand, in
this respect, are almost beyond the conception of Europeans.
In a country in which all men are upon a level, with regard
to rank and fortune, it might be expected that the mutual
inclinations of the two parties should be the only thing
considered in marriages, and should be indulged without any
sort of control. This, however, is the country in which all
marriages, without exception, are made up by the parents,
and in which a young man would think himself disgraced for
ever, if he shewed the least preference of one woman above
another, or did not express the most complete indifference,
both about the time when, and the person to whom, he was to
be married. The weakness of love, which is so much indulged
in ages of humanity and politeness, is regarded among
savages as the most unpardonable effeminacy. Even after the
marriage, the two parties seem to be ashamed of a connexion
which is founded upon so sordid a necessity. They do not
live together. They see one another by stealth only. They
both continue to dwell in the houses of their respective
fathers, and the open cohabitation of the two sexes, which
is permitted without blame in all other countries, is here
considered as the most indecent and unmanly sensuality. Nor
is it only over this agreeable passion that they exert this
absolute self–command. They often bear, in the sight of all
their countrymen, with injuries, reproach, and the grossest
insults, with the appearance of the greatest insensibility,
and without expressing the smallest resentment. When a
savage is made prisoner of war, and receives, as is usual,
the sentence of death from his conquerors, he hears it
without expressing any emotion, and afterwards submits to
the most dreadful torments, without ever bemoaning himself,
or discovering any other passion but contempt of his
enemies. While he is hung by the shoulders over a slow fire,
he derides his tormentors, and tells them with how much more
ingenuity he himself had tormented such of their countrymen
as had fallen into his hands. After he has been scorched and
burnt, and lacerated in all the most tender and sensible
parts of his body for several hours together, he is often
allowed, in order to prolong his misery, a short respite,
and is taken down from the stake: he employs this interval
in talking upon all indifferent subjects, inquires after the
news of the country, and seems indifferent about nothing but
his own situation. The spectators express the same
insensibility; the sight of so horrible an object seems to
make no impression upon them; they scarce look at the
prisoner, except when they lend a hand to torment him. At
other times they smoke tobacco, and amuse themselves with
any common object, as if no such matter was going on. Every
savage is said to prepare himself from his earliest youth
for this dreadful end. He composes, for this purpose, what
they call the song of death, a song which he is to sing when
he has fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is expiring
under the tortures which they inflict upon him. It consists
of insults upon his tormentors, and expresses the highest
contempt of death and pain. He sings this song upon all
extraordinary occasions, when he goes out to war, when he
meets his enemies in the field, or whenever he has a mind to
show that he has familiarised his imagination to the most
dreadful misfortunes, and that no human event can daunt his
resolution, or alter his purpose. The same contempt of death
and torture prevails among all other savage nations. There
is not a negro from the coast of Africa who does not, in
this respect, possess a degree of magnanimity which the soul
of his sordid master is
scarce capable of
conceiving. Fortune never exerted more cruelly her empire
over mankind, than when she subjected those nations of
heroes to the refuse of the jails of Europe, to wretches who
possess the virtues neither of the countries which they come
from, nor of those which they go to, and whose levity,
brutality, and baseness, so justly expose them to the
contempt of the vanquished.
10This
heroic and unconquerable firmness, which the custom and
education of his country demand of every savage, is not
required of those who are brought up to live in civilized
societies. If these last complain when they are in pain, if
they grieve when they are in distress, if they allow
themselves either to be overcome by love, or to be
discomposed by anger, they are easily pardoned. Such
weaknesses are not apprehended to affect the essential parts
of their character. As long as they do not allow themselves
to be transported to do any thing contrary to justice or
humanity, they lose but little reputation, though the
serenity of their countenance, or the composure of their
discourse and behaviour, should be somewhat ruffled and
disturbed. A humane and polished people, who have more
sensibility to the passions of others, can more readily
enter into an animated and passionate behaviour, and can
more easily pardon some little excess. The person
principally concerned is sensible of this; and being assured
of the equity of his judges, indulges himself in stronger
expressions of passion, and is less afraid of exposing
himself to their contempt by the violence of his emotions.
We can venture to express more emotion in the presence of a
friend than in that of a stranger, because we expect more
indulgence from the one than from the other. And in the same
manner the rules of decorum among civilized nations, admit
of a more animated behaviour, than is approved of among
barbarians. The first converse together with the openness of
friends; the second with the reserve of strangers. The
emotion and vivacity with which the French and the Italians,
the two most polished nations upon the continent, express
themselves on occasions that are at all interesting,
surprise at first those strangers who happen to be
travelling among them, and who, having been educated among a
people of duller sensibility, cannot enter into this
passionate behaviour, of which they have never seen any
example in their own country. A young French nobleman will
weep in the presence of the whole court upon being refused a
regiment. An Italian, says the abbot Dû Bos, expresses more
emotion on being condemned in a fine of twenty shillings,
than an Englishman on receiving the sentence of death.
Cicero, in the times of the highest Roman politeness, could,
without degrading himself, weep with all the bitterness of
sorrow in the sight of the whole senate and the whole
people; as it is evident he must have done in the end of
almost every oration. The orators of the earlier and ruder
ages of Rome could not probably, consistent with the manners
of the times, have expressed themselves with so much
emotion. It would have been regarded, I suppose, as a
violation of nature and propriety in the Scipios, in the
Leliuses, and in the elder Cato,
to have exposed so much tenderness to the view of the
public. Those ancient warriors could express themselves with
order, gravity, and good judgment; but are said to have been
strangers to that sublime and passionate eloquence which was
first introduced into Rome, not many years before the birth
of Cicero, by the two Gracchi, by Crassus, and by Sulpitius.
This animated eloquence, which has been long practised, with
or without success, both in France and Italy, is but just
beginning to be introduced into England. So wide is the
difference between the degrees of self–command which are
required in civilized and in barbarous nations, and by such
different standards do they judge of the propriety of
behaviour.
11This
difference gives occasion to many others that are not less
essential. A polished people being accustomed to give way,
in some measure, to the movements of nature, become frank,
open, and sincere. Barbarians, on the contrary, being
obliged to smother and conceal the appearance of every
passion, necessarily acquire the habits of falsehood and
dissimulation. It is observed by all those who have been
conversant with savage nations, whether in Asia, Africa, or
America, that they are all equally impenetrable, and that,
when they have a mind to conceal the truth, no examination
is capable of drawing it from them. They cannot be trepanned
by the most artful questions. The torture itself is
incapable of making them confess any thing which they have
no mind to tell. The passions of a savage too, though they
never express themselves by any outward emotion, but lie
concealed in the breast of the sufferer, are,
notwithstanding, all mounted to the highest pitch of fury.
Though he seldom shows any symptoms of anger, yet his
vengeance, when he comes to give way to it, is always
sanguinary and dreadful. The least affront drives him to
despair. His countenance and discourse indeed are still
sober and composed, and express nothing but the most perfect
tranquillity of mind: but his actions are often the most
furious and violent. Among the North–Americans it is not
uncommon for persons of the tenderest age and more fearful
sex to drown themselves upon receiving only a slight
reprimand from their mothers, and this too without
expressing any passion, or saying any thing, except, you
shall no longer have a daughter. In civilized nations
the passions of men are not commonly so furious or so
desperate. They are often clamorous and noisy, but are
seldom very hurtful; and seem frequently to aim at no other
satisfaction, but that of convincing the spectator, that
they are in the right to be so much moved, and of procuring
his sympathy and approbation.
12All
these effects of custom and fashion, however, upon the moral
sentiments of mankind, are inconsiderable, in comparison of
those which they give occasion to in some other cases; and
it is not concerning the general style of character and
behaviour, that those principles produce the greatest
perversion of judgment, but concerning the propriety or
impropriety of particular usages.
13The
different manners which custom teaches us to approve of in
the different professions and states of life, do not concern
things of the greatest importance. We expect truth and
justice from an old man as well as from a young, from a
clergyman as well as from an officer; and it is in matters
of small moment only that we look for the distinguishing
marks of their respective characters. With regard to these
too, there is often some unobserved circumstance which, if
it was attended to, would show us, that, independent of
custom, there was a propriety in the character which custom
had taught us to allot to each profession. We cannot
complain, therefore, in this case, that the perversion of
natural sentiment is very great. Though the manners of
different nations require different degrees of the same
quality, in the character which they think worthy of esteem,
yet the worst that can be said to happen even here, is that
the duties of one virtue are sometimes extended so as to
encroach a little upon the precincts of some other. The
rustic hospitality that is in fashion among the Poles
encroaches, perhaps, a little upon oeconomy and good order;
and the frugality that is esteemed in Holland, upon
generosity and good–fellowship. The hardiness demanded of
savages diminishes their humanity; and, perhaps, the
delicate sensibility required in civilized nations sometimes
destroys the masculine firmness of the character. In
general, the style of manners which takes place in any
nation, may commonly upon the whole be said to be that which
is most suitable to its situation. Hardiness is the
character most suitable to the circumstances of a savage;
sensibility to those of one who lives in a very civilized
society. Even here, therefore, we cannot complain that the
moral sentiments of men are very grossly perverted.
14It
is not therefore in the general style of conduct or
behaviour that custom authorises the widest departure from
what is the natural propriety of action. With regard to
particular usages, its influence is often much more
destructive of good morals, and it is capable of
establishing, as lawful and blameless, particular actions,
which shock the plainest principles of right and wrong.
15Can
there be greater barbarity, for example, than to hurt an
infant? Its helplessness, its innocence, its amiableness,
call forth the compassion, even of an enemy, and not to
spare that tender age is regarded as the most furious effort
of an enraged and cruel conqueror. What then should we
imagine must be the heart of a parent who could injure that
weakness which even a furious enemy is afraid to violate?
Yet the exposition, that is, the murder of new–born infants,
was a practice allowed of in almost all the states of
Greece, even among the polite and civilized Athenians; and
whenever the circumstances of the parent rendered it
inconvenient to bring up the child, to abandon it to hunger,
or to wild beasts, was regarded without blame or censure.
This practice had probably begun in times of the most savage
barbarity. The imaginations of men had been first made
familiar with it in that earliest period of society, and the
uniform continuance of the custom had hindered them
afterwards from perceiving its enormity. We find, at this
day, that this practice prevails among all savage nations;
and in that rudest and lowest state of society it is
undoubtedly more pardonable than in any other. The extreme
indigence of a savage is often such that he himself is
frequently exposed to the greatest extremity of hunger, he
often dies of pure want, and it is frequently impossible for
him to support both himself and his child. We cannot wonder,
therefore, that in this case he should abandon it. One who,
in flying from an enemy, whom it was impossible to resist,
should throw down his infant, because it retarded his
flight, would surely be excusable; since, by attempting to
save it, he could only hope for the consolation of dying
with it. That in this state of society, therefore, a parent
should be allowed to judge whether he can bring up his
child, ought not to surprise us so greatly. In the latter
ages of Greece, however, the same thing was permitted from
views of remote interest or conveniency, which could by no
means excuse it. Uninterrupted custom had by this time so
thoroughly authorised the practice, that not only the loose
maxims of the world tolerated this barbarous prerogative,
but even the doctrine of philosophers, which ought to have
been more just and accurate, was led away by the established
custom, and upon this, as upon many other occasions, instead
of censuring, supported the horrible abuse, by far–fetched
considerations of public utility. Aristotle
talks of it as of what the magistrate ought upon many
occasions to encourage. The humane Plato
is of the same opinion, and, with all that love of mankind
which seems to animate all his writings, no where marks this
practice with disapprobation. When custom can give sanction
to so dreadful a violation of humanity, we may well imagine
that there is scarce any particular practice so gross which
it cannot authorise. Such a thing, we hear men every day
saying, is commonly done, and they seem to think this a
sufficient apology for what, in itself, is the most unjust
and unreasonable conduct.
16There
is an obvious reason why custom should never pervert our
sentiments with regard to the general style and character of
conduct and behaviour, in the same degree as with regard to
the propriety or unlawfulness of particular usages. There
never can be any such custom. No society could subsist a
moment, in which the usual strain of men’s conduct and
behaviour was of a piece with the horrible practice I have
just now mentioned.
[Back to Table of Contents]
PART VI
Of the
Character of Virtue
Consisting of Three Sections
[Back to Table of Contents]
introduction
1When
we consider the character of any individual, we naturally
view it under two different aspects; first, as it may affect
his own happiness; and secondly, as it may affect that of
other people.
[Back to Table of Contents]
aSECTION I
Of the Character of the
Individual, so far as it affects his own Happiness; or of
Prudencea
1The
preservation and healthful state of the body seem to be the
objects which Nature first recommends to the care of every
individual. The appetites of hunger and thirst, the
agreeable or disagreeable sensations of pleasure and pain,
of heat and cold, etc. may be considered as lessons
delivered by the voice of Nature herself, directing him what
he ought to chuse, and what he ought to avoid, for this
purpose. The first lessons which he is taught by those to
whom his childhood is entrusted, tend, the greater part of
them, to the same purpose. Their principal object is
to teach him how to keep out of harm’s way.
2As
he grows up, he soon learns that some care and foresight are
necessary for providing the means of gratifying those
natural appetites, of procuring pleasure and avoiding pain,
of procuring the agreeable and avoiding the disagreeable
temperature of heat and cold. In the proper direction of
this care and foresight consists the art of preserving and
increasing what is called his external fortune.
3Though
it is in order to supply the necessities and
of the body, that
the advantages of external fortune are originally
recommended to us, yet we cannot live long in the world
without perceiving that the respect of our equals, our
credit and rank in the society we live in, depend very much
upon the degree in which we possess, or are supposed to
possess, those advantages. The desire of becoming the proper
objects of this respect, of deserving and obtaining this
credit and rank among our equals, is, perhaps, the strongest
of all our desires, and our anxiety to obtain the advantages
of fortune is accordingly much more excited and irritated by
this desire, than by that of supplying all the necessities
and
of the body, which
are always very easily supplied.
4Our
rank and credit among our equals, too, depend very much
upon, what, perhaps, a virtuous man would wish them to
depend entirely, our character and conduct, or upon the
confidence, esteem, and good–will, which these naturally
excite in the people we live with.
5The
care of the health, of the fortune, of the rank and
reputation of the individual, the objects upon which his
comfort and happiness in this life are supposed principally
to depend, is considered as the proper business of that
virtue which is commonly called Prudence.
6We
suffer more, it has already been observed,
when we fall from a better to a worse situation, than we
ever enjoy when we rise from a worse to a better. Security,
therefore, is the first and the principal object of
prudence. It is averse to expose our health, our fortune,
our rank, or reputation, to any sort of hazard. It is rather
cautious than enterprising, and more anxious to preserve the
advantages which we already possess, than forward to prompt
us to the acquisition of still greater advantages. The
methods of improving our fortune, which it principally
recommends to us, are those which expose to no loss or
hazard; real knowledge and skill in our trade or profession,
assiduity and industry in the exercise of it, frugality, and
even some degree of parsimony, in all our expences.
7The
prudent man always studies seriously and earnestly to
understand whatever he professes to understand, and not
merely to persuade other people that he understands it; and
though his talents may not always be very brilliant, they
are always perfectly genuine. He neither endeavours to
impose upon you by the cunning devices of an artful
impostor, nor by the arrogant airs of an assuming pedant,
nor by the confident assertions of a superficial and
imprudent pretender. He is not ostentatious even of the
abilities which he really possesses. His conversation is
simple and modest, and he is averse to all the quackish arts
by which other people so frequently thrust themselves into
public notice and reputation. For reputation in his
profession he is naturally disposed to rely a good deal upon
the solidity of his knowledge and abilities; and he does not
always think of cultivating the favour of those little clubs
and cabals, who, in the superior arts and sciences, so often
erect themselves into the supreme judges of merit; and who
make it their business to celebrate the talents and virtues
of one another, and to decry whatever can come into
competition with them. If he ever connects himself with any
society of this kind, it is merely in self–defence, not with
a view to impose upon the public, but to hinder the public
from being imposed upon, to his disadvantage, by the
clamours, the whispers, or the intrigues, either of that
particular society, or of some other of the same kind.
8The
prudent man is always sincere, and feels horror at the very
thought of exposing himself to the disgrace which attends
upon the detection of falsehood. But though always sincere,
he is not always frank and open; and though he never tells
any thing but the truth, he does not always think himself
bound, when not properly called upon, to tell the whole
truth. As he is cautious in his actions, so he is reserved
in his speech; and never rashly or unnecessarily obtrudes
his opinion concerning either things or persons.
9The
prudent man, though not always distinguished by the most
exquisite sensibility, is always very capable of friendship.
But his friendship is not that ardent and passionate, but
too often transitory affection, which appears so delicious
to the generosity of youth and inexperience. It is a sedate,
but steady and faithful attachment to a few well–tried and
well–chosen companions; in the choice of whom he is not
guided by the giddy admiration of shining accomplishments,
but by the sober esteem of modesty, discretion, and good
conduct. But though capable of friendship, he is not always
much disposed to general sociality. He rarely frequents, and
more rarely figures in those convivial societies which are
distinguished for the jollity and gaiety of their
conversation. Their way of life might too often interfere
with the regularity of his temperance, might interrupt the
steadiness of his industry, or break in upon the strictness
of his frugality.
10But
though his conversation may not always be very sprightly or
diverting, it is always perfectly inoffensive. He hates the
thought of being guilty of any petulance or rudeness. He
never assumes impertinently over any body, and, upon all
common occasions, is willing to place himself rather below
than above his equals. Both in his conduct and conversation,
he is an exact observer of decency, and respects with an
almost religious scrupulosity, all the established decorums
and ceremonials of society. And, in this respect, he sets a
much better example than has frequently been done by men of
much more splendid talents and virtues; who, in all ages,
from that of Socrates and Aristippus,
down to that of Dr. Swift and Voltaire, and from that of
Philip and Alexander the Great, down to that of the great
Czar Peter of Moscovy, have too often distinguished
themselves by the most improper and even insolent contempt
of all the ordinary decorums of life and conversation, and
who have thereby set the most pernicious example to those
who wish to resemble them, and who too often content
themselves with imitating their follies, without even
attempting to attain their perfections.
11In
the steadiness of his industry and frugality, in his
steadily sacrificing the ease and enjoyment of the present
moment for the probable expectation of the still greater
ease and enjoyment of a more distant but more lasting period
of time, the prudent man is always both supported and
rewarded by the entire approbation of the impartial
spectator, and of the representative of the impartial
spectator, the man within the breast. The impartial
spectator does not feel himself worn out by the present
labour of those whose conduct he surveys; nor does he feel
himself solicited by the importunate calls of their present
appetites. To him their present, and what is likely to be
their future situation, are very nearly the same: he sees
them nearly at the same distance, and is affected by them
very nearly in the same manner. He knows, however, that to
the persons principally concerned, they are very far from
being the same, and that they naturally affect them
in a very different manner. He cannot therefore but approve,
and even applaud, that proper exertion of self–command,
which enables them to act as if their present and their
future situation affected them nearly in the same manner in
which they affect him.
12The
man who lives within his income, is naturally contented with
his situation, which, by continual, though small
accumulations, is growing better and better every day. He is
enabled gradually to relax, both in the rigour of his
parsimony and in the severity of his application; and he
feels with double satisfaction this gradual increase of ease
and enjoyment, from having felt before the hardship which
attended the want of them. He has no anxiety to change so
comfortable a situation, and does not go in quest of new
enterprises and adventures, which might endanger, but could
not well increase, the secure tranquillity which he actually
enjoys. If he enters into any new projects or enterprises,
they are likely to be well concerted and well prepared. He
can never be hurried or drove into them by any necessity,
but has always time and leisure to deliberate soberly and
coolly concerning what are likely to be their consequences.
13The
prudent man is not willing to subject himself to any
responsibility which his duty does not impose upon him. He
is not a bustler in business where he has no concern; is not
a meddler in other people’s affairs; is not a professed
counsellor or adviser, who obtrudes his advice where nobody
is asking it. He confines himself, as much as his duty will
permit, to his own affairs, and has no taste for that
foolish importance which many people wish to derive from
appearing to have some influence in the management of those
of other people. He is averse to enter into any party
disputes, hates faction, and is not always very forward to
listen to the voice even of noble and great ambition. When
distinctly called upon, he will not decline the service of
his country, but he will not cabal in order to force himself
into it, and would be much better pleased that the public
business were well managed by some other person, than that
he himself should have the trouble, and incur the
responsibility, of managing it. In the bottom of his heart
he would prefer the undisturbed enjoyment of secure
tranquillity, not only to all the vain splendour of
successful ambition, but to the real and solid glory of
performing the greatest and most magnanimous actions.
14Prudence,
in short, when directed merely to the care of the health, of
the fortune, and of the rank and reputation of the
individual, though it is regarded as a most respectable and
even, in some degree, as an amiable and agreeable quality,
yet it never is considered as one, either of the most
endearing, or of the most ennobling of the virtues. It
commands a certain cold esteem, but seems not entitled to
any very ardent love or admiration.
15Wise
and judicious conduct, when directed to greater and nobler
purposes than the care of the health, the fortune, the rank
and reputation of the individual, is frequently and very
properly called prudence. We talk of the prudence of the
great general, of the great statesman, of the great
legislator. Prudence is, in all these cases, combined with
many greater and more splendid virtues, with valour, with
extensive and strong benevolence, with a sacred regard to
the rules of justice, and all these supported by a proper
degree of self–command. This superior prudence, when carried
to the highest degree of perfection, necessarily supposes
the art, the talent, and the habit or disposition of acting
with the most perfect propriety in every possible
circumstance and situation. It necessarily supposes the
utmost perfection of all the intellectual and of all the
moral virtues. It is the best head joined to the best heart.
It is the most perfect wisdom combined with the most perfect
virtue. It constitutes very nearly the character of the
Academical or Peripatetic
sage, as the inferior prudence does that of the Epicurean.
16Mere
imprudence, or the mere want of the capacity to take care of
one’s–self, is, with the generous and humane, the object of
compassion; with those of less delicate sentiments, of
neglect, or, at worst, of contempt, but never of hatred or
indignation. When combined with other vices, however, it
aggravates in the highest degree the infamy and disgrace
which would otherwise attend them. The artful knave, whose
dexterity and address exempt him, though not from strong
suspicions, yet from punishment or distinct detection, is
too often received in the world with an indulgence which he
by no means deserves. The awkward and foolish one, who, for
want of this dexterity and address, is convicted and brought
to punishment, is the object of universal hatred, contempt,
and derision. In countries where great crimes frequently
pass unpunished, the most atrocious actions become almost
familiar, and cease to impress the people with that horror
which is universally felt in countries where an exact
administration of justice takes place. The injustice is the
same in both countries; but the imprudence is often very
different. In the latter, great crimes are evidently great
follies. In the former, they are not always considered as
such. In Italy, during the greater part of the sixteenth
century, assassinations, murders, and even murders under
trust, seem to have been almost familiar among the superior
ranks of people. Caesar Borgia invited four of the little
princes in his neighbourhood, who all possessed little
sovereignties, and commanded little armies of their own, to
a friendly conference at Senigaglia, where, as soon as they
arrived, he put them all to death.
This infamous action, though certainly not approved of even
in that age of crimes, seems to have contributed very little
to the discredit, and not in the least to the ruin of the
perpetrator. That ruin happened a few years after from
causes altogether disconnected with this crime. Machiavel,
not indeed a man of the nicest morality even for his own
times, was resident, as minister from the republic of
Florence, at the court of Caesar Borgia when this crime was
committed. He gives a very particular account of it,
and in that pure, elegant, and simple language which
distinguishes all his writings. He talks of it very coolly;
is pleased with the address with which Caesar Borgia
conducted it; has much contempt for the dupery and weakness
of the sufferers; but no compassion for their miserable and
untimely death, and no sort of indignation at the cruelty
and falsehood of their murderer. The violence and injustice
of great conquerors are often regarded with foolish wonder
and admiration; those of petty thieves, robbers, and
murderers, with contempt, hatred, and even horror upon all
occasions. The former, though they are a hundred times more
mischievous and destructive, yet when successful, they often
pass for deeds of the most heroic magnanimity. The latter
are always viewed with hatred and aversion, as the follies,
as well as the crimes, of the lowest and most worthless of
mankind. The injustice of the former is certainly, at least,
as great as that of the latter; but the folly and imprudence
are not near so great. A wicked and worthless man of parts
often goes through the world with much more credit than he
deserves. A wicked and worthless fool appears always, of all
mortals, the most hateful, as well as the most contemptible.
As prudence combined with other virtues, constitutes the
noblest; so imprudence combined with other vices,
constitutes the vilest of all characters.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION II
Of the Character of the
Individual, so far as it can affect the Happiness of other
People
[Back to Table of Contents]
introduction
1The
character of every individual, so far as it can affect the
happiness of other people, must do so by its disposition
either to hurt or to benefit them.
2Proper
resentment for injustice attempted, or actually committed,
is the only motive which, in the eyes of the impartial
spectator, can justify our hurting or disturbing in any
respect the happiness of our neighbour. To do so from any
other motive is itself a violation of the laws of justice,
which force ought to be employed either to restrain or to
punish. The wisdom of every state or commonwealth
endeavours, as well as it can, to employ the force of the
society to restrain those who are subject to its authority,
from hurting or disturbing the happiness of one another. The
rules which it establishes for this purpose, constitute the
civil and criminal law of each particular state or country.
The principles upon which those rules either are, or ought
to be founded, are the subject of a particular science, of
all sciences by far the most important, but hitherto,
perhaps, the least cultivated, that of natural
jurisprudence; concerning which it belongs not to our
present subject to enter into any detail. A sacred and
religious regard not to hurt or disturb in any respect the
happiness of our neighbour, even in those cases where no law
can properly protect him, constitutes the character of the
perfectly innocent and just man; a character which, when
carried to a certain delicacy of attention, is always highly
respectable and even venerable for its own sake, and can
scarce ever fail to be accompanied with many other virtues,
with great feeling for other people, with great humanity and
great benevolence. It is a character sufficiently
understood, and requires no further explanation. In the
present section I shall only endeavour to explain the
foundation of that order which nature seems to have traced
out for the distribution of our good offices, or for the
direction and employment of our very limited powers of
beneficence: first, towards individuals; and secondly,
towards societies.
3The
same unerring wisdom, it will be found, which regulates
every other part of her conduct, directs, in this respect
too, the order of her recommendations; which are always
stronger or weaker in proportion as our beneficence is more
or less necessary, or can be more or less useful.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i.
Of the Order in
which Individuals are recommended by Nature to our care and
attention
1Every
man, as the Stoics used to say, is first and principally
recommended to his own care; and every man is certainly, in
every respect, fitter and abler to take care of himself than
of any other person. Every man feels his own pleasures and
his own pains more sensibly than those of other people. The
former are the original sensations; the latter the reflected
or sympathetic images of those sensations. The former may be
said to be the substance; the latter the shadow.
2After
himself, the members of his own family, those who usually
live in the same house with him, his parents, his children,
his brothers and sisters, are naturally the objects of his
warmest affections. They are naturally and usually the
persons upon whose happiness or misery his conduct must have
the greatest influence. He is more habituated to sympathize
with them. He knows better how every thing is likely to
affect them, and his sympathy with them is more precise and
determinate, than it can be with the greater part of other
people. It approaches nearer, in short, to what he feels for
himself.
3This
sympathy too, and the affections which are founded on it,
are by nature more strongly directed towards his children
than towards his parents, and his tenderness for the former
seems generally a more active principle, than his reverence
and gratitude towards the latter. In the natural state of
things, it has already been observed,
the existence of the child, for some time after it comes
into the world, depends altogether upon the care of the
parent; that of the parent does not naturally depend upon
the care of the child. In the eye of nature, it would seem,
a child is a more important object than an old man; and
excites a much more lively, as well as a much more universal
sympathy. It ought to do so. Every thing may be expected, or
at least hoped, from the child. In ordinary cases, very
little can be either expected or hoped from the old man. The
weakness of childhood interests the affections of the most
brutal and hard–hearted. It is only to the virtuous and
humane, that the infirmities of old age are not the objects
of contempt and aversion. In ordinary cases, an old man dies
without being much regretted by any body. Scarce a child can
die without rending asunder the heart of somebody.
4The
earliest friendships, the friendships which are naturally
contracted when the heart is most susceptible of that
feeling, are those among brothers and sisters. Their good
agreement, while they remain in the same family, is
necessary for its tranquillity and happiness. They are
capable of giving more pleasure or pain to one another than
to the greater part of other people. Their situation renders
their mutual sympathy of the utmost importance to their
common happiness; and, by the wisdom of nature, the same
situation, by obliging them to accommodate to one another,
renders that sympathy more habitual, and thereby more
lively, more distinct, and more determinate.
5The
children of brothers and sisters are naturally connected by
the friendship which, after separating into different
families, continues to take place between their parents.
Their good agreement improves the enjoyment of that
friendship; their discord would disturb it. As they seldom
live in the same family, however, though of more importance
to one another, than to the greater part of other people,
they are of much less than brothers and sisters. As their
mutual sympathy is less necessary, so it is less habitual,
and therefore proportionably weaker.
6The
children of cousins, being still less connected, are of
still less importance to one another; and the affection
gradually diminishes as the relation grows more and more
remote.
7What
is called affection, is in reality nothing but habitual
sympathy. Our concern in the happiness or misery of those
who are the objects of what we call our affections; our
desire to promote the one, and to prevent the other; are
either the actual feeling of that habitual sympathy, or the
necessary consequences of that feeling. Relations being
usually placed in situations which naturally create this
habitual sympathy, it is expected that a suitable degree of
affection should take place among them. We generally find
that it actually does take place; we therefore naturally
expect that it should; and we are, upon that account, more
shocked when, upon any occasion, we find that it does not.
The general rule is established, that persons related to one
another in a certain degree, ought always to be affected
towards one another in a certain manner, and that there is
always the highest impropriety, and sometimes even a sort of
impiety in their being affected in a different manner. A
parent without parental tenderness, a child devoid of all
filial reverence, appear monsters, the objects, not of
hatred only, but of horror.
8Though
in a particular instance, the circumstances which usually
produce those natural affections, as they are called, may,
by some accident, not have taken place, yet respect for the
general rule will frequently, in some measure, supply their
place, and produce something which, though not altogether
the same, may bear, however, a very considerable resemblance
to those affections. A father is apt to be less attached to
a child, who, by some accident, has been separated from him
in its infancy, and who does not return to him till it is
grown up to manhood. The father is apt to feel less paternal
tenderness for the child; the child, less filial reverence
for the father. Brothers and sisters, when they have been
educated in distant countries, are apt to feel a similar
diminution of affection. With the dutiful and the virtuous,
however, respect for the general rule will frequently
produce something which, though by no means the same, yet
may very much resemble those natural affections. Even during
the separation, the father and the child, the brothers or
the sisters, are by no means indifferent to one another.
They all consider one another as persons to and from whom
certain affections are due, and they live in the hopes of
being some time or another in a situation to enjoy that
friendship which ought naturally to have taken place among
persons so nearly connected. Till they meet, the absent son,
the absent brother, are frequently the favourite son, the
favourite brother. They have never offended, or, if they
have, it is so long ago, that the offence is forgotten, as
some childish trick not worth the remembering. Every account
they have heard of one another, if conveyed by people of any
tolerable good nature, has been, in the highest degree,
flattering and favourable. The absent son, the absent
brother, is not like other ordinary sons and brothers; but
an all–perfect son, an all–perfect brother; and the most
romantic hopes are entertained of the happiness to be
enjoyed in the friendship and conversation of such persons.
When they meet, it is often with so strong a disposition to
conceive that habitual sympathy which constitutes the family
affection, that they are very apt to fancy they have
actually conceived it, and to behave to one another as if
they had. Time and experience, however, I am afraid, too
frequently undeceive them. Upon a more familiar
acquaintance, they frequently discover in one another
habits, humours, and inclinations, different from what they
expected, to which, from want of habitual sympathy, from
want of the real principle and foundation of what is
properly called family–affection, they cannot now easily
accommodate themselves. They have never lived in the
situation which almost necessarily forces that easy
accommodation, and though they may now be sincerely desirous
to assume it, they have really become incapable of doing so.
Their familiar conversation and intercourse soon become less
pleasing to them, and, upon that account, less frequent.
They may continue to live with one another in the mutual
exchange of all essential good offices, and with every other
external appearance of decent regard. But that cordial
satisfaction, that delicious sympathy, that confidential
openness and ease, which naturally take place in the
conversation of those who have lived long and familiarly
with one another, it seldom happens that they can completely
enjoy.
9It
is only, however, with the dutiful and the virtuous, that
the general rule has even this slender authority. With the
dissipated, the profligate, and the vain, it is entirely
disregarded. They are so far from respecting it, that they
seldom talk of it but with the most indecent derision; and
an early and long separation of this kind never fails to
estrange them most completely from one another. With such
persons, respect for the general rule can at best produce
only a cold and affected civility (a very slender semblance
of real regard); and even this, the slightest offence, the
smallest opposition of interest, commonly puts an end to
altogether.
10The
education of boys at distant great schools, of young men at
distant colleges, of young ladies in distant nunneries and
boarding–schools, seems, in the higher ranks of life, to
have hurt most essentially the domestic morals, and
consequently the domestic happiness, both of France and
England.
Do you wish to educate your children to be dutiful to their
parents, to be kind and affectionate to their brothers and
sisters? put them under the necessity of being dutiful
children, of being kind and affectionate brothers and
sisters: educate them in your own house. From their parent’s
house they may, with propriety and advantage, go out every
day to attend public schools: but let their dwelling be
always at home. Respect for you must always impose a very
useful restraint upon their conduct; and respect for them
may frequently impose no useless restraint upon your own.
Surely no acquirement, which can possibly be derived from
what is called a public education, can make any sort of
compensation for what is almost certainly and necessarily
lost by it. Domestic education is the institution of nature;
public education, the contrivance of man. It is surely
unnecessary to say, which is likely to be the wisest.
11In
some tragedies and romances, we meet with many beautiful and
interesting scenes, founded upon, what is called, the force
of blood, or upon the wonderful affection which near
relations are supposed to conceive for one another, even
before they know that they have any such connection. This
force of blood, however, I am afraid, exists no–where but in
tragedies and romances. Even in tragedies and romances, it
is never supposed to take place between any relations, but
those who are naturally bred up in the same house; between
parents and children, between brothers and sisters. To
imagine any such mysterious affection between cousins, or
even between aunts or uncles, and nephews or nieces, would
be too ridiculous.
12In
pastoral countries, and in all countries where the authority
of law is not alone sufficient to give perfect security to
every member of the state, all the different branches of the
same family commonly chuse to live in the neighbourhood of
one another. Their association is frequently necessary for
their common defence. They are all, from the highest to the
lowest, of more or less importance to one another. Their
concord strengthens their necessary association; their
discord always weakens, and might destroy it. They have more
intercourse with one another, than with the members of any
other tribe. The remotest members of the same tribe claim
some connection with one another; and, where all other
circumstances are equal, expect to be treated with more
distinguished attention than is due to those who have no
such pretensions. It is not many years ago that, in the
Highlands of Scotland, the Chieftain used to consider the
poorest man of his clan, as his cousin and relation. The
same extensive regard to kindred is said to take place among
the Tartars, the Arabs, the Turkomans, and, I believe, among
all other nations who are nearly in the same state of
society in which the Scots Highlanders were about the
beginning of the present century.
13In
commercial countries, where the authority of law is always
perfectly sufficient to protect the meanest man in the
state, the descendants of the same family, having no such
motive for keeping together, naturally separate and
disperse, as interest or inclination may direct. They soon
cease to be of importance to one another; and, in a few
generations, not only lose all care about one another, but
all remembrance of their common origin, and of the
connection which took place among their ancestors. Regard
for remote relations becomes, in every country, less and
less, according as this state of civilization has been
longer and more completely established. It has been longer
and more completely established in England than in Scotland;
and remote relations are, accordingly, more considered in
the latter country than in the former, though, in this
respect, the difference between the two countries is growing
less and less every day. Great lords, indeed, are, in every
country, proud of remembering and acknowledging their
connection with one another, however remote. The remembrance
of such illustrious relations flatters not a little the
family pride of them all; and it is neither from affection,
nor from any thing which resembles affection, but from the
most frivolous and childish of all vanities, that this
remembrance is so carefully kept up. Should some more
humble, though, perhaps, much nearer kinsman, presume to put
such great men in mind of his relation to their family, they
seldom fail to tell him that they are bad genealogists, and
miserably ill–informed concerning their own family history.
It is not in that order, I am afraid, that we are to expect
any extraordinary extension of, what is called, natural
affection.
14I
consider what is called natural affection as more the effect
of the moral than of the supposed physical connection
between the parent and the child. A jealous husband, indeed,
notwithstanding the moral connection, notwithstanding the
child’s having been educated in his own house, often
regards, with hatred and aversion, that unhappy child which
he supposes to be the offspring of his wife’s infidelity. It
is the lasting monument of a most disagreeable adventure; of
his own dishonour, and of the disgrace of his family.
15Among
well–disposed people, the necessity or conveniency of mutual
accommodation, very frequently produces a friendship not
unlike that which takes place among those who are born to
live in the same family. Colleagues in office, partners in
trade, call one another brothers; and frequently feel
towards one another as if they really were so. Their good
agreement is an advantage to all; and, if they are tolerably
reasonable people, they are naturally disposed to agree. We
expect that they should do so; and their disagreement is a
sort of a small scandal. The Romans expressed this sort of
attachment by the word necessitudo, which, from the
etymology, seems to denote that it was imposed by the
necessity of the situation.
16Even
the trifling circumstance of living in the same
neighbourhood, has some effect of the same kind. We respect
the face of a man whom we see every day, provided he has
never offended us. Neighbours can be very convenient, and
they can be very troublesome, to one another. If they are
good sort of people, they are naturally disposed to agree.
We expect their good agreement; and to be a bad neighbour is
a very bad character. There are certain small good offices,
accordingly, which are universally allowed to be due to a
neighbour in preference to any other person who has no such
connection.
17This
natural disposition to accommodate and to assimilate, as
much as we can, our own sentiments, principles, and
feelings, to those which we see fixed and rooted in the
persons whom we are obliged to live and converse a great
deal with, is the cause of the contagious effects of both
good and bad company. The man who associates chiefly with
the wise and the virtuous, though he may not himself become
either wise or virtuous, cannot help conceiving a certain
respect at least for wisdom and virtue; and the man who
associates chiefly with the profligate and the dissolute,
though he may not himself become profligate and dissolute,
must soon lose, at least, all his original abhorrence of
profligacy and dissolution of manners. The similarity of
family characters, which we so frequently see transmitted
through several successive generations, may, perhaps, be
partly owing to this disposition, to assimilate ourselves to
those whom we are obliged to live and converse a great deal
with. The family character, however, like the family
countenance, seems to be owing, not altogether to the moral,
but partly too to the physical connection. The family
countenance is certainly altogether owing to the latter.
18But
of all attachments to an individual, that which is founded
altogether upon the esteem and approbation of his good
conduct and behaviour, confirmed by much experience and long
acquaintance, is, by far, the most respectable. Such
friendships, arising not from a constrained sympathy, not
from a sympathy which has been assumed and rendered habitual
for the sake of
and accommodation;
but from a natural sympathy, from an involuntary feeling
that the persons to whom we attach ourselves are the natural
and proper objects of esteem and approbation; can exist only
among men of virtue. Men of virtue only can feel that entire
confidence in the conduct and behaviour of one another,
which can, at all times, assure them that they can never
either offend or be offended by one another. Vice is always
capricious: virtue only is regular and orderly. The
attachment which is founded upon the love of virtue, as it
is certainly, of all attachments, the most virtuous; so it
is likewise the happiest, as well as the most permanent and
secure. Such friendships need not be confined to a single
person, but may safely embrace all the wise and virtuous,
with whom we have been long and intimately acquainted, and
upon whose wisdom and virtue we can, upon that account,
entirely depend. They who would confine friendship to two
persons, seem to confound the wise security of friendship
with the jealousy and folly of love. The hasty, fond, and
foolish intimacies of young people, founded, commonly, upon
some slight similarity of character, altogether unconnected
with good conduct, upon a taste, perhaps, for the same
studies, the same amusements, the same diversions, or upon
their agreement in some singular principle or opinion, not
commonly adopted; those intimacies which a freak begins, and
which a freak puts an end to, how agreeable soever they may
appear while they last, can by no means deserve the sacred
and venerable name of friendship.
19Of
all the persons, however, whom nature points out for our
peculiar beneficence, there are none to whom it seems more
properly directed than to those whose beneficence we have
ourselves already experienced. Nature, which formed men for
that mutal kindness, so necessary for their happiness,
renders every man the peculiar object of kindness, to the
persons to whom he himself has been kind. Though their
gratitude should not always correspond to his beneficence,
yet the sense of his merit, the sympathetic gratitude of the
impartial spectator, will always correspond to it. The
general indignation of other people, against the baseness of
their ingratitude, will even, sometimes, increase the
general sense of his merit. No benevolent man ever lost
altogether the fruits of his benevolence. If he does not
always gather them from the persons from whom he ought to
have gathered them, he seldom fails to gather them, and with
a tenfold increase, from other people. Kindness is the
parent of kindness; and if to be beloved by our brethren be
the great object of our ambition, the surest way of
obtaining it is, by our conduct to show that we really love
them.
20After
the persons who are recommended to our beneficence, either
by their connection with ourselves, by their personal
qualities, or by their past services, come those who are
pointed out, not indeed to, what is called, our friendship,
but to our benevolent attention and good offices; those who
are distinguished by their extraordinary situation; the
greatly fortunate and the greatly unfortunate, the rich and
the powerful, the poor and the wretched. The distinction of
ranks, the peace and order of society, are, in a great
measure, founded upon the respect which we naturally
conceive for the former. The relief and consolation of human
misery depend altogether upon our compassion for the latter.
The peace and order of society, is of more importance than
even the relief of the miserable. Our respect for the great,
accordingly, is most apt to offend by its excess; our
fellow–feeling for the miserable, by its defect. Moralists
exhort us to charity and compassion. They warn us against
the fascination of greatness. This fascination, indeed, is
so powerful, that the rich and the great are too often
preferred to the wise and the virtuous. Nature has wisely
judged that the distinction of ranks, the peace and order of
society, would rest more securely upon the plain and
palpable difference of birth and fortune, than upon the
invisible and often uncertain difference of wisdom and
virtue. The undistinguishing eyes of the great mob of
mankind can well enough perceive the former: it is with
difficulty that the nice discernment of the wise and the
virtuous can sometimes distinguish the latter. In the order
of all those recommendations, the benevolent wisdom of
nature is equally evident.
21It
may, perhaps, be unnecessary to observe, that the
combination of two, or more, of those exciting causes of
kindness, increases the kindness. The favour and partiality
which, when there is no envy in the case, we naturally bear
to greatness, are much increased when it is joined with
wisdom and virtue. If, notwithstanding that wisdom and
virtue, the great man should fall into those misfortunes,
those dangers and distresses, to which the most exalted
stations are often the most exposed, we are much more deeply
interested in his fortune than we should be in that of a
person equally virtuous, but in a more humble situation. The
most interesting subjects of tragedies and romances are the
misfortunes of virtuous and magnanimous kings and princes.
If, by the wisdom and manhood of their exertions, they
should extricate themselves from those misfortunes, and
recover completely their former superiority and security, we
cannot help viewing them with the most enthusiastic and even
extravagant admiration. The grief which we felt for their
distress, the joy which we feel for their prosperity, seem
to combine together in enhancing that partial admiration
which we naturally conceive both for the station and the
character.
22When
those different beneficent affections happen to draw
different ways, to determine by any precise rules in what
cases we ought to comply with the one, and in what with the
other, is, perhaps, altogether impossible. In what cases
friendship ought to yield to gratitude, or gratitude to
friendship; in what cases the strongest of all natural
affections ought to yield to a regard for the safety of
those superiors upon whose safety often depends that of the
whole society; and in what cases natural affection may,
without impropriety, prevail over that regard; must be left
altogether to the decision of the man within the breast, the
supposed impartial spectator, the great judge and arbiter of
our conduct. If we place ourselves completely in his
situation, if we really view ourselves with his eyes, and as
he views us, and listen with diligent and reverential
attention to what he suggests to us, his voice will never
deceive us. We shall stand in need of no casuistic rules to
direct our conduct. These it is often impossible to
accommodate to all the different shades and gradations of
circumstance, character, and situation, to differences and
distinctions which, though not imperceptible, are, by their
nicety and delicacy, often altogether undefinable. In that
beautiful tragedy of Voltaire, the Orphan of China,
while we admire the magnanimity of Zamti, who is willing to
sacrifice the life of his own child, in order to preserve
that of the only feeble remnant of his ancient sovereigns
and masters; we not only pardon, but love the maternal
tenderness of Idame, who, at the risque of discovering the
important secret of her husband, reclaims her infant from
the cruel hands of the Tartars, into which it had been
delivered.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of the order in
which Societies are by nature recommended to our Beneficence
1The
same principles that direct the order in which individuals
are recommended to our beneficence, direct that likewise in
which societies are recommended to it. Those to which it is,
or may be of most importance, are first and principally
recommended to it.
2The
state or sovereignty in which we have been born and
educated, and under the protection of which we continue to
live, is, in ordinary cases, the greatest society upon whose
happiness or misery, our good or bad conduct can have much
influence. It is accordingly, by nature, most strongly
recommended to us. Not only we ourselves, but all the
objects of our kindest affections, our children, our
parents, our relations, our friends, our benefactors, all
those whom we naturally love and revere the most, are
commonly comprehended within it; and their prosperity and
safety depend in some measure upon its prosperity and
safety. It is by nature, therefore, endeared to us, not only
by all our selfish, but by all our private benevolent
affections. Upon account of our own connexion with it, its
prosperity and glory seem to reflect some sort of honour
upon ourselves. When we compare it with other societies of
the same kind, we are proud of its superiority, and
mortified in some degree, if it appears in any respect below
them. All the illustrious characters which it has produced
in former times (for against those of our own times envy may
sometimes prejudice us a little), its warriors, its
statesmen, its poets, its philosophers, and men of letters
of all kinds; we are disposed to view with the most partial
admiration, and to rank them (sometimes most unjustly) above
those of all other nations. The patriot who lays down his
life for the safety, or even for the vain–glory of this
society, appears to act with the most exact propriety. He
appears to view himself in the light in which the impartial
spectator naturally and necessarily views him, as but one of
the multitude, in the eye of that equitable judge, of no
more consequence than any other in it, but bound at all
times to sacrifice and devote himself to the safety, to the
service, and even to the glory of the greater number. But
though this sacrifice appears to be perfectly just and
proper, we know how difficult it is to make it, and how few
people are capable of making it. His conduct, therefore,
excites not only our entire approbation, but our highest
wonder and admiration, and seems to merit all the applause
which can be due to the most heroic virtue. The traitor, on
the contrary, who, in some peculiar situation, fancies he
can promote his own little interest by betraying to the
public enemy that of his native country; who, regardless of
the judgment of the man within the breast, prefers himself,
in this respect so shamefully and so basely, to all those
with whom he has any connexion; appears to be of all
villains the most detestable.
3The
love of our own nation often disposes us to view, with the
most malignant jealousy and envy, the prosperity and
aggrandisement of any other neighbouring nation. Independent
and neighbouring nations, having no common superior to
decide their disputes, all live in continual dread and
suspicion of one another. Each sovereign, expecting little
justice from his neighbours, is disposed to treat them with
as little as he expects from them. The regard for the laws
of nations, or for those rules which independent states
profess or pretend to think themselves bound to observe in
their dealings with one another, is often very little more
than mere pretence and profession. From the smallest
interest, upon the slightest provocation, we see those rules
every day, either evaded or directly violated without shame
or remorse. Each nation foresees, or imagines it foresees,
its own subjugation in the increasing power and
aggrandisement of any of its neighbours; and the mean
principle of national prejudice is often founded upon the
noble one of the love of our own country. The sentence with
which the elder Cato is said to have concluded every speech
which he made in the senate, whatever might be the subject,
‘It is my opinion likewise that Carthage ought to be
destroyed,’
was the natural expression of the savage patriotism of a
strong but coarse mind, enraged almost to madness against a
foreign nation from which his own had suffered so much. The
more humane sentence with which Scipio Nasica is said to
have concluded all his speeches, ‘It is my opinion
likewise that Carthage ought not to be destroyed,’
was the liberal expression of a more enlarged and
enlightened mind, who felt no aversion to the prosperity
even of an old enemy, when reduced to a state which could no
longer be formidable to Rome. France and England may each of
them have some reason to dread the increase of the naval and
military power of the other; but for either of them to envy
the internal happiness and prosperity of the other, the
cultivation of its lands, the advancement of its
manufactures, the increase of its commerce, the security and
number of its ports and harbours, its proficiency in all the
liberal arts and sciences, is surely beneath the dignity of
two such great nations. These are all real improvements of
the world we live in. Mankind are benefited, human nature is
ennobled by them. In such improvements each nation ought,
not only to endeavour itself to excel, but from the love of
mankind, to promote, instead of obstructing the excellence
of its neighbours. These are all proper objects of national
emulation, not of national prejudice or envy.
4
The love of our own country seems not to be derived from the
love of mankind. The former sentiment is altogether
independent of the latter, and seems sometimes even to
dispose us to act inconsistently with it. France may
contain, perhaps, near three times the number of inhabitants
which Great Britain contains.
In the great society of mankind, therefore, the prosperity
of France should appear to be an object of much greater
importance than that of Great Britain. The British subject,
however, who, upon that account, should prefer upon all
occasions the prosperity of the former to that of the latter
country, would not be thought a good citizen of Great
Britain. We do not love our country merely as a part of the
great society of mankind: we love it for its own sake, and
independently of any such consideration. That wisdom which
contrived the system of human affections, as well as that of
every other part of nature, seems to have judged that the
interest of the great society of mankind would be best
promoted by directing the principal attention of each
individual to that particular portion of it, which was most
within the sphere both of his abilities and of his
understanding.
5National
prejudices and hatreds seldom extend beyond neighbouring
nations. We very weakly and foolishly, perhaps, call the
French our natural enemies; and they perhaps, as weakly and
foolishly, consider us in the same manner. Neither they nor
we bear any sort of envy to the prosperity of China or
Japan. It very rarely happens, however, that our good–will
towards such distant countries can be exerted with much
effect.
6The
most extensive public benevolence which can commonly be
exerted with any considerable effect, is that of the
statesmen, who project and form alliances among neighbouring
or not very distant nations, for the preservation either of,
what is called, the balance of power, or of the general
peace and tranquillity of the states within the circle of
their negotiations. The statesmen, however, who plan and
execute such treaties, have seldom any thing in view, but
the interest of their respective countries. Sometimes,
indeed, their views are more extensive. The Count d’Avaux,
the plenipotentiary of France, at the treaty of Munster,
would have been willing to sacrifice his life (according to
the Cardinal de Retz,
a man not overcredulous in the virtue of other people) in
order to have restored, by that treaty, the general
tranquillity of Europe. King William seems to have had a
real zeal for the liberty and independency of the greater
part of the sovereign states of Europe; which, perhaps,
might be a good deal stimulated by his particular aversion
to France, the state from which, during his time, that
liberty and independency were principally in danger. Some
share of the same spirit seems to have descended to the
first ministry of Queen Anne.
7Every
independent state is divided into many different orders and
societies, each of which has its own particular powers,
privileges, and immunities. Every individual is naturally
more attached to his own particular order or society, than
to any other. His own interest, his own vanity, the interest
and vanity of many of his friends and companions, are
commonly a good deal connected with it. He is ambitious to
extend its privileges and immunities. He is zealous to
defend them against the encroachments of every other order
or society.
8Upon
the manner in which any state is divided into the different
orders and societies which compose it, and upon the
particular distribution which has been made of their
respective powers, privileges, and immunities, depends, what
is called, the constitution of that particular state.
9Upon
the ability of each particular order or society to maintain
its own powers, privileges, and immunities, against the
encroachments of every other, depends the stability of that
particular constitution. That particular constitution is
necessarily more or less altered, whenever any of its
subordinate parts is either raised above or depressed below
whatever had been its former rank and condition.
10All
those different orders and societies are dependent upon the
state to which they owe their security and protection. That
they are all subordinate to that state, and established only
in subserviency to its prosperity and preservation, is a
truth acknowledged by the most partial member of every one
of them. It may often, however, be hard to convince him that
the prosperity and preservation of the state require any
diminution of the powers, privileges, and immunities of his
own particular order or society. This partiality, though it
may sometimes be unjust, may not, upon that account, be
useless. It checks the spirit of innovation. It tends to
preserve whatever is the established balance among the
different orders and societies into which the state is
divided; and while it sometimes appears to obstruct some
alterations of government which may be fashionable and
popular at the time, it contributes in reality to the
stability and permanency of the whole system.
11The
love of our country seems, in ordinary cases, to involve in
it two different principles; first, a certain respect and
reverence for that constitution or form of government which
is actually established; and secondly, an earnest desire to
render the condition of our fellow–citizens as safe,
respectable, and happy as we can. He is not a citizen who is
not disposed to respect the laws and to obey the civil
magistrate; and he is certainly not a good citizen who does
not wish to promote, by every means in his power, the
welfare of the whole society of his fellow–citizens.
12
In peaceable and quiet times, those two principles generally
coincide and lead to the same conduct. The support of the
established government seems evidently the best expedient
for maintaining the safe, respectable, and happy situation
of our fellow–citizens; when we see that this government
actually maintains them in that situation. But in times of
public discontent, faction, and disorder, those two
different principles may draw different ways, and even a
wise man may be disposed to think some alteration necessary
in that constitution or form of government, which, in its
actual condition, appears plainly unable to maintain the
public tranquillity. In such cases, however, it often
requires, perhaps, the highest effort of political wisdom to
determine when a real patriot ought to support and endeavour
to re–establish the authority of the old system, and when he
ought to give way to the more daring, but often dangerous
spirit of innovation.
13Foreign
war and civil faction are the two situations which afford
the most splendid opportunities for the display of public
spirit. The hero who serves his country successfully in
foreign war gratifies the wishes of the whole nation, and
is, upon that account, the object of universal gratitude and
admiration. In times of civil discord, the leaders of the
contending parties, though they may be admired by one half
of their fellow–citizens, are commonly execrated by the
other. Their characters and the merit of their respective
services appear commonly more doubtful. The glory which is
acquired by foreign war is, upon this account, almost always
more pure and more splendid than that which can be acquired
in civil faction.
14The
leader of the successful party, however, if he has authority
enough to prevail upon his own friends to act with proper
temper and moderation (which he frequently has not), may
sometimes render to his country a service much more
essential and important than the greatest victories and the
most extensive conquests. He may re–establish and improve
the constitution, and from the very doubtful and ambiguous
character of the leader of a party, he may assume the
greatest and noblest of all characters, that of the reformer
and legislator of a great state; and, by the wisdom of his
institutions, secure the internal tranquillity and happiness
of his fellow–citizens for many succeeding generations.
15Amidst
the turbulence and disorder of faction, a certain spirit of
system is apt to mix itself with that public spirit which is
founded upon the love of humanity, upon a real
fellow–feeling with the
and distresses
to which some of our fellow–citizens may be exposed. This
spirit of system commonly takes the direction of that more
gentle public spirit; always animates it, and often inflames
it even to the madness of fanaticism. The leaders of the
discontented party seldom fail to hold out some plausible
plan of reformation which, they pretend, will not only
remove the
and relieve the
distresses immediately complained of, but will prevent, in
all time coming, any return of the like
and distresses.
They often propose, upon this account, to new–model the
constitution, and to alter, in some of its most essential
parts, that system of government under which the subjects of
a great empire have enjoyed, perhaps, peace, security, and
even glory, during the course of several centuries together.
The great body of the party are commonly intoxicated with
the imaginary beauty of this ideal system, of which they
have no experience, but which has been represented to them
in all the most dazzling colours in which the eloquence of
their leaders could paint it. Those leaders themselves,
though they originally may have meant nothing but their own
aggrandisement, become many of them in time the dupes of
their own sophistry, and are as eager for this great
reformation as the weakest and foolishest of their
followers. Even though the leaders should have preserved
their own heads, as indeed they commonly do, free from this
fanaticism, yet they dare not always disappoint the
expectation of their followers; but are often obliged,
though contrary to their principle and their conscience, to
act as if they were under the common delusion. The violence
of the party, refusing all palliatives, all temperaments,
all reasonable accommodations, by requiring too much
frequently obtains nothing; and those
and distresses
which, with a little moderation, might in a great measure
have been removed and relieved, are left altogether without
the hope of a remedy.
16The
man whose public spirit is prompted altogether by humanity
and benevolence, will respect the established powers and
privileges even of individuals, and still more those of the
great orders and societies, into which the state is divided.
Though he should consider some of them as in some measure
abusive, he will content himself with moderating, what he
often cannot annihilate without great violence. When he
cannot conquer the rooted prejudices of the people by reason
and persuasion, he will not attempt to subdue them by force;
but will religiously observe what, by Cicero, is justly
called the divine maxim of Plato,
never to use violence to his country no more than to his
parents. He will accommodate, as well as he can, his public
arrangements to the confirmed habits and prejudices of the
people; and will remedy as well as he can, the
which may flow
from the want of those regulations which the people are
averse to submit to. When he cannot establish the right, he
will not disdain to ameliorate the wrong; but like Solon,
when he cannot establish the best system of laws, he will
endeavour to establish the best that the people can bear.
17The
man of system, on the contrary, is apt to be very wise in
his own conceit; and is often so enamoured with the supposed
beauty of his own ideal plan of government, that he cannot
suffer the smallest deviation from any part of it. He goes
on to establish it completely and in all its parts, without
any regard either to the great interests, or to the strong
prejudices which may oppose it. He seems to imagine that he
can arrange the different members of a great society with as
much ease as the hand arranges the different pieces upon a
chess–board. He does not consider that the pieces upon the
chess–board have no other principle of motion besides that
which the hand impresses upon them; but that, in the great
of human society,
every single piece has a principle of motion of its own,
altogether different from that which the legislature might
chuse to impress upon it. If those two principles coincide
and act in the same direction, the game of human society
will go on easily and harmoniously, and is very likely to be
happy and successful. If they are opposite or different, the
game will go on miserably, and the society must be at all
times in the highest degree of disorder.
18Some
general, and even systematical, idea of the perfection of
policy and law, may no doubt be necessary for directing the
views of the statesman. But to insist upon establishing, and
upon establishing all at once, and in spite of all
opposition, every thing which that idea may seem to require,
must often be the highest degree of arrogance. It is to
erect his own judgment into the supreme standard of right
and wrong. It is to fancy himself the only wise and worthy
man in the commonwealth, and that his fellow–citizens should
accommodate themselves to him and not he to them. It is upon
this account, that of all political speculators, sovereign
princes are by far the most dangerous. This arrogance is
perfectly familiar to them. They entertain no doubt of the
immense superiority of their own judgment. When such
imperial and royal reformers, therefore, condescend to
contemplate the constitution of the country which is
committed to their government, they seldom see any thing so
wrong in it as the obstructions which it may sometimes
oppose to the execution of their own will. They hold in
contempt the divine maxim of Plato,
and consider the state as made for themselves, not
themselves for the state. The great object of their
reformation, therefore, is to remove those obstructions; to
reduce the authority of the nobility; to take away the
privileges of cities and provinces, and to render both the
greatest individuals and the greatest orders of the state,
as incapable of opposing their commands, as the weakest and
most insignicant.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of universal
Benevolence
1Though
our effectual good offices can very seldom be extended to
any wider society than that of our own country; our
good–will is circumscribed by no boundary, but may embrace
the immensity of the universe. We cannot form the idea of
any innocent and sensible being, whose happiness we should
not desire, or to whose misery, when distinctly brought home
to the imagination, we should not have some degree of
aversion. The idea of a mischievous, though sensible, being,
indeed, naturally provokes our hatred: but the ill–will
which, in this case, we bear to it, is really the effect of
our universal benevolence. It is the effect of the sympathy
which we feel with the misery and resentment of those other
innocent and sensible beings, whose happiness is disturbed
by its malice.
2This
universal benevolence, how noble and generous soever, can be
the source of no solid happiness to any man who is not
thoroughly convinced that all the inhabitants of the
universe, the meanest as well as the greatest, are under the
immediate care and protection of that great, benevolent, and
all–wise Being, who directs all the movements of nature; and
who is determined, by his own unalterable perfections, to
maintain in it, at all times, the greatest possible quantity
of happiness. To this universal benevolence, on the
contrary, the very suspicion of a fatherless world, must be
the most melancholy of all reflections; from the thought
that all the unknown regions of infinite and
incomprehensible space may be filled with nothing but
endless misery and wretchedness. All the splendour of the
highest prosperity can never enlighten the gloom with which
so dreadful an idea must necessarily over–shadow the
imagination; nor, in a wise and virtuous man, can all the
sorrow of the most afflicting adversity ever dry up the joy
which necessarily springs from the habitual and thorough
conviction of the truth of the contrary system.
3The
wise and virtuous man is at all times willing that his own
private interest should be sacrificed to the public interest
of his own particular order or society. He is at all times
willing, too, that the interest of this order or society
should be sacrificed to the greater interest of the state or
sovereignty, of which it is only a subordinate part. He
should, therefore, be equally willing that all those
inferior interests should be sacrificed to the greater
interest of the universe, to the interest of that great
society of all sensible and intelligent beings, of which God
himself is the immediate administrator and director. If he
is deeply impressed with the habitual and thorough
conviction that this benevolent and all–wise Being can admit
into the system of his government, no partial evil which is
not necessary for the universal good, he must consider all
the misfortunes which may befal himself, his friends, his
society, or his country, as necessary for the prosperity of
the universe, and therefore as what he ought, not only to
submit to with resignation, but as what he himself, if he
had known all the connexions and dependencies of things,
ought sincerely and devoutly to have wished for.
4Nor
does this magnanimous resignation to the will of the great
Director of the universe, seem in any respect beyond the
reach of human nature. Good soldiers, who both love and
trust their general, frequently march with more gaiety and
alacrity to the forlorn station, from which they never
expect to return, than they would to one where there was
neither difficulty nor danger. In marching to the latter,
they could feel no other sentiment than that of the dulness
of ordinary duty: in marching to the former, they feel that
they are making the noblest exertion which it is possible
for man to make. They know that their general would not have
ordered them upon this station, had it not been necessary
for the safety of the army, for the success of the war. They
cheerfully sacrifice their own little systems to the
prosperity of a greater system. They take an affectionate
leave of their comrades, to whom they wish all happiness and
success; and march out, not only with submissive obedience,
but often with shouts of the most joyful exultation, to that
fatal, but splendid and honourable station to which they are
appointed. No conductor of an army can deserve more
unlimited trust, more ardent and zealous affection, than the
great Conductor of the universe. In the greatest public as
well as private disasters, a wise man ought to consider that
he himself, his friends and countrymen, have only been
ordered upon the forlorn station of the universe; that had
it not been necessary for the good of the whole, they would
not have been so ordered; and that it is their duty, not
only with humble resignation to submit to this allotment,
but to endeavour to embrace it with alacrity and joy. A wise
man should surely be capable of doing what a good soldier
holds himself at all times in readiness to do.
5The
idea of that divine Being, whose benevolence and wisdom
have, from all eternity, contrived and conducted the immense
machine of the universe, so as at all times to produce the
greatest possible quantity of happiness, is certainly of all
the objects of human contemplation by far the most sublime.
Every other thought necessarily appears mean in the
comparison. The man whom we believe to be principally
occupied in this sublime contemplation, seldom fails to be
the object of our highest veneration; and though his life
should be altogether contemplative, we often regard him with
a sort of religious respect much superior to that with which
we look upon the most active and useful servant of the
commonwealth. The Meditations of Marcus Antoninus,
which turn principally upon this subject, have contributed
more, perhaps, to the general admiration of his character,
than all the different transactions of his just, merciful,
and beneficent reign.
6The
administration of the great system of the universe, however,
the care of the universal happiness of all rational and
sensible beings, is the business of God and not of man. To
man is allotted a much humbler department, but one much more
suitable to the weakness of his powers, and to the
narrowness of his comprehension; the care of his own
happiness, of that of his family, his friends, his country:
that he is occupied in contemplating the more sublime, can
never be an excuse for his neglecting the more humble
department; and he must not expose himself to the charge
which Avidius Cassius is said to have brought, perhaps
unjustly, against Marcus Antoninus;
that while he employed himself in philosophical
speculations, and contemplated the prosperity of the
universe, he neglected that of the Roman empire. The most
sublime speculation of the contemplative philosopher can
scarce compensate the neglect of the smallest active duty.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION III
Of Self–command
1The
man who acts according to the rules of perfect prudence, of
strict justice, and of proper benevolence, may be said to be
perfectly virtuous. But the most perfect knowledge of those
rules will not alone enable him to act in this manner: his
own passions are very apt to mislead him; sometimes to drive
him and sometimes to seduce him to violate all the rules
which he himself, in all his sober and cool hours, approves
of. The most perfect knowledge, if it is not supported by
the most perfect self–command, will not always enable him to
do his duty.
2Some
of the best of the ancient moralists seem to have considered
those passions as divided into two different classes: first,
into those which it requires a considerable exertion of
self–command to restrain even for a single moment; and
secondly, into those which it is easy to restrain for a
single moment, or even for a short period of time; but
which, by their continual and almost incessant
solicitations, are, in the course of a life, very apt to
mislead into great deviations.
3Fear
and anger, together with some other passions which are mixed
or connected with them, constitute the first class. The love
of ease, of pleasure, of applause, and of many other selfish
gratifications, constitute the second. Extravagant fear and
furious anger, it is often difficult to restrain even for a
single moment. The love of ease, of pleasure, of applause,
and other selfish gratifications, it is always easy to
restrain for a single moment, or even for a short period of
time; but, by their continual solicitations, they often
mislead us into many weaknesses which we have afterwards
much reason to be ashamed of. The former set of passions may
often be said to drive, the latter, to seduce us from our
duty. The command of the former was, by the ancient
moralists above alluded to, denominated fortitude, manhood,
and strength of mind; that of the latter, temperance,
decency, modesty, and moderation.
4The
command of each of those two sets of passions, independent
of the beauty which it derives from its utility; from its
enabling us upon all occasions to act according to the
dictates of prudence, of justice, and of proper benevolence;
has a beauty of its own, and seems to deserve for its own
sake a certain degree of esteem and admiration. In the one
case, the strength and greatness of the exertion excites
some degree of that esteem and admiration. In the other, the
uniformity, the equality and unremitting steadiness of that
exertion.
5The
man who, in danger, in torture, upon the approach of death,
preserves his tranquillity unaltered, and suffers no word,
no gesture to escape him which does not perfectly accord
with the feelings of the most indifferent spectator,
necessarily commands a very high degree of admiration. If he
suffers in the cause of liberty and justice, for the sake of
humanity and the love of his country, the most tender
compassion for his sufferings, the strongest indignation
against the injustice of his persecutors, the warmest
sympathetic gratitude for his beneficent intentions, the
highest sense of his merit, all join and mix themselves with
the admiration of his magnanimity, and often inflame that
sentiment into the most enthusiastic and rapturous
veneration. The heroes of ancient and modern history, who
are remembered with the most peculiar favour and affection,
are, many of them, those who, in the cause of truth,
liberty, and justice, have perished upon the scaffold, and
who behaved there with that ease and dignity which became
them. Had the enemies of Socrates suffered him to die
quietly in his bed, the glory even of that great philosopher
might possibly never have acquired that dazzling splendour
in which it has been beheld in all succeeding ages. In the
English history, when we look over the illustrious heads
which have been engraven by Vertue and Howbraken,
there is scarce any body, I imagine, who does not feel that
the axe, the emblem of having been beheaded, which is
engraved under some of the most illustrious of them; under
those of the Sir Thomas Mores, of the Rhaleighs, the
Russels, the Sydneys,
etc. sheds a real dignity and interestingness over the
characters to which it is affixed, much superior to what
they can derive from all the futile ornaments of heraldry,
with which they are sometimes accompanied.
6Nor
does this magnanimity give lustre only to the characters of
innocent and virtuous men. It draws some degree of
favourable regard even upon those of the greatest criminals;
and when a robber or highwayman is brought to the scaffold,
and behaves there with decency and firmness, though we
perfectly approve of his punishment, we often cannot help
regretting that a man who possessed such great and noble
powers should have been capable of such mean enormities.
7War
is the great school both for acquiring and exercising this
species of magnanimity. Death, as we say, is the king of
terrors; and the man who has conquered the fear of death, is
not likely to lose his presence of mind at the approach of
any other natural evil. In war, men become familiar with
death, and are thereby necessarily cured of that
superstitious horror with which it is viewed by the weak and
unexperienced. They consider it merely as the loss of life,
and as no further the object of aversion than as life may
happen to be that of desire. They learn from experience,
too, that many seemingly great dangers are not so great as
they appear; and that, with courage, activity, and presence
of mind, there is often a good probability of extricating
themselves with honour from situations where at first they
could see no hope. The dread of death is thus greatly
diminished; and the confidence or hope of escaping it,
augmented. They learn to expose themselves to danger with
less reluctance. They are less anxious to get out of it, and
less apt to lose their presence of mind while they are in
it. It is this habitual contempt of danger and death which
ennobles the profession of a soldier, and bestows upon it,
in the natural apprehensions of mankind, a rank and dignity
superior to that of any other profession. The skilful and
successful exercise of this profession, in the service of
their country, seems to have constituted the most
distinguishing feature in the character of the favourite
heroes of all ages.
8Great
warlike exploit, though undertaken contrary to every
principle of justice, and carried on without any regard to
humanity, sometimes interests us, and commands even some
degree of a certain sort of esteem for the very worthless
characters which conduct it. We are interested even in the
exploits of the Buccaneers;
and read with some sort of esteem and admiration, the
history of the most worthless men, who, in pursuit of the
most criminal purposes, endured greater hardships,
surmounted greater difficulties, and encountered greater
dangers, than, perhaps, any which the ordinary course of
history gives an account of.
9The
command of anger appears upon many occasions not less
generous and noble than that of fear. The proper expression
of just indignation composes many of the most splendid and
admired passages both of ancient and modern eloquence. The
Philippics of Demosthenes,
the Catalinarians of Cicero,
derive their whole beauty from the noble propriety with
which this passion is expressed. But this just indignation
is nothing but anger restrained and properly attempered to
what the impartial spectator can enter into. The blustering
and noisy passion which goes beyond this, is always odious
and offensive, and interests us, not for the angry man, but
for the man with whom he is angry. The nobleness of
pardoning appears, upon many occasions, superior even to the
most perfect propriety of resenting. When either proper
acknowledgments have been made by the offending party; or,
even without any such acknowledgments, when the public
interest requires that the most mortal enemies should unite
for the discharge of some important duty, the man who can
cast away all animosity, and act with confidence and
cordiality towards the person who had most grievously
offended him, seems justly to merit our highest admiration.
10The
command of anger, however, does not always appear in such
splendid colours. Fear is contrary to anger, and is often
the motive which restrains it; and in such cases the
meanness of the motive takes away all the nobleness of the
restraint. Anger prompts to attack, and the indulgence of it
seems sometimes to shew a sort of courage and superiority to
fear. The indulgence of anger is sometimes an object of
vanity. That of fear never is. Vain and weak men, among
their inferiors, or those who dare not resist them, often
affect to be ostentatiously passionate, and fancy that they
show, what is called, spirit in being so. A bully tells many
stories of his own insolence, which are not true, and
imagines that he thereby renders himself, if not more
amiable and respectable, at least more formidable to his
audience. Modern manners, which, by favouring the practice
of duelling, may be said, in some cases, to encourage
private revenge, contribute, perhaps, a good deal to render,
in modern times, the restraint of anger by fear still more
contemptible than it might otherwise appear to be. There is
always something dignified in the command of fear, whatever
may be the motive upon which it is founded. It is not so
with the command of anger. Unless it is founded altogether
in the sense of decency, of dignity, and propriety, it never
is perfectly agreeable.
11To
act according to the dictates of prudence, of justice, and
proper beneficence, seems to have no great merit where there
is no temptation to do otherwise. But to act with cool
deliberation in the midst of the greatest dangers and
difficulties; to observe religiously the sacred rules of
justice in spite both of the greatest interests which might
tempt, and the greatest injuries which might provoke us to
violate them; never to
the benevolence of our
temper to be damped or discouraged by the malignity and
ingratitude of the individuals towards whom it may have been
exercised; is the character of the most exalted wisdom and
virtue. Self–command is not only itself a great virtue, but
from it all the other virtues seem to derive their principal
lustre.
12The
command of fear, the command of anger, are always great and
noble powers. When they are directed by justice and
benevolence, they are not only great virtues, but increase
the splendour of those other virtues. They may, however,
sometimes be directed by very different motives; and in this
case, though still great and respectable, they may be
excessively dangerous. The most intrepid valour may be
employed in the cause of the greatest injustice. Amidst
great provocations, apparent tranquillity and good humour
may sometimes conceal the most determined and cruel
resolution to revenge. The strength of mind requisite for
such dissimulation, though always and necessarily
contaminated by the baseness of falsehood, has, however,
been often much admired by many people of no contemptible
judgment. The dissimulation of Catharine of Medicis is often
celebrated by the profound historian Davila;
that of Lord Digby, afterwards Earl of Bristol, by the grave
and conscientious Lord Clarendon;
that of the first Ashley Earl of Shaftesbury, by the
judicious Mr. Locke.
Even Cicero seems to consider this deceitful character, not
indeed as of the highest dignity, but as not unsuitable to a
certain flexibility of manners, which, he thinks, may,
notwithstanding, be, upon the whole, both agreeable and
respectable. He exemplifies it by the characters of Homer’s
Ulysses, of the Athenian Themistocles, of the Spartan
Lysander, and of the Roman Marcus Crassus.
This character of dark and deep dissimulation occurs most
commonly in times of great public disorder; amidst the
violence of faction and civil war. When law has become in a
great measure impotent, when the most perfect innocence
cannot alone insure safety, regard to self–defence obliges
the greater part of men to have recourse to dexterity, to
address, and to apparent accommodation to whatever happens
to be, at the moment, the prevailing party. This false
character, too, is frequently accompanied with the coolest
and most determined courage. The proper exercise of it
supposes that courage, as death is commonly the certain
consequence of detection. It may be employed indifferently,
either to exasperate or to allay those furious animosities
of adverse factions which impose the necessity of assuming
it; and though it may sometimes be useful, it is at least
equally liable to be excessively pernicious.
13The
command of the less violent and turbulent passions seems
much less liable to be abused to any pernicious purpose.
Temperance, decency, modesty, and moderation, are always
amiable, and can seldom be directed to any bad end. It is
from the unremitting steadiness of those gentler exertions
of self–command, that the amiable virtue of chastity, that
the respectable virtues of industry and frugality, derive
all that sober lustre which attends them. The conduct of all
those who are contented to walk in the humble paths of
private and peaceable life, derives from the same principle
the greater part of the beauty and grace which belong to it;
a beauty and grace, which, though much less dazzling, is not
always less pleasing than those which accompany the more
splendid actions of the hero, the statesman, or the
legislator.
14After
what has already been said, in several different parts of
this discourse, concerning the nature of self–command, I
judge it unnecessary to enter into any further detail
concerning those virtues. I shall only observe at present,
that the point of propriety, the degree of any passion which
the impartial spectator approves of, is differently situated
in different passions. In some passions the excess is less
disagreeable than the defect; and in such passions the point
of propriety seems to stand high, or nearer to the excess
than to the defect. In other passions, the defect is less
disagreeable than the excess; and in such passions the point
of propriety seems to stand low, or nearer to the defect
than to the excess. The former are the passions which the
spectator is most, the latter, those which he is least
disposed to sympathize with. The former, too, are the
passions of which the immediate feeling or sensation is
agreeable to the person principally concerned; the latter,
those of which it is disagreeable. It may be laid down as a
general rule, that the passions which the spectator is most
disposed to sympathize with, and in which, upon that
account, the point of propriety may be said to stand high,
are those of which the immediate feeling or sensation is
more or less agreeable to the person principally concerned:
and that, on the contrary, the passions which the spectator
is least disposed to sympathize with, and in which, upon
that account, the point of propriety may be said to stand
low, are those of which the immediate feeling or sensation
is more or less disagreeable, or even painful, to the person
principally concerned. This general rule, so far as I have
been able to observe, admits not of a single exception. A
few examples will at once, both sufficiently explain it and
demonstrate the truth of it.
15The
disposition to the affections which tend to unite men in
society, to humanity, kindness, natural affection,
friendship, esteem, may sometimes be excessive. Even the
excess of this disposition, however, renders a man
interesting to every body. Though we blame it, we still
regard it with compassion, and even with kindness, and never
with dislike.
We are more sorry for it than angry at it. To the person
himself, the indulgence even of such excessive affections
is, upon many occasions, not only agreeable, but delicious.
Upon some occasions, indeed, especially when directed, as is
too often the case, towards unworthy objects, it exposes him
to much real and heartfelt distress. Even upon such
occasions, however, a well–disposed mind regards him with
the most exquisite pity, and feels the highest indignation
against those who affect to despise him for his weakness and
imprudence. The defect of this disposition, on the contrary,
what is called hardness of heart, while it renders a man
insensible to the feelings and distresses of other people,
renders other people equally insensible to his; and, by
excluding him from the friendship of all the world, excludes
him from the best and most comfortable of all social
enjoyments.
16The
disposition to the affections which drive men from one
another, and which tend, as it were, to break the bands of
human society; the disposition to anger, hatred, envy,
malice, revenge; is, on the contrary, much more apt to
offend by its excess than by its defect. The excess renders
a man wretched and miserable in his own mind, and the object
of hatred, and sometimes even of horror, to other people.
The defect is very seldom complained of. It may, however, be
defective. The want of proper indignation is a most
essential defect in the manly character, and, upon many
occasions, renders a man incapable of protecting either
himself or his friends from insult and injustice. Even that
principle, in the excess and improper direction of which
consists the odious and detestable passion of envy, may be
defective. Envy is that passion which views with malignant
dislike the superiority of those who are really entitled to
all the superiority they possess. The man, however, who, in
matters of consequence, tamely suffers other people, who are
entitled to no such superiority, to rise above him or get
before him, is justly condemned as mean–spirited. This
weakness is commonly founded in indolence, sometimes in good
nature, in an aversion to opposition, to bustle and
solicitation, and sometimes, too, in a sort of ill–judged
magnanimity, which fancies that it can always continue to
despise the advantage which it then despises, and,
therefore, so easily gives up. Such weakness, however, is
commonly followed by much regret and repentance; and what
had some appearance of magnanimity in the beginning
frequently gives place to a most malignant envy in the end,
and to a hatred of that superiority, which those who have
once attained it, may often become really entitled to, by
the very circumstance of having attained it. In order to
live comfortably in the world, it is, upon all occasions, as
necessary to defend our dignity and rank, as it is to defend
our life or our fortune.
17Our
sensibility to personal danger and distress, like that to
personal provocation, is much more apt to offend by its
excess than by its defect. No character is more contemptible
than that of a coward; no character is more admired than
that of the man who faces death with intrepidity, and
maintains his tranquillity and presence of mind amidst the
most dreadful dangers. We esteem the man who supports pain
and even torture with manhood and firmness; and we can have
little regard for him who sinks under them, and abandons
himself to useless outcries and womanish lamentations. A
fretful temper, which feels, with too much sensibility,
every little cross accident, renders a man miserable in
himself and offensive to other people. A calm one, which
does not allow its tranquillity to be disturbed, either by
the small injuries, or by the little disasters incident to
the usual course of human affairs; but which, amidst the
natural and moral evils infesting the world, lays its
account and is contented to suffer a little from both, is a
blessing to the man himself, and gives ease and security to
all his companions.
18Our
sensibility, however, both to our own injuries and to our
own misfortunes, though generally too strong, may likewise
be too weak. The man who feels little for his own
misfortunes must always feel less for those of other people,
and be less disposed to relieve them. The man who has little
resentment for the injuries which are done to himself, must
always have less for those which are done to other people,
and be less disposed either to protect or to avenge them. A
stupid insensibility to the events of human life necessarily
extinguishes all that keen and earnest attention to the
propriety of our own conduct, which constitutes the real
essence of virtue. We can feel little anxiety about the
propriety of our own actions, when we are indifferent about
the events which may result from them. The man who feels the
full distress of the calamity which has befallen him, who
feels the whole baseness of the injustice which has been
done to him, but who feels still more strongly what the
dignity of his own character requires; who does not abandon
himself to the guidance of the undisciplined passions which
his situation might naturally inspire; but who governs his
whole behaviour and conduct according to those restrained
and corrected emotions which the great inmate, the great
demi–god within the breast prescribes and approves of; is
alone the real man of virtue, the only real and proper
object of love, respect, and admiration. Insensibility and
that noble firmness, that exalted self–command, which is
founded in the sense of dignity and propriety, are so far
from being altogether the same, that in proportion as the
former takes place, the merit of the latter is, in many
cases, entirely taken away.
19But
though the total want of sensibility to personal injury, to
personal danger and distress, would, in such situations,
take away the whole merit of self–command, that sensibility,
however, may very easily be too exquisite, and it frequently
is so. When the sense of propriety, when the authority of
the judge within the breast, can control this extreme
sensibility, that authority must no doubt appear very noble
and very great. But the exertion of it may be too fatiguing;
it may have too much to do. The individual, by a great
effort, may behave perfectly well. But the contest between
the two principles, the warfare within the breast, may be
too violent to be at all consistent with internal
tranquillity and happiness. The wise man whom Nature has
endowed with this too exquisite sensibility, and whose too
lively feelings have not been sufficiently blunted and
hardened by early education and proper exercise, will avoid,
as much as duty and propriety will permit, the situations
for which he is not perfectly fitted. The man whose feeble
and delicate constitution renders him too sensible to pain,
to hardship, and to every sort of bodily distress, should
not wantonly embrace the profession of a soldier. The man of
too much sensibility to injury, should not rashly engage in
the contests of faction. Though the sense of propriety
should be strong enough to command all those sensibilities,
the composure of the mind must always be disturbed in the
struggle. In this disorder the judgment cannot always
maintain its ordinary acuteness and precision; and though he
may always mean to act properly, he may often act rashly and
imprudently, and in a manner which he himself will, in the
succeeding part of his life, be for ever ashamed of. A
certain intrepidity, a certain firmness of nerves and
hardiness of constitution, whether natural or acquired, are
undoubtedly the best preparatives for all the great
exertions of self–command.
20Though
war and faction are certainly the best schools for forming
every man to this hardiness and firmness of temper, though
they are the best remedies for curing him of the opposite
weaknesses, yet, if the day of trial should happen to come
before he has completely learned his lesson, before the
remedy has had time to produce its proper effect, the
consequences might not be agreeable.
21Our
sensibility to the pleasures, to the amusements and
enjoyments of human life, may offend, in the same manner,
either by its excess or by its defect. Of the two, however,
the excess seems less disagreeable than the defect. Both to
the spectator and to the person principally concerned, a
strong propensity to joy is certainly more pleasing than a
dull insensibility to the objects of amusement and
diversion. We are charmed with the gaiety of youth, and even
with the playfulness of childhood: but we soon grow weary of
the flat and tasteless gravity which too frequently
accompanies old age. When this propensity, indeed, is not
restrained by the sense of propriety, when it is unsuitable
to the time or to the place, to the age or to the situation
of the person, when, to indulge it, he neglects either his
interest or his duty; it is justly blamed as excessive, and
as hurtful both to the individual and to the society. In the
greater part of such cases, however, what is chiefly to be
found fault with is, not so much the strength of the
propensity to joy, as the weakness of the sense of propriety
and duty. A young man who has no relish for the diversions
and amusements that are natural and suitable to his age, who
talks of nothing but his book or his business, is disliked
as formal and pedantic; and we give him no credit for his
abstinence even from improper indulgences, to which he seems
to have so little inclination.
22The
principle of self–estimation may be too high, and it may
likewise be too low. It is so very agreeable to think
highly, and so very disagreeable to think meanly of
ourselves, that, to the person himself, it cannot well be
doubted, but that some degree of excess must be much less
disagreeable than any degree of defect. But to the impartial
spectator, it may perhaps be thought, things must appear
quite differently, and that to him, the defect must always
be less disagreeable than the excess. And in our companions,
no doubt, we much more frequently complain of the latter
than of the former. When they assume upon us, or set
themselves before us, their self–estimation mortifies our
own. Our own pride and vanity prompt us to accuse them of
pride and vanity, and we cease to be the impartial
spectators of their conduct. When the same companions,
however, suffer any other man to assume over them a
superiority which does not belong to him, we not only blame
them, but often despise them as mean–spirited. When, on the
contrary, among other people, they push themselves a little
more forward, and scramble to an elevation disproportioned,
as we think, to their merit, though we may not perfectly
approve of their conduct, we are often, upon the whole,
diverted with it; and, where there is no envy in the case,
we are almost always much less displeased with them, than we
should have been, had they suffered themselves to sink below
their proper station.
23In
estimating our own merit, in judging of our own character
and conduct, there are two different standards to which we
naturally compare them. The one is the idea of exact
propriety and perfection, so far as we are each of us
capable of comprehending that idea. The other is that degree
of approximation to this idea which is commonly attained in
the world, and which the greater part of our friends and
companions, of our rivals and competitors, may have actually
arrived at. We very seldom (I am disposed to think, we
never) attempt to judge of ourselves without giving more or
less attention to both these different standards. But the
attention of different men, and even of the same man at
different times, is often very unequally divided between
them; and is sometimes principally directed towards the one,
and sometimes towards the other.
24So
far as our attention is directed towards the first standard,
the wisest and best of us all, can, in his own character and
conduct, see nothing but weakness and imperfection; can
discover no ground for arrogance and presumption, but a
great deal for humility, regret and repentance. So far as
our attention is directed towards the second, we may be
affected either in the one way or in the other, and feel
ourselves, either really above, or really below, the
standard to which we compare ourselves.
25The
wise and virtuous man directs his principal attention to the
first standard; the idea of exact propriety and perfection.
There exists in the mind of every man, an idea of this kind,
gradually formed from his observations upon the character
and conduct both of himself and of other people. It is the
slow, gradual, and progressive work of the great demigod
within the breast, the great judge and arbiter of conduct.
This idea is in every man more or less accurately drawn, its
colouring is more or less just, its outlines are more or
less exactly designed, according to the delicacy and
acuteness of that sensibility, with which those observations
were made, and according to the care and attention employed
in making them. In the wise and virtuous man they have been
made with the most acute and delicate sensibility, and the
utmost care and attention have been employed in making them.
Every day some feature is improved; every day some blemish
is corrected. He has studied this idea more than other
people, he comprehends it more distinctly, he has formed a
much more correct image of it, and is much more deeply
enamoured of its exquisite and divine beauty. He endeavours
as well as he can, to assimilate his own character to this
archetype of perfection. But he imitates the work of a
divine artist, which can never be equalled. He feels the
imperfect success of all his best endeavours, and sees, with
grief and affliction, in how many different features the
mortal copy falls short of the immortal original. He
remembers, with concern and humilation, how often, from want
of attention, from want of judgment, from want of temper, he
has, both in words and actions, both in conduct and
conversation, violated the exact rules of perfect propriety;
and has so far departed from that model, according to which
he wished to fashion his own character and conduct. When he
directs his attention towards the second standard, indeed,
that degree of excellence which his friends and
acquaintances have commonly arrived at, he may be sensible
of his own superiority. But, as his principal attention is
always directed towards the first standard, he is
necessarily much more humbled by the one comparison, than he
ever can be elevated by the other. He is never so elated as
to look down with insolence even upon those who are really
below him. He feels so well his own imperfection, he knows
so well the difficulty with which he attained his own
distant approximation to rectitude, that he cannot regard
with contempt the still greater imperfection of other
people. Far from insulting over their inferiority, he views
it with the most indulgent commiseration, and, by his advice
as well as example, is at all times willing to promote their
further advancement. If, in any particular qualification,
they happen to be superior to him (for who is so perfect as
not to have many superiors in many different
qualifications?), far from envying their superiority, he,
who knows how difficult it is to excel, esteems and honours
their excellence, and never fails to bestow upon it the full
measure of applause which it deserves. His whole mind, in
short, is deeply impressed, his whole behaviour and
deportment are distinctly stamped with the character of real
modesty; with that of a very moderate estimation of his own
merit, and, at the same time, of a full sense of the merit
of other people.
26In
all the liberal and ingenious arts, in painting, in poetry,
in music, in eloquence, in philosophy, the great artist
feels always the real imperfection of his own best works,
and is more sensible than any man how much they fall short
of that ideal perfection of which he has formed some
conception, which he imitates as well as he can, but which
he despairs of ever equalling. It is the inferior artist
only, who is ever perfectly satisfied with his own
performances. He has little conception of this ideal
perfection, about which he has little employed his thoughts;
and it is chiefly to the works of other artists, of,
perhaps, a still lower order, that he deigns to compare his
own works. Boileau, the great French poet (in some of his
works, perhaps not inferior to the greatest poet of the same
kind, either ancient or modern), used to say, that no great
man was ever completely satisfied with his own works. His
acquaintance Santeuil (a writer of Latin verses, and who, on
account of that schoolboy accomplishment, had the weakness
to fancy himself a poet), assured him, that he himself was
always completely satisfied with his own. Boileau
replied, with, perhaps, an arch ambiguity,
he certainly was the only
great man that ever was so.
Boileau, in judging of his own works, compared them with the
standard of ideal perfection, which, in his own particular
branch of the poetic art, he had, I presume, meditated as
deeply, and conceived as distinctly, as it is possible for
man to conceive it. Santeuil, in judging of his own
works, compared them, I suppose, chiefly to those of the
other Latin poets of his own time, to the greater part of
whom he was certainly very far from being inferior. But to
support and finish off, if I may say so, the conduct and
conversation of a whole life to some resemblance of this
ideal perfection, is surely much more difficult than to work
up to an equal resemblance any of the productions of any of
the ingenious arts. The artist sits down to his work
undisturbed, at leisure, in the full possession and
recollection of all his skill, experience, and knowledge.
The wise man must support the propriety of his own conduct
in health and in sickness, in success and in disappointment,
in the hour of fatigue and drowsy indolence, as well as in
that of the most awakened attention. The most sudden and
unexpected assaults of difficulty and distress must never
surprise him. The injustice of other people must never
provoke him to injustice. The violence of faction must never
confound him. All the hardships and hazards of war must
never either dishearten or appal him.
27Of
the persons who, in estimating their own merit, in judging
of their own character and conduct, direct by far the
greater part of their attention to the second standard, to
that ordinary degree of excellence which is commonly
attained by other people, there are some who really and
justly feel themselves very much above it, and who, by every
intelligent and impartial spectator, are acknowledged to be
so. The attention of such persons, however, being always
principally directed, not to the standard of ideal, but to
that of ordinary perfection, they have little sense of their
own weaknesses and imperfections; they have little modesty;
are often assuming, arrogant, and presumptuous; great
admirers of themselves, and great contemners of other
people. Though their characters are in general much less
correct, and their merit much inferior to that of the man of
real and modest virtue; yet their excessive presumption,
founded upon their own excessive self–admiration, dazzles
the multitude, and often imposes even upon those who are
much superior to the multitude. The frequent, and often
wonderful, success of the most ignorant quacks and
imposters, both civil and religious, sufficiently
demonstrate how easily the multitude are imposed upon by the
most extravagant and groundless pretensions. But when those
pretensions are supported by a very high degree of real and
solid merit, when they are displayed with all the splendour
which ostentation can bestow upon them, when they are
supported by high rank and great power, when they have often
been successfully exerted, and are, upon that account,
attended by the loud acclamations of the multitude; even the
man of sober judgment often abandons himself to the general
admiration. The very noise of those foolish acclamations
often contributes to confound his understanding, and while
he sees those great men only at a certain distance, he is
often disposed to worship them with a sincere admiration,
superior even to that with which they appear to worship
themselves. When there is no envy in the case, we all take
pleasure in admiring, and are, upon that account, naturally
disposed, in our own fancies, to render complete and perfect
in every respect the characters which, in many respects, are
so very worthy of admiration. The excessive self–admiration
of those great men is well understood, perhaps, and even
seen through, with some degree of derision, by those wise
men who are much in their familiarity, and who secretly
smile at those lofty pretensions, which, by people at a
distance, are often regarded with reverence, and almost with
adoration. Such, however, have been, in all ages, the
greater part of those men who have procured to themselves
the most noisy fame, the most extensive reputation; a fame
and reputation, too, which have often descended to the
remotest posterity.
28Great
success in the world, great authority over the sentiments
and opinions of mankind, have very seldom been acquired
without some degree of this excessive self–admiration. The
most splendid characters, the men who have performed the
most illustrious actions, who have brought about the
greatest revolutions, both in the situations and opinions of
mankind; the most successful warriors, the greatest
statesmen and legislators, the eloquent founders and leaders
of the most numerous and most successful sects and parties;
have many of them been, not more distinguished for their
very great merit, than for a degree of presumption and
self–admiration altogether disproportioned even to that very
great merit. This presumption was, perhaps, necessary, not
only to prompt them to undertakings which a more sober mind
would never have thought of, but to command the submission
and obedience of their followers to support them in such
undertakings. When crowned with success, accordingly, this
presumption has often betrayed them into a vanity that
approached almost to insanity and folly. Alexander the Great
appears, not only to have wished that other people should
think him a God, but to have been at least very well
disposed to fancy himself such. Upon his death–bed, the most
ungodlike of all situations, he requested of his friends
that, to the respectable list of Deities, into which himself
had long before been inserted, his old mother Olympia might
likewise have the honour of being added.
Amidst the respectful admiration of his followers and
disciples, amidst the universal applause of the public,
after the oracle, which probably had followed the voice of
that applause, had pronounced him the wisest of men,
the great wisdom of Socrates, though it did not suffer him
to fancy himself a God, yet was not great enough to hinder
him from fancying that he had secret and frequent
intimations from some invisible and divine Being.
The sound head of Caesar was not so perfectly sound as to
hinder him from being much pleased with his divine genealogy
from the goddess Venus; and, before the temple of this
pretended great–grandmother, to receive, without rising from
his seat, the Roman Senate, when that illustrious body came
to present him with some decrees conferring upon him the
most extravagant honours.
This insolence, joined to some other acts of an almost
childish vanity, little to be expected from an understanding
at once so very acute and comprehensive, seems, by
exasperating the public jealousy, to have emboldened his
assassins, and to have hastened the execution of their
conspiracy. The religion and manners of modern times give
our great men little encouragement to fancy themselves
either Gods or even Prophets. Success, however, joined to
great popular favour, has often so far turned the heads of
the greatest of them, as to make them ascribe to themselves
both an importance and an ability much beyond what they
really possessed; and, by this presumption, to precipitate
themselves into many rash and sometimes ruinous adventures.
It is a characteristic almost peculiar to the great Duke of
Marlborough, that ten years
of such uninterrupted and such splendid success as scarce
any other general could boast of, never betrayed him into a
single rash action, scarce into a single rash word or
expression. The same temperate coolness and self–command
cannot, I think, be ascribed to any other great warrior of
later times; not to Prince Eugene,
not to the late King of Prussia,
not to the great Prince of Conde,
not even to Gustavus Adolphus.
Turrenne
seems to have approached the nearest to it; but several
different transactions of his life sufficiently demonstrate
that it was in him by no means so perfect as in the great
Duke of Marlborough.
29In
the humble projects of private life, as well as in the
ambitious and proud pursuits of high stations, great
abilities and successful enterprise, in the beginning, have
frequently encouraged to undertakings which necessarily led
to bankruptcy and ruin in the end.
30The
esteem and admiration which every impartial spectator
conceives for the real merit of those spirited, magnanimous,
and high–minded persons, as it is a just and well–founded
sentiment, so it is a steady and permanent one, and
altogether independent of their good or bad fortune. It is
otherwise with that admiration which he is apt to conceive
for their excessive self–estimation and presumption. While
they are successful, indeed, he is often perfectly conquered
and overborne by them. Success covers from his eyes, not
only the great imprudence, but frequently the great
injustice of their enterprises; and, far from blaming this
defective part of their character, he often views it with
the most enthusiastic admiration. When they are unfortunate,
however, things change their colours and their names. What
was before heroic magnanimity, resumes its proper
appellation of extravagant rashness and folly; and the
blackness of that avidity and injustice, which was before
hid under the splendour of prosperity, comes full into view,
and blots the whole lustre of their enterprise. Had Caesar,
instead of gaining, lost the battle of Pharsalia,
his character would, at this hour, have ranked a little
above that of Catiline,
and the weakest man would have viewed his enterprise against
the laws of his country in blacker colours, than,
even Cato,
with all the animosity of a party–man, ever viewed it at the
time. His real merit, the justness of his taste, the
simplicity and elegance of his writings, the propriety of
his eloquence, his skill in war, his resources in distress,
his cool and sedate judgment in danger, his faithful
attachment to his friends, his unexampled generosity to his
enemies, would all have been acknowledged; as the real merit
of Catiline, who had many great qualities, is acknowledged
at this day. But the insolence and injustice of his
all–grasping ambition would have darkened and extinguished
the glory of all that real merit. Fortune has in this, as
well as in some other respects already mentioned, great
influence over the moral sentiments of mankind, and,
according as she is either favourable or adverse, can render
the same character the object, either of general love and
admiration, or of universal hatred and contempt. This great
disorder in our moral sentiments is by no means, however,
without its utility; and we may on this, as well as on many
other occasions, admire the wisdom of God even in the
weakness and folly of man.
Our admiration of success is founded upon the same principle
with our respect for wealth and greatness, and is equally
necessary for establishing the distinction of ranks and the
order of society. By this admiration of success we are
taught to submit more easily to those superiors, whom the
course of human affairs may assign to us; to regard with
reverence, and sometimes even with a sort of respectful
affection, that fortunate violence which we
no longer capable of
resisting; not only the violence of such splendid characters
as those of a Caesar or an Alexander, but often that of the
most brutal and savage barbarians, of an Attila, a Gengis,
or a Tamerlane. To all such mighty conquerors the great mob
of mankind are naturally disposed to look up with a
wondering, though, no doubt, with a very weak and foolish
admiration. By this admiration, however, they are taught to
acquiesce with less reluctance under that government which
an irresistible force imposes upon them, and from which no
reluctance could deliver them.
31Though
in prosperity, however, the man of excessive self–estimation
may sometimes appear to have some advantage over the man of
correct and modest virtue; though the applause of the
multitude, and of those who see them both only at a
distance, is often much louder in favour of the one than it
ever is in favour of the other; yet, all things fairly
computed, the real balance of advantage is, perhaps in all
cases, greatly in favour of the latter and against the
former. The man who neither ascribes to himself, nor wishes
that other people should ascribe to him, any other merit
besides that which really belongs to him, fears no
humiliation, dreads no detection; but rests contented and
secure upon the genuine truth and solidity of his own
character. His admirers may neither be very numerous nor
very loud in their applauses; but the wisest man who sees
him the nearest and who knows him the best, admires him the
most. To a real wise man the judicious and well–weighed
approbation of a single wise man, gives more heartfelt
satisfaction than all the noisy applauses of ten thousand
ignorant though enthusiastic admirers. He may say with
Parmenides, who, upon reading a philosophical discourse
before a public assembly at Athens, and observing, that,
except Plato, the whole company had left him, continued,
notwithstanding, to read on, and said that Plato alone was
audience sufficient for him.
32It
is otherwise with the man of excessive self–estimation. The
wise men who see him the nearest, admire him the least.
Amidst the intoxication of prosperity, their sober and just
esteem falls so far short of the extravagance of his own
self–admiration, that he regards it as mere malignity and
envy. He suspects his best friends. Their company becomes
offensive to him. He drives them from his presence, and
often rewards their services, not only with ingratitude, but
with cruelty and injustice. He abandons his confidence to
flatterers and traitors, who pretend to idolize his vanity
and presumption; and that character which in the beginning,
though in some respects defective, was, upon
whole, both amiable and
respectable, becomes contemptible and odious in the end.
Amidst the intoxication of prosperity, Alexander killed
Clytus, for having preferred the exploits of his father
Philip to his own; put Calisthenes to death in torture, for
having refused to adore him in the Persian manner; and
murdered the great friend of his father, the venerable
Parmenio, after having, upon the most groundless suspicions,
sent first to the torture and afterwards to the scaffold the
only remaining son of that old man, the rest having all
before died in his own service.
This was that Parmenio of whom Philip used to say, that the
Athenians were very fortunate who could find ten generals
every year, while he himself, in the whole course of his
life, could never find one but Parmenio.
It was upon the vigilance and attention of this Parmenio
that he reposed at all times with confidence and security,
and, in his hours of mirth and jollity, used to say, Let us
drink, my friends, we may do it with safety, for Parmenio
never drinks.
It was this same Parmenio, with whose presence and counsel,
it had been said, Alexander had gained all his victories;
and without whose presence and counsel, he had never gained
a single victory.
The humble, admiring, and flattering friends, whom Alexander
left in power and authority behind him, divided his empire
among themselves, and after having thus robbed his family
and kindred of their inheritance, put, one after another,
every single surviving individual of them, whether male or
female, to death.
33We
frequently, not only pardon, but thoroughly enter into and
sympathize with the excessive self–estimation of those
splendid characters in which we observe a great and
distinguished superiority above the common level of mankind.
We call them spirited, magnanimous, and high–minded; words
which all involve in their meaning a considerable degree of
praise and admiration. But we cannot enter into and
sympathize with the excessive self–estimation of those
characters in which we can discern no such distinguished
superiority. We are disgusted and revolted by it; and it is
with some difficulty that we can either pardon or suffer it.
We call it pride or vanity; two words, of which the latter
always, and the former for the most part, involve in their
meaning a considerable degree of blame.
34Those
two vices, however, though resembling, in some respects, as
being both modifications of excessive self–estimation, are
yet, in many respects, very different from one another.
35The
proud man is sincere, and, in the bottom of his heart, is
convinced of his own superiority; though it may sometimes be
difficult to guess upon what that conviction is founded. He
wishes you to view him in no other light than that in which,
when he places himself in your situation, he really views
himself. He demands no more of you than, what he thinks,
justice. If you appear not to respect him as he respects
himself, he is more offended than mortified, and feels the
same indignant resentment as if he had suffered a real
injury. He does not even then, however, deign to explain the
grounds of his own pretensions. He disdains to court your
esteem. He affects even to despise it, and endeavours to
maintain his assumed station, not so much by making you
sensible of his superiority, as of your own meanness. He
seems to wish, not so much to excite your esteem for
himself, as to mortify
for yourself.
36The
vain man is not sincere, and, in the bottom of his heart, is
very seldom convinced of that superiority which he wishes
you to ascribe to him. He wishes you to view him in much
more splendid colours than those in which, when he places
himself in your situation, and supposes you to know all that
he knows, he can really view himself. When you appear to
view him, therefore, in different colours, perhaps in his
proper colours, he is much more mortified than offended. The
grounds of his claim to that character which he wishes you
to ascribe to him, he takes every opportunity of displaying,
both by the most ostentatious and unnecessary exhibition of
the good qualities and accomplishments which he possesses in
some tolerable degree, and sometimes even by false
pretensions to those which he either possesses in no degree,
or in so very slender a degree that he may well enough be
said to possess them in no degree. Far from despising your
esteem, he courts it with the most anxious assiduity. Far
from wishing to mortify your self–estimation, he is happy to
cherish it, in hopes that in return you will cherish his
own. He flatters in order to be flattered. He studies to
please, and endeavours to bribe you into a good opinion of
him by politeness and complaisance, and sometimes even by
real and essential good offices, though often displayed,
perhaps, with unnecessary ostentation.
37The
vain man sees the respect which is paid to rank and fortune,
and wishes to usurp this respect, as well as that for
talents and virtues. His dress, his equipage, his way of
living, accordingly, all announce both a higher rank and a
greater fortune than really belong to him; and in order to
support this foolish imposition for a few years in the
beginning of his life, he often reduces himself to poverty
and distress long before the end of it. As long as he can
continue his expence, however, his vanity is delighted with
viewing himself, not in the light in which you would view
him if you knew all that he knows; but in that in which, he
imagines, he has, by his own address, induced you actually
to view him. Of all the illusions of vanity this is,
perhaps, the most common. Obscure strangers who visit
foreign countries, or who, from a remote province, come to
visit, for a short time, the capital of their own country,
most frequently attempt to practise it. The folly of the
attempt, though always very great and most unworthy of a man
of sense, may not be altogether so great upon such as upon
most other occasions. If their stay is short, they may
escape any disgraceful detection; and, after indulging their
vanity for a few months or a few years, they may return to
their own homes, and repair, by future parsimony, the waste
of their past profusion.
38The
proud man can very seldom be accused of this folly. His
sense of his own dignity renders him careful to preserve his
independency, and, when his fortune happens not to be large,
though he wishes to be decent, he studies to be frugal and
attentive in all his expences. The ostentatious expence of
the vain man is highly offensive to him. It outshines,
perhaps, his own. It provokes his indignation as an insolent
assumption of a rank which is by no means due; and he never
talks of it without loading it with the harshest and
severest reproaches.
39The
proud man does not always feel himself at his ease in the
company of his equals, and still less in that of his
superiors. He cannot lay down his lofty pretensions, and the
countenance and conversation of such company overawe him so
much that he dare not display them. He has recourse to
humbler company, for which he has little respect, which he
would not willingly chuse; and which is by no means
agreeable to him; that of his inferiors, his flatterers, and
dependants. He seldom visits his superiors, or, if he does,
it is rather to show that he is entitled to live in such
company, than for any real satisfaction that he enjoys in
it. It is as Lord Clarendon says of the Earl of Arundel,
that he sometimes went to court, because he could there only
find a greater man than himself; but that he went very
seldom, because he found there a greater man than himself.
40It
is quite otherwise with the vain man. He courts the company
of his superiors as much as the proud man shuns it. Their
splendour, he seems to think, reflects a splendour upon
those who are much about them. He haunts the courts of kings
and the levees of ministers, and gives himself the air of
being a candidate for fortune and preferment, when in
reality he possesses the much more precious happiness, if he
knew how to enjoy it, of not being one. He is fond of being
admitted to the tables of the great, and still more fond of
magnifying to other people the familiarity with which he is
honoured there. He associates himself, as much as he can,
with fashionable people, with those who are supposed to
direct the public opinion, with the witty, with the learned,
with the popular; and he shuns the company of his best
friends whenever the very uncertain current of public favour
happens to run in any respect against them. With the people
to whom he wishes to recommend himself, he is not always
very delicate about the means which he employs for that
purpose; unnecessary ostentation, groundless pretensions,
constant assentation, frequently flattery, though for the
most part a pleasant and a sprightly flattery, and very
seldom the gross and fulsome flattery of a parasite. The
proud man, on the contrary, never flatters, and is
frequently scarce civil to any body.
41Notwithstanding
all its groundless pretensions, however, vanity is almost
always a sprightly and a gay, and very often a good–natured
passion. Pride is always a grave, a sullen, and a severe
one. Even the falsehoods of the vain man are all innocent
falsehoods, meant to raise himself, not to lower other
people. To do the proud man justice, he very seldom stoops
to the baseness of falsehood. When he does, however, his
falsehoods are by no means so innocent. They are all
mischievous, and meant to lower other people. He is full of
indignation at the unjust superiority, as he thinks it,
which is given to them. He views them with malignity and
envy, and, in talking of them, often endeavours, as much as
he can, to extenuate and lessen whatever are the grounds
upon which their superiority is supposed to be founded.
Whatever tales are circulated to their disadvantage, though
he seldom forges them himself, yet he often takes pleasure
in believing them, is by no means unwilling to repeat them,
and even sometimes with some degree of exaggeration. The
worst falsehoods of vanity are all what we call white lies:
those of pride, whenever it condescends to falsehood, are
all of the opposite complexion.
42Our
dislike to pride and vanity generally disposes us to rank
the persons whom we accuse of those vices rather below than
above the common level. In this judgment, however, I think,
we are most frequently in the wrong, and that both the proud
and the vain man are often (perhaps for the most part) a
good deal above it; though not near so much as either the
one really thinks himself, or as the other wishes you to
think him. If we compare them with their own pretensions,
they may appear the just objects of contempt. But when we
compare them with what the greater part of their rivals and
competitors really are, they may appear quite otherwise, and
very much above the common level. Where there is this real
superiority, pride is frequently attended with many
respectable virtues; with truth, with integrity, with a high
sense of honour, with cordial and steady friendship, with
the most inflexible firmness and resolution. Vanity, with
many amiable ones; with humanity, with politeness, with a
desire to oblige in all little matters, and sometimes with a
real generosity in great ones; a generosity, however, which
it often wishes to display in the most splendid colours that
it can. By their rivals and enemies, the French, in the last
century, were accused of vanity; the Spaniards, of pride;
and foreign nations were disposed to consider the one as the
more amiable; the other, as the more respectable people.
43The
words vain and vanity are never taken in a
good sense. We sometimes say of a man, when we are talking
of him in good humour, that he is the better for his vanity,
or that his vanity is more diverting than offensive; but we
still consider it as a foible and a ridicule in his
character.
44The
words proud and pride, on the contrary, are
sometimes taken in a good sense. We frequently say of a man,
that he is too proud, or that he has too much noble pride,
ever to suffer himself to do a mean thing. Pride is, in this
case, confounded with magnanimity. Aristotle, a philosopher
who certainly knew the world, in drawing the character of
the magnanimous man, paints him with many features which, in
the two last centuries, were commonly ascribed to the
Spanish character: that he was deliberate in all his
resolutions; slow, and even tardy, in all his actions; that
his voice was grave, his speech deliberate, his step and
motion slow; that he appeared indolent and even slothful,
not at all disposed to bustle about little matters, but to
act with the most determined and vigorous resolution upon
all great and illustrious occasions; that he was not a lover
of danger, or forward to expose himself to little dangers,
but to great dangers; and that, when he exposed himself to
danger, he was altogether regardless of his life.
45The
proud man is commonly too well contented with himself to
think that his character requires any amendment. The man who
feels himself all–perfect, naturally enough despises all
further improvement. His self–sufficiency and absurd conceit
of his own superiority, commonly attend him from his youth
to his most advanced age; and he dies, as Hamlet says, with
all his sins upon his head, unanointed, unanealed.
46It
is frequently otherwise with the vain man. The desire of the
esteem and admiration of other people, when for qualities
and talents which are the natural and proper objects of
esteem and admiration, is the real love of true glory; a
passion which, if not the very best passion of human nature,
is certainly one of the best. Vanity is very frequently no
more than an attempt prematurely to usurp that glory before
it is due. Though your son, under five–and–twenty years of
age, should be but a coxcomb; do not, upon that account,
despair of his becoming, before he is forty, a very wise and
worthy man, and a real proficient in all those talents and
virtues to which, at present, he may only be an ostentatious
and empty pretender. The great secret of education is to
direct vanity to proper objects. Never suffer him to value
himself upon trivial accomplishments. But do not always
discourage his pretensions to those that are of real
importance. He would not pretend to them if he did not
earnestly desire to possess them. Encourage this desire;
afford him every means to facilitate the acquisition; and do
not take too much offence, although he should sometimes
assume the air of having attained it a little before the
time.
47Such,
I say, are the distinguishing characteristics of pride and
vanity, when each of them acts according to its proper
character. But the proud man is often vain; and the vain man
is often proud. Nothing can be more natural than that the
man, who thinks much more highly of himself than he
deserves, should wish that other people should think still
more highly of him: or that the man, who wishes that other
people should think more highly of him than he thinks of
himself, should, at the same time, think much more highly of
himself than he deserves. Those two vices being frequently
in the same character, the characteristics of both are
necessarily confounded; and we sometimes find the
superficial and impertinent ostentation of vanity joined to
the most malignant and derisive insolence of pride. We are
sometimes, upon that account, at a loss how to rank a
particular character, or whether to place it among the proud
or among the vain.
48Men
of merit considerably above the common level, sometimes
under–rate as well as over–rate themselves. Such characters,
though not very dignified, are often, in private society,
far from being disagreeable. His companions all feel
themselves much at their ease in the society of a man so
perfectly modest and unassuming. If those companions,
however, have not both more discernment and more generosity
than ordinary, though they may have some kindness for him,
they have seldom much respect; and the warmth of their
kindness is very seldom sufficient to compensate the
coldness of their respect. Men of no more than ordinary
discernment never rate any person higher than he appears to
rate himself. He seems doubtful himself, they say, whether
he is perfectly fit for such a situation or such an office;
and immediately give the preference to some impudent
blockhead who entertains no doubt about his own
qualifications. Though they should have discernment, yet, if
they want generosity, they never fail to take advantage of
his simplicity, and to assume over him an impertinent
superiority which they are by no means entitled to. His
good–nature may enable him to bear this for some time; but
he grows weary at last, and frequently when it is too late,
and when that rank, which he ought to have assumed, is lost
irrecoverably, and usurped, in consequence of his own
backwardness, by some of his more forward, though much less
meritorious companions. A man of this character must have
been very fortunate in the early choice of his companions,
if, in going through the world, he meets always with fair
justice, even from those whom, from his own past kindness,
he might have some reason to consider as his best friends;
and a youth, too unassuming and too unambitious, is
frequently followed by an insignificant, complaining, and
discontented old age.
49Those
unfortunate persons whom nature has formed a good deal below
the common level, seem sometimes to rate themselves still
more below it than they really are. This humility appears
sometimes to sink them into idiotism. Whoever has taken the
trouble to examine idiots with attention, will find that, in
many of them, the faculties of the understanding are by no
means weaker than in several other people, who, though
acknowledged to be dull and stupid, are not, by any body,
accounted idiots. Many idiots, with no more than ordinary
education, have been taught to read, write, and account
tolerably well. Many persons, never accounted idiots,
notwithstanding the most careful education, and
notwithstanding that, in their advanced age, they have had
spirit enough to attempt to learn what their early education
had not taught them, have never been able to acquire, in any
tolerable degree, any one of those three accomplishments. By
an instinct of pride, however, they set themselves upon a
level with their equals in age and situation; and, with
courage and firmness, maintain their proper station among
their companions. By an opposite instinct, the idiot feels
himself below every company into which you can introduce
him. Illusage, to which he is extremely liable, is capable
of throwing him into the most violent fits of rage and fury.
But no good usage, no kindness or indulgence, can ever raise
him to converse with you as your equal. If you can bring him
to converse with you at all, however, you will frequently
find his answers sufficiently pertinent, and even sensible.
But they are always stamped with a distinct consciousness of
his own great inferiority. He seems to shrink and, as it
were, to retire from your look and conversation; and to
feel, when he places himself in your situation, that,
notwithstanding your apparent condescension, you cannot help
considering him as immensely below you. Some idiots, perhaps
the greater part, seem to be so, chiefly or altogether, from
a certain numbness or torpidity in the faculties of the
understanding. But there are others, in whom those faculties
do not appear more torpid or benumbed than in many other
people who are not accounted idiots. But that instinct of
pride, necessary to support them upon an equality with their
brethren, seems totally wanting in the former and not in the
latter.
50That
degree of self–estimation, therefore, which contributes most
to the happiness and contentment of the person himself,
seems likewise most agreeable to the impartial spectator.
The man who esteems himself as he ought, and no more than he
ought, seldom fails to obtain from other people all the
esteem that he himself thinks due. He desires no more than
is due to him, and he rests upon it with complete
satisfaction.
51The
proud and the vain man, on the contrary, are constantly
dissatisfied. The one is tormented with indignation at the
unjust superiority, as he thinks it, of other people. The
other is in continual dread of the shame which, he foresees,
would attend upon the detection of his groundless
pretensions. Even the extravagant pretensions of the man of
real magnanimity, though, when supported by splendid
abilities and virtues, and, above all, by good fortune, they
impose upon the multitude, whose applauses he little
regards, do not impose upon those wise men whose approbation
he can only value, and whose esteem he is most anxious to
acquire. He feels that they see through, and suspects that
they despise his excessive presumption; and he often suffers
the cruel misfortune of becoming, first the jealous and
secret, and at last the open, furious, and vindictive enemy
of those very persons, whose friendship it would have given
him the greatest happiness to enjoy with unsuspicious
security.
52Though
our dislike to the proud and the vain often disposes us to
rank them rather below than above their proper station, yet,
unless we are provoked by some particular and personal
impertinence, we very seldom venture to use them ill. In
common cases, we endeavour, for our own ease, rather to
acquiesce, and, as well as we can, to accommodate ourselves
to their folly. But, to the man who under–rates himself,
unless we have both more discernment and more generosity
than belong to the greater part of men, we seldom fail to
do, at least, all the injustice which he does to himself,
and frequently a great deal more. He is not only more
unhappy in his own feelings than either the proud or the
vain, but he is much more liable to every sort of ill–usage
from other people. In almost all cases, it is better to be a
little too proud, than, in any respect, too humble; and, in
the sentiment of self–estimation, some degree of excess
seems, both to the person and to the impartial spectator, to
be less disagreeable than any degree of defect.
53In
this, therefore, as well as in every other emotion, passion,
and habit, the degree that is most agreeable to the
impartial spectator is likewise most agreeable to the person
himself; and according as either the excess or the defect is
least offensive to the former, so, either the one or the
other is in proportion least disagreeable to the latter.
[Back to Table of Contents]
conclusionof
thesixth part
1Concern
for our own happiness recommends to us the virtue of
prudence: concern for that of other people, the virtues of
justice and beneficence; of which, the one restrains us from
hurting, the other prompts us to promote that happiness.
Independent of any regard either to what are, or to what
ought to be, or to what upon a certain condition would be,
the sentiments of other people, the first of those three
virtues is originally recommended to us by our selfish, the
other two by our benevolent affections. Regard to the
sentiments of other people, however, comes afterwards both
to enforce and to direct the practice of all those virtues;
and no man during, either the whole of his life, or that of
any considerable part of it, ever trod steadily and
uniformly in the paths of prudence, of justice, or of proper
beneficence, whose conduct was not principally directed by a
regard to the sentiments of the supposed impartial
spectator, of the great inmate of the breast, the great
judge and arbiter of conduct. If in the course of the day we
have swerved in any respect from the rules which he
prescribes to us; if we have either exceeded or relaxed in
our frugality; if we have either exceeded or relaxed in our
industry; if, through passion or inadvertency, we have hurt
in any respect the interest or happiness of our neighbour;
if we have neglected a plain and proper opportunity of
promoting that interest and happiness; it is this inmate
who, in the evening, calls us to an account for all those
omissions and violations, and his reproaches often make us
blush inwardly both for our folly and inattention to our own
happiness, and for our still greater indifference and
inattention, perhaps, to that of other people.
2But
though the virtues of prudence, justice, and beneficence,
may, upon different occasions, be recommended to us almost
equally by two different principles; those of self–command
are, upon most occasions, principally and almost entirely
recommended to us by one; by the sense of propriety, by
regard to the sentiments of the supposed impartial
spectator. Without the restraint which this principle
imposes, every passion would, upon most occasions, rush
headlong, if I may say so, to its own gratification. Anger
would follow the suggestions of its own fury; fear those of
its own violent agitations. Regard to no time or place would
induce vanity to refrain from the loudest and most
impertinent ostentation; or voluptuousness from the most
open, indecent, and scandalous indulgence. Respect for what
are, or for what ought to be, or for what upon a certain
condition would be, the sentiments of other people, is the
sole principle which, upon most occasions, overawes all
those mutinous and turbulent passions into that tone and
temper which the impartial spectator can enter into and
sympathize with.
3Upon
some occasions, indeed, those passions are restrained, not
so much by a sense of their impropriety, as by prudential
considerations of the bad consequences which might follow
from their indulgence. In such cases, the passions, though
restrained, are not always subdued, but often remain lurking
in the breast with all their original fury. The man whose
anger is restrained by fear, does not always lay aside his
anger, but only reserves its gratification for a more safe
opportunity. But the man who, in relating to some other
person the injury which has been done to him, feels at once
the fury of his passion cooled and becalmed by sympathy with
the more moderate sentiments of his companion, who at once
adopts those more moderate sentiments, and comes to view
that injury, not in the black and atrocious colours in which
he had originally beheld it, but in the much milder and
fairer light in which his companion naturally views it; not
only restrains, but in some measure subdues, his anger. The
passion becomes really less than it was before, and less
capable of exciting him to the violent and bloody revenge
which at first, perhaps, he might have thought of
inflicting.
4Those
passions which are restrained by the sense of propriety, are
all in some degree moderated and subdued by it. But those
which are restrained only by prudential considerations of
any kind, are, on the contrary, frequently inflamed by the
restraint, and sometimes (long after the provocation given,
and when nobody is thinking about it) burst out absurdly and
unexpectedly, and with tenfold fury and violence.
5Anger,
however, as well as every other passion, may, upon many
occasions, be very properly restrained by prudential
considerations. Some exertion of manhood and self–command is
even necessary for this sort of restraint; and the impartial
spectator may sometimes view it with that sort of cold
esteem due to that species of conduct which he considers as
a mere matter of vulgar prudence; but never with that
affectionate admiration with which he surveys the same
passions, when, by the sense of propriety, they are
moderated and subdued to what he himself can readily enter
into. In the former species of restraint, he may frequently
discern some degree of propriety, and, if you will, even of
virtue; but it is a propriety and virtue of a much inferior
order to those which he always feels with transport and
admiration in the latter.
6The
virtues of prudence, justice, and beneficence, have no
tendency to produce any but the most agreeable effects.
Regard to those effects, as it originally recommends them to
the actor, so does it afterwards to the impartial spectator.
In our approbation of the character of the prudent man, we
feel, with peculiar complacency, the security which he must
enjoy while he walks under the safeguard of that sedate and
deliberate virtue. In our approbation of the character of
the just man, we feel, with equal complacency, the security
which all those connected with him, whether in
neighbourhood, society, or business, must derive from his
scrupulous anxiety never either to hurt or offend. In our
approbation of the character of the beneficent man, we enter
into the gratitude of all those who are within the sphere of
his good offices, and conceive with them the highest sense
of his merit. In our approbation of all those virtues, our
sense of their agreeable effects, of their utility, either
to the person who exercises them, or to some other persons,
joins with our sense of their propriety, and constitutes
always a considerable, frequently the greater part of that
approbation.
7But
in our approbation of the virtues of self–command,
complacency with their effects sometimes constitutes no
part, and frequently but a small part, of that approbation.
Those effects may sometimes be agreeable, and sometimes
disagreeable; and though our approbation is no doubt
stronger in the former case, it is by no means altogether
destroyed in the latter. The most heroic valour may be
employed indifferently in the cause either of justice or of
injustice; and though it is no doubt much more loved and
admired in the former case, it still appears a great and
respectable quality even in the latter. In that, and in all
the other virtues of self–command, the splendid and dazzling
quality seems always to be the greatness and steadiness of
the exertion, and the strong sense of propriety which is
necessary in order to make and to maintain that exertion.
The effects are too often but too little regarded.
[Back to Table of Contents]
PART VII
Of Systems of
Moral Philosophy
Consisting of Four Sections
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION I
1If
we examine the most celebrated and remarkable of the
different theories which have been given concerning the
nature and origin of our moral sentiments, we shall find
that almost all of them coincide with some part or other of
that which I have been endeavouring to give an account of;
and that if every thing which has already been said be fully
considered, we shall be at no loss to explain what was the
view or aspect of nature which led each particular author to
form his particular system. From some one or other of those
principles which I have been endeavouring to unfold, every
system of morality that ever had any reputation in the world
has, perhaps, ultimately been derived. As they are all of
them, in this respect, founded upon natural principles, they
are all of them in some measure in the right. But as many of
them are derived from a partial and imperfect view of
nature, there are many of them too in some respects in the
wrong.
2
In treating of the principles of morals there are two
questions to be considered. First, wherein does virtue
consist? Or what is the tone of temper, and tenour of
conduct, which constitutes the excellent and praise–worthy
character, the character which is the natural object of
esteem, honour, and approbation? And, secondly, by what
power or faculty in the mind is it, that this character,
whatever it be, is recommended to us? Or in other words, how
and by what means does it come to pass, that the mind
prefers one tenour of conduct to another, denominates the
one right and the other wrong; considers the one as the
object of approbation, honour, and reward, and the other of
blame, censure, and punishment?
3We
examine the first question when we consider whether virtue
consists in benevolence, as Dr. Hutcheson imagines;
or in acting suitably to the different relations we stand
in, as Dr. Clarke supposes;
or in the wise and prudent pursuit of our own real and solid
happiness, as has been the opinion of others.
4We
examine the second question, when we consider, whether the
virtuous character, whatever it consists in, be recommended
to us by self–love, which makes us perceive that this
character, both in ourselves and others, tends most to
promote our own private interest; or by reason, which points
out to us the difference between one character and another,
in the same manner as it does that between truth and
falsehood; or by a peculiar power of perception, called a
moral sense, which this virtuous character gratifies and
pleases, as the contrary disgusts and displeases it; or last
of all, by some other principle in human nature, such as a
modification of sympathy, or the like.
5I
shall begin with considering the systems which have been
formed concerning the first of these questions, and shall
proceed afterwards to examine those concerning the second.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION II
[Back to Table of Contents]
introduction
1The
different accounts which have been given of the nature of
virtue, or of the temper of mind which constitutes the
excellent and praise–worthy character, may be reduced to
three different classes. According to some, the virtuous
temper of mind does not consist in any one species of
affections, but in the proper government and direction of
all our affections, which may be either virtuous or vicious
according to the objects which they pursue, and the degree
of
with which they pursue
them. According to these authors, therefore, virtue consists
in propriety.
2According
to others, virtue consists in the judicious pursuit of our
own private interest and happiness, or in the proper
government and direction of those selfish affections which
aim solely at this end. In the opinion of these authors,
therefore, virtue consists in prudence.
3Another
set of authors make virtue consist in those affections only
which aim at the happiness of others, not in those which aim
at our own. According to them, therefore, disinterested
benevolence is the only motive which can stamp upon any
action the character of virtue.
4The
character of virtue, it is evident, must either be ascribed
indifferently to all our affections, when under proper
government and direction; or it must be confined to some one
class or division of them. The great division of our
affections is into the selfish and the benevolent. If the
character of virtue, therefore, cannot be ascribed
indifferently to all our affections, when under proper
government and direction, it must be confined either to
those which aim directly at our own private happiness, or to
those which aim directly at that of others. If virtue,
therefore, does not consist in propriety, it must consist
either in prudence or in benevolence. Besides these three,
it is scarce possible to imagine that any other account can
be given of the nature of virtue. I shall endeavour to show
hereafter how all the other accounts, which are seemingly
different from any of these, coincide at bottom with some
one or other of them.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
Of those Systems
which make Virtue consist in Propriety
1According
to Plato, to Aristotle, and to Zeno, virtue consists in the
propriety of conduct, or in the suitableness of the
affection from which we act to the object which excites it.
2I.
In the system of Plato
the soul is considered as something like a little state or
republic, composed of three different faculties or orders.
3The
first is the judging faculty, the faculty which determines
not only what are the proper means for attaining any end,
but also what ends are fit to be pursued, and what degree of
relative value we ought to put upon each. This faculty Plato
called, as it is very properly called, reason, and
considered it as what had a right to be the governing
principle of the whole. Under this appellation, it is
evident, he comprehended not only that faculty by which we
judge of truth and falsehood, but that by which we judge of
the propriety or impropriety of desires and affections.
4The
different passions and appetites, the natural subjects of
this ruling principle, but which are so apt to rebel against
their master, he reduced to two different classes or orders.
The first consisted of those passions, which are founded in
pride and resentment, or in what the schoolmen called the
irascible part of the soul; ambition, animosity, the love of
honour, and the dread of shame, the desire of victory,
superiority, and revenge; all those passions, in short,
which are supposed either to rise from, or to denote what,
by a metaphor in our language, we commonly call spirit or
natural fire. The second consisted of those passions which
are founded in the love of pleasure, or in what the
schoolmen called the concupiscible part of the soul. It
comprehended all the appetites of the body, the love of ease
and security, and of all sensual gratifications.
5It
rarely happens that we break in upon that plan of conduct,
which the governing principle prescribes, and which in all
our cool hours we had laid down to ourselves as what was
most proper for us to pursue, but when prompted by one or
other of those two different sets of passions; either by
ungovernable ambition and resentment, or by the importunate
solicitations of present ease and pleasure. But though these
two orders of passions are so apt to mislead us, they are
still considered as necessary parts of human nature: the
first having been given to defend us against injuries, to
assert our rank and dignity in the world, to make us aim at
what is noble and honourable, and to make us distinguish
those who act in the same manner; the second, to provide for
the support and necessities of the body.
6In
the strength, acuteness, and perfection of the governing
principle was placed the essential virtue of prudence,
which, according to Plato, consisted in a just and clear
discernment, founded upon general and scientific ideas, of
the ends which were proper to be pursued, and of the means
which were proper for attaining them.
7When
the first set of passions, those of the irascible part of
the soul, had that degree of strength and firmness, which
enabled them, under the direction of reason, to despise all
dangers in the pursuit of what was honourable and noble; it
constituted the virtue of fortitude and magnanimity. This
order of passions, according to this system, was of a more
generous and noble nature than the other. They were
considered upon many occasions as the auxiliaries of reason,
to check and restrain the inferior and brutal appetites. We
are often angry at ourselves, it was observed, we often
become the objects of our own resentment and indignation,
when the love of pleasure prompts to do what we disapprove
of; and the irascible part of our nature is in this manner
called in to assist the rational against the concupiscible.
8When
all those three different parts of our nature were in
perfect concord with one another, when neither the irascible
nor concupiscible passions ever aimed at any gratification
which reason did not approve of, and when reason never
commanded any thing, but what these of their own accord were
willing to perform: this happy composure, this perfect and
complete harmony of soul, constituted that virtue which in
their language is expressed by a word
which we commonly translate temperance, but which might more
properly be translated good temper, or sobriety and
moderation of mind.
9Justice,
the last and greatest of the four cardinal virtues, took
place, according to this system, when each of those three
faculties of the mind confined itself to its proper office,
without attempting to encroach upon that of any other; when
reason directed and passion obeyed, and when each passion
performed its proper duty, and exerted itself towards its
proper object easily and without reluctance, and with that
degree of force and energy, which was suitable to the value
of what it pursued. In this consisted that complete virtue,
that perfect propriety of conduct, which Plato, after some
of the ancient Pythagoreans, denominated Justice.
10The
word, it is to be observed, which expresses justice in the
Greek language,
has several different meanings; and as the correspondent
word in all other languages, so far as I know, has the same,
there must be some natural affinity among those various
significations. In one sense we are said to do justice to
our neighbour when we abstain from doing him any positive
harm, and do not directly hurt him, either in his person, or
in his estate, or in his reputation. This is that justice
which I have treated of above, the observance of which may
be extorted by force, and the violation of which exposes to
punishment.
In another sense we are said not to do justice to our
neighbour unless we conceive for him all that love, respect,
and esteem, which his character, his situation, and his
connexion with ourselves, render suitable and proper for us
to feel, and unless we act accordingly. It is in this sense
that we are said to do injustice to a man of merit who is
connected with us, though we abstain from hurting him in
every respect, if we do not exert ourselves to serve him and
to place him in that situation in which the impartial
spectator would be pleased to see him. The first sense of
the word coincides with what Aristotle and the Schoolmen
call commutative justice, and with what Grotius
calls the justitia expletrix, which consists in
abstaining from what is another’s, and in doing voluntarily
whatever we can with propriety be forced to do. The second
sense of the word coincides with what some have called
distributive justice
, and with the justitia attributrix of Grotius, which
consists in proper beneficence, in the becoming use of what
is our own, and in the applying it to those purposes either
of charity or generosity, to which it is most suitable, in
our situation, that it should be applied. In this sense
justice comprehends all the social virtues. There is yet
another sense in which the word justice is sometimes taken,
still more extensive than either of the former, though very
much a–kin to the last; and which runs too, so far as I
know, through all languages. It is in this last sense that
we are said to be unjust, when we do not seem to value any
particular object with that degree of esteem, or to pursue
it with that degree of ardour which to the impartial
spectator it may appear to deserve or to be naturally fitted
for exciting. Thus we are said to do injustice to a poem or
a picture, when we do not admire them enough, and we are
said to do them more than justice when we admire them too
much. In the same manner we are said to do injustice to
ourselves when we appear not to give sufficient attention to
any particular object of self–interest. In this last sense,
what is called justice means the same thing with exact and
perfect propriety of conduct and behaviour, and comprehends
in it, not only the offices of both commutative and
distributive justice, but of every other virtue, of
prudence, of fortitude, of temperance. It is in this last
sense that Plato evidently understands what he calls
justice, and which, therefore, according to him, comprehends
in it the perfection of every sort of virtue.
11Such
is the account given by Plato of the nature of virtue, or of
that temper of mind which is the proper object of praise and
approbation. It consists, according to him, in that state of
mind in which every faculty confines itself within its
proper sphere without encroaching upon that of any other,
and performs its proper office with that precise degree of
strength and vigour which belongs to it. His account, it is
evident, coincides in every respect with what we have said
above concerning the propriety of conduct.
12II.
Virtue, according to Aristotle
, consists in the
according to
right reason. Every particular virtue, according to him,
lies in a kind of middle between two opposite vices, of
which the one offends from being too much, the other from
being too little affected by a particular species of
objects. Thus the virtue of fortitude or courage lies in the
middle between the opposite vices of cowardice and of
presumptuous rashness, of which the one offends from being
too much, and the other from being too little affected by
the objects of fear. Thus too the virtue of frugality lies
in a middle between avarice and profusion, of which the one
consists in an excess, the other in a defect of the proper
attention to the objects of self–interest. Magnanimity, in
the same manner, lies in a middle between the excess of
arrogance and the defect of pusillanimity, of which the one
consists in too extravagant, the other in too weak a
sentiment of our own worth and dignity. It is unnecessary to
observe that this account of virtue corresponds too pretty
exactly with what has been said above concerning the
propriety and impropriety of conduct.
13According
to Aristotle
, indeed, virtue did not so much consist in those moderate
and right affections, as in the habit of this moderation. In
order to understand this, it is to be observed, that virtue
may be considered either as the quality of an action, or as
the quality of a person. Considered as the quality of an
action, it consists, even according to Aristotle, in the
reasonable moderation of the affection from which the action
proceeds, whether this disposition be habitual to the person
or not. Considered as the quality of a person, it consists
in the habit of this reasonable moderation, in its having
become the customary and usual disposition of the mind. Thus
the action which proceeds from an occasional fit of
generosity is undoubtedly a generous action, but the man who
performs it, is not necessarily a generous person, because
it may be the single action of the kind which he ever
performed. The motive and disposition of heart, from which
this action was performed, may have been quite just and
proper: but as this happy mood seems to have been the effect
rather of accidental humour than of any thing steady or
permanent in the character, it can reflect no great honour
on the performer. When we denominate a character generous or
charitable, or virtuous in any respect, we mean to signify
that the disposition expressed by each of those appellations
is the usual and customary disposition of the person. But
single actions of any kind, how proper and suitable soever,
are of little consequence to show that this is the case. If
a single action was sufficient to stamp the character of any
virtue upon the person who performed it, the most worthless
of mankind might lay claim to all the virtues; since there
is no man who has not, upon some occasions, acted with
prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude. But though
single actions, how laudable soever, reflect very little
praise upon the person who performs them, a single vicious
action performed by one whose conduct is usually very
regular, greatly diminishes and sometimes destroys
altogether our opinion of his virtue. A single action of
this kind sufficiently shows that his habits are not
perfect, and that he is less to be depended upon, than, from
the usual train of his behaviour, we might have been apt to
imagine.
14Aristotle
too
, when he made virtue to consist in practical habits, had it
probably in his view to oppose the doctrine of Plato, who
seems to have been of opinion that just sentiments and
reasonable judgments concerning what was fit to be done or
to be avoided, were alone sufficient to constitute the most
perfect virtue. Virtue, according to Plato, might be
considered as a species of science,
and no man, he thought, could see clearly and
demonstratively what was right and what was wrong, and not
act accordingly. Passion might make us act contrary to
doubtful and uncertain opinions, not to plain and evident
judgments. Aristotle, on the contrary, was of opinion, that
no conviction of the understanding was capable of getting
the better of inveterate habits, and that good morals arose
not from knowledge but from action.
15III.
According to Zeno
, the founder of the Stoical doctrine, every animal was by
nature recommended to its own care, and was endowed with the
principle of self–love, that it might endeavour to preserve,
not only its existence, but all the different parts of its
nature, in the best and most perfect state of which they
were capable.
16The
self–love of man embraced, if I may say so, his body and all
its different members, his mind and all its different
faculties and powers, and desired the preservation and
maintenance of them all in their best and most perfect
condition. Whatever tended to support this state of
existence was, therefore, by nature pointed out to him as
fit to be chosen; and whatever tended to destroy it, as fit
to be rejected. Thus health, strength, agility and ease of
body as well as the external
which could
promote these; wealth, power, honours, the respect and
esteem of those we live with; were naturally pointed out to
us as things eligible, and of which the possession was
preferable to the want. On the other hand, sickness,
infirmity, unwieldiness, pain of body, as well as all the
external
which tend to
occasion or bring on any of them; poverty, the want of
authority, the contempt or hatred of those we live with;
were, in the same manner, pointed out to us as things to be
shunned and avoided. In each of those two opposite classes
of objects, there were some which appeared to be more the
objects either of choice or rejection, than others in the
same class. Thus, in the first class, health appeared
evidently preferable to strength, and strength to agility;
reputation to power, and power to riches. And thus too, in
the second class, sickness was more to be avoided than
unwieldiness of body, ignominy than poverty, and poverty
than the
Virtue and the
propriety of conduct consisted in choosing and rejecting all
different objects and circumstances according as they were
by nature rendered more or less the objects of choice or
rejection; in selecting always from among the several
objects of choice presented to us, that which was most to be
chosen, when we could not obtain them all; and in selecting
too, out of the several objects of rejection offered to us,
that which was least to be avoided, when it was not in our
power to avoid them all. By choosing and rejecting with this
just and accurate discernment, by thus bestowing upon every
object the precise degree of attention it deserved,
according to the place which it held in this natural scale
of things, we maintained, according to the Stoics, that
perfect rectitude of conduct which constituted the essence
of virtue. This was what they called to live consistently,
to live according to nature, and to obey those laws and
directions which nature, or the Author of nature, had
prescribed for our conduct.
17So
far the Stoical idea of propriety and virtue is not very
different from that of Aristotle and the ancient
Peripatetics.
18
to us as eligible, was the prosperity of our family, of our
relations, of our friends, of our country, of mankind, and
of the universe in general. Nature, too, had taught us, that
as the prosperity of two was preferable to that of one, that
of many, or of all, must be infinitely more so. That we
ourselves were but one, and that consequently wherever our
prosperity was inconsistent with that, either of the whole,
or of any considerable part of the whole, it ought, even in
our own choice, to yield to what was so vastly preferable.
As all the events in this world were conducted by the
providence of a wise, powerful, and good God, we might be
assured that whatever happened tended to the prosperity and
perfection of the whole. If we ourselves, therefore, were in
poverty, in sickness, or in any other calamity, we ought,
first of all, to use our utmost endeavours, so far as
justice and our duty to others would allow, to rescue
ourselves from this disagreeable circumstance. But if, after
all we could do, we found this impossible, we ought to rest
satisfied that the order and perfection of the universe
required that we should in the mean time continue in this
situation. And as the prosperity of the whole should, even
to us, appear preferable to so insignificant a part as
ourselves, our situation, whatever it was, ought from that
moment to become the object of our
if we would maintain
that complete propriety and rectitude of sentiment and
conduct in which consisted the perfection of our nature. If,
indeed, any opportunity of extricating ourselves should
offer, it became our duty to embrace it. The order of the
universe, it was evident, no longer required our continuance
in this situation, and the great Director of the world
plainly called upon us to leave it, by so clearly pointing
out the road which we were to follow. It was the same case
with the adversity of our relations, our friends, our
country. If, without violating any more sacred obligation,
it was in our power to prevent or put an end to their
calamity, it undoubtedly was our duty to do so. The
propriety of action, the rule which Jupiter had given us for
the direction of our conduct, evidently required this of us.
But if it was altogether out of our power to do either, we
ought then to consider this event as the most fortunate
which could possibly have happened; because we might be
assured that it tended most to the prosperity and order of
the whole, which was what we ourselves, if we were wise and
equitable, ought most of all to desire.
19
‘In what sense,’ says Epictetus,
‘are some things said to be according to our nature, and
others contrary to it? It is in that sense in which we
consider ourselves as separated and detached from all other
things. For thus it may be said to be according to the
nature of the foot to be always clean. But if you consider
it as a foot, and not as something detached from the rest of
the body, it must behove it sometimes to trample in the
dirt, and sometimes to tread upon thorns, and sometimes,
too, to be cut off for the sake of the whole body; and if it
refuses this, it is no longer a foot. Thus, too, ought we to
conceive with regard to ourselves. What are you? A man. If
you consider yourself as something separated and detached,
it is agreeable to your nature to live to old age, to be
rich, to be in health. But if you consider yourself as a
man, and as a part of a whole, upon account of that whole,
it will behove you sometimes to be in sickness, sometimes to
be exposed to the inconveniency of a sea voyage, sometimes
to be in want; and at last, perhaps, to die before your
time. Why then do you complain? Do not you know that by
doing so, as the foot ceases to be a foot, so you cease to
be a man
?’
20
A wise man never complains of the destiny of Providence, nor
thinks the universe in confusion when he is out of order. He
does not look upon
as a whole, separated
and detached from every other part of nature, to be taken
care of by itself and for itself. He regards himself in the
light in which he imagines the great genius of human nature,
and of the world, regards him. He enters, if I may say so,
into the sentiments of that divine Being, and considers
himself as an atom, a particle, of an immense and infinite
system, which must and ought to be disposed of, according to
the conveniency of the whole. Assured of the wisdom which
directs all the events of human life, whatever lot befalls
him, he accepts it with joy, satisfied that, if he had known
all the connections and dependencies of the different parts
of the universe, it is the very lot which he himself would
have wished for. If it is life, he is contented to live; and
if it is death, as nature must have no further occasion for
his presence here, he willingly goes where he is appointed.
I accept, said a
, whose doctrines were
in this respect the same as those of the Stoics,
I accept,n with equal joy and satisfaction,
whatever fortune can befall me. Riches or poverty, pleasure
or pain, health or sickness, all is alike: nor would I
desire that the Gods should in any respect change my
destination. If I was to ask of them any thing beyond what
their bounty has already bestowed, it should be that they
would inform me before–hand what it was their pleasure
should be done with me, that I might of my own accord place
myself in this situation, and demonstrate the cheerfulness
with which I embraced their allotment. If I am going to
sail, says Epictetus,
I chuse the best ship and the best pilot, and I wait for the
fairest weather that my circumstances and duty will allow.
Prudence and propriety, the principles which the Gods have
given me for the direction of my conduct, require this of
me; but they require no more: and if, notwithstanding, a
storm arises, which neither the strength of the vessel nor
the skill of the pilot are likely to withstand, I give
myself no trouble about the consequence. All that I had to
do is done already. The directors of my conduct never
command me to be miserable, to be anxious, desponding, or
afraid. Whether we are to be drowned, or to come to a
harbour, is the business of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it
entirely to his determination, nor ever break my rest with
considering which way he is likely to decide it, but receive
whatever comes with equal indifference and security.
21
From this perfect confidence in that benevolent wisdom which
governs the universe, and from this entire resignation to
whatever order that wisdom might think proper to establish,
it necessarily followed, that, to the Stoical wise man, all
the events of human life must be in a great measure
indifferent. His happiness consisted altogether, first, in
the contemplation of the happiness and perfection of the
great system of the universe, of the good government of the
great republic of Gods and men, of all rational and sensible
beings; and, secondly, in discharging his duty, in acting
properly in the affairs of this great republic whatever
little part that wisdom had assigned to him. The propriety
or impropriety of his endeavours might be of great
consequence to him. Their success or disappointment could be
of none at all; could excite no passionate joy or sorrow, no
passionate desire or aversion. If he preferred some events
to others, if some situations were the objects of his choice
and others of his rejection, it was not because he regarded
the one as in themselves in any respect better than the
other, or thought that his own happiness would be more
complete in what is called the fortunate than in what is
regarded as the distressful situation; but because the
propriety of action, the rule which the Gods had given him
for the direction of his conduct, required him to chuse and
reject in this manner. All his affections were absorbed and
swallowed up in two great affections; in that for the
discharge of his own duty, and in that for the greatest
possible happiness of all rational and sensible beings. For
the gratification of this latter affection, he rested with
the most perfect security upon the wisdom and power of the
great Superintendant of the universe. His sole anxiety was
about the gratification of the former; not about the event,
but about the propriety of his own endeavours. Whatever the
event might be, he trusted to a superior power and wisdom
for turning it to promote that great end which he himself
was most desirous of promoting.
22This
propriety of chusing and rejecting, though originally
pointed out to us, and as it were recommended and introduced
to our acquaintance by the things, and for the sake of the
things, chosen and rejected; yet when we had once become
thoroughly acquainted with it, the order, the grace, the
beauty which we discerned in this conduct, the happiness
which we felt resulted from it, necessarily appeared to us
of much greater value than the actual obtaining of all the
different objects of choice, or the actual avoiding of all
those of rejection. From the observation of this propriety
arose the happiness and the glory; from the neglect of it,
the misery and the disgrace of human nature.
23
But to a wise man, to one whose passions were brought under
perfect subjection to the ruling principles of his nature,
the exact observation of this propriety was equally easy
upon all occasions. Was he in prosperity, he returned thanks
to Jupiter for having joined him with circumstances which
were easily mastered, and in which there was little
temptation to do wrong. Was he in adversity, he equally
returned thanks to the director of this spectacle of human
life, for having opposed to him a vigorous athlete, over
whom, though the contest was likely to be more violent, the
victory was more glorious, and equally certain. Can there be
any shame in that distress which is brought upon us without
any fault of our own, and in which we behave with perfect
propriety? There can, therefore, be no evil, but, on the
contrary, the greatest good and advantage. A brave man
exults in those dangers in which, from no rashness of his
own, his fortune has involved him. They afford an
opportunity of exercising that heroic intrepidity, whose
exertion gives the exalted delight which flows from the
consciousness of superior propriety and deserved admiration.
One who is master of all his exercises has no aversion to
measure his strength and activity with the strongest. And,
in the same manner, one who is master of all his passions,
does not dread any circumstance in which the Superintendant
of the universe may think proper to place him. The bounty of
that divine Being has provided him with virtues which render
him superior to every situation. If it is pleasure, he has
temperance to refrain from it; if it is pain, he has
constancy to bear it; if it is danger or death, he has
magnanimity and fortitude to despise it.
The events of human life can never find him unprepared, or
at a loss how to maintain that propriety of sentiment and
conduct which, in his own apprehension, constitutes at once
his glory and his happiness.
24Human
life the Stoics appear to have considered as a game of great
skill; in which, however, there was a mixture of chance, or
of what is vulgarly understood to be chance. In such games
the stake is commonly a trifle, and the whole pleasure of
the game arises from playing well, from playing fairly, and
playing skilfully. If notwithstanding all his skill,
however, the good player should, by the influence of chance,
happen to lose, the loss ought to be a matter, rather of
merriment, than of serious sorrow. He has made no false
stroke; he has done nothing which he ought to be ashamed of;
he has enjoyed completely the whole pleasure of the game.
If, on the contrary, the bad player, notwithstanding all his
blunders, should, in the same manner, happen to win, his
success can give him but little satisfaction. He is
mortified by the remembrance of all the faults which he
committed. Even during the play he can enjoy no part of the
pleasure which it is capable of affording. From ignorance of
the rules of the game, fear and doubt and hesitation are the
disagreeable sentiments that precede almost every stroke
which he plays; and when he has played it, the mortification
of finding it a gross blunder, commonly completes the
unpleasing circle of his sensations. Human life, with all
the advantages which can possibly attend it, ought,
according to the Stoics, to be regarded but as a mere
two–penny stake; a matter by far too insignificant to merit
any anxious concern. Our only anxious concern ought to be,
not about the stake, but about the proper method of playing.
If we placed our happiness in winning the stake, we placed
it in what depended upon causes beyond our power, and out of
our direction. We necessarily exposed ourselves to perpetual
fear and uneasiness, and frequently to grievous and
mortifying disappointments. If we placed it in playing well,
in playing fairly, in playing wisely and skilfully; in the
propriety of our own conduct in short; we placed it in what,
by proper discipline, education, and attention, might be
altogether in our own power, and under our own direction.
Our happiness was perfectly secure, and beyond the reach of
fortune. The event of our actions, if it was out of our
power, was equally out of our concern, and we could never
feel either fear or anxiety about it; nor ever suffer any
grievous, or even any serious disappointment.
25Human
life itself, as well as every different advantage or
disadvantage which can attend it, might, they said,
according to different circumstances, be the proper object
either of our choice or of our rejection. If, in our actual
situation, there were more circumstances agreeable to nature
than contrary to it; more circumstances which were the
objects of choice than of rejection; life, in this case,
was, upon the whole, the proper object of choice, and the
propriety of conduct required that we should remain in it.
If, on the other hand, there were, in our actual situation,
without any probable hope of amendment, more circumstances
contrary to nature than agreeable to it; more circumstances
which were the objects of rejection than of choice; life
itself, in this case, became, to a wise man, the object of
rejection, and he was not only at liberty to remove out of
it, but the propriety of conduct, the rule which the Gods
had given him for the direction of his conduct, required him
to do so. I am ordered, says Epictetus,
not to dwell at Nicopolis. I do not dwell there. I am
ordered not to dwell at Athens. I do not dwell at Athens. I
am ordered not to dwell in Rome. I do not dwell in Rome. I
am ordered to dwell in the little and rocky island of
Gyarae. I go and dwell there. But the house smokes in
Gyarae. If the smoke is moderate, I will bear it, and stay
there. If it is excessive, I will go to a house from whence
no tyrant can remove me. I keep in mind always that the door
is open, that I can walk out when I please, and retire to
that hospitable house which is at all times open to all the
world; for beyond my undermost garment, beyond my body, no
man living has any power over me. If your situation is upon
the whole disagreeable; if your house smokes too much for
you, said the Stoics, walk forth by all means. But walk
forth without repining; without murmuring or complaining.
Walk forth calm, contented, rejoicing, returning thanks to
the Gods, who, from their infinite bounty, have opened the
safe and quiet harbour of death, at all times ready to
receive us from the stormy ocean of human life; who have
prepared this sacred, this inviolable, this great asylum,
always open, always accessible; altogether beyond the reach
of human rage and injustice; and large enough to contain
both all those who wish, and all those who do not wish to
retire to it: an asylum which takes away from every man
every pretence of complaining, or even of fancying that
there can be any evil in human life, except such as he may
suffer from his own folly and weakness.
26The
Stoics, in the few fragments of their philosophy which have
come down to us, sometimes talk of leaving life with a
gaiety, and even with a levity, which, were we to consider
those passages by themselves, might induce us to believe
that they imagined we could with propriety leave it whenever
we had a mind, wantonly and capriciously, upon the slightest
disgust or uneasiness. ‘When you sup with such a person,’
says Epictetus,
‘you complain of the long stories which he tells you about
his Mysian wars. “Now my friend, says he, having told you
how I took possession of an eminence at such a place, I will
tell you how I was besieged in such another place.” But if
you have a mind not to be troubled with his long stories, do
not accept of his supper. If you accept of his supper, you
have not the least pretence to complain of his long stories.
It is the same case with what you call the evils of human
life. Never complain of that of which it is at all times in
your power to rid yourself.’ Notwithstanding this gaiety and
even levity of expression, however, the alternative of
leaving life, or of remaining in it, was, according to the
Stoics, a matter of the most serious and important
deliberation. We ought never to leave it till we were
distinctly called upon to do so by that superintending power
which had originally placed us in it. But we were to
consider ourselves as called upon to do so, not merely at
the appointed and unavoidable term of human life. Whenever
the providence of that superintending Power had rendered our
condition in life upon the whole the proper object rather of
rejection than of choice; the great rule which he had given
us for the direction of our conduct, then required us to
leave it. We might then be said to hear the awful and
benevolent voice of that divine Being distinctly calling
upon us to do so.
27It
was upon this account that, according to the Stoics, it
might be the duty of a wise man to remove out of life though
he was perfectly happy; while, on the contrary, it might be
the duty of a weak man to remain in it, though he was
necessarily miserable. If, in the situation of the wise man,
there were more circumstances which were the natural objects
of rejection than of choice, the whole situation became the
object of rejection, and the rule which the Gods had given
him for the direction of his conduct, required that he
should remove out of it as speedily as particular
circumstances might render convenient. He was, however,
perfectly happy even during the time that he might think
proper to remain in it. He had placed his happiness, not in
obtaining the objects of his choice, or in avoiding those of
his rejection; but in always choosing and rejecting with
exact propriety; not in the success, but in the fitness of
his endeavours and exertions. If, in the situation of the
weak man, on the contrary, there were more circumstances
which were the natural objects of choice than of rejection;
his whole situation became the proper object of choice, and
it was his duty to remain in it. He was unhappy, however,
from not knowing how to use those circumstances. Let his
cards be ever so good, he did not know how to play them, and
could enjoy no sort of real satisfaction, either in the
progress, or in the event of the game, in whatever manner it
might happen to turn out
.
28The
propriety, upon some occasions, of voluntary death, though
it was, perhaps, more insisted upon by the Stoics, than by
any other sect of ancient philosophers, was, however, a
doctrine common to them all, even to the peaceable and
indolent Epicureans. During the age in which flourished the
founders of all the principal sects of ancient philosophy;
during the Peloponnesian war and for many years after its
conclusion, all the different republics of Greece were, at
home, almost always distracted by the most furious factions;
and abroad, involved in the most sanguinary wars, in which
each sought, not merely superiority or dominion, but either
completely to extirpate all its enemies, or, what was not
less cruel, to reduce them into the vilest of all states,
that of domestic slavery, and to sell them, man, woman, and
child, like so many herds of cattle, to the highest bidder
in the market. The smallness of the greater part of those
states, too, rendered it, to each of them, no very
improbable event, that it might itself fall into that very
calamity which it had so frequently, either, perhaps,
actually inflicted, or at least attempted to inflict upon
some of its neighbours. In this disorderly state of things,
the most perfect innocence, joined to both the highest rank
and the greatest public services, could give no security to
any man that, even at home and among his own relations and
fellow–citizens, he was not, at some time or another, from
the prevalence of some hostile and furious faction, to be
condemned to the most cruel and ignominious punishment. If
he was taken prisoner in war, or if the city of which he was
a member was conquered, he was exposed, if possible, to
still greater injuries and insults. But every man naturally,
or rather necessarily, familiarizes his imagination with the
distresses to which he foresees that his situation may
frequently expose him. It is impossible that a sailor should
not frequently think of storms and shipwrecks, and
foundering at sea, and of how he himself is likely both to
feel and to act upon such occasions. It was impossible, in
the same manner, that a Grecian patriot or hero should not
familiarize his imagination with all the different
calamities to which he was sensible his situation must
frequently, or rather constantly expose him. As an American
savage prepares his death–song, and considers how he should
act when he has fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is
by them put to death in the most lingering tortures, and
amidst the insults and derision of all the spectators;
so a Grecian patriot or hero could not avoid frequently
employing his thoughts in considering what he ought both to
suffer and to do in banishment, in captivity, when reduced
to slavery, when put to the torture, when brought to the
scaffold. But the philosophers of all the different sects
very justly represented virtue; that is, wise, just, firm,
and temperate conduct; not only as the most probable, but as
the certain and infallible road to happiness even in this
life. This conduct, however, could not always exempt, and
might even sometimes expose the person who followed it to
all the calamities which were incident to that unsettled
situation of public affairs. They endeavoured, therefore, to
show that happiness was either altogether, or at least in a
great measure, independent of fortune; the Stoics, that it
was so altogether; the Academic and Peripatetic
philosophers,
that it was so in a great measure. Wise, prudent, and good
conduct was, in the first place, the conduct most likely to
ensure success in every species of undertaking; and
secondly, though it should fail of success, yet the mind was
not left without consolation. The virtuous man might still
enjoy the complete approbation of his own breast; and might
still feel that, how untoward soever things might be
without, all was calm and peace and concord within. He might
generally comfort himself, too, with the assurance that he
possessed the love and esteem of every intelligent and
impartial spectator, who could not fail both to admire his
conduct, and to regret his misfortune.
29Those
philosophers endeavoured, at the same time, to show, that
the greatest misfortunes to which human life was liable,
might be supported more easily than was commonly imagined.
They endeavoured to point out the comforts which a man might
still enjoy when reduced to poverty, when driven into
banishment, when exposed to the injustice of popular
clamour, when labouring under blindness, under deafness, in
the extremity of old age, upon the approach of death. They
pointed out, too, the considerations which might contribute
to support his constancy under the agonies of pain and even
of torture, in sickness, in sorrow for the loss of children,
for the death of friends and relations, etc. The few
fragments which have come down to us of what the ancient
philosophers had written upon these subjects, form, perhaps,
one of the most instructive, as well as one of the most
interesting remains of antiquity. The spirit and manhood of
their doctrines make a wonderful contrast with the
desponding, plaintive, and whining tone of some modern
systems.
30But
while those ancient philosophers endeavoured in this manner
to suggest every consideration which could, as Milton says,
arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience, as with
triple steel; they, at the same time, laboured above all to
convince their followers that there neither was nor could be
any evil in death; and that, if their situation became at
any time too hard for their constancy to support, the remedy
was at hand, the door was open, and they might, without
fear, walk out when they pleased. If there was no world
beyond the present, death, they said, could be no evil; and
if there was another world, the Gods must likewise be in
that other, and a just man could fear no evil while under
their protection. Those philosophers, in short, prepared a
death–song, if I may say so, which the Grecian patriots and
heroes might make use of upon the proper occasions; and, of
all the different sects, the Stoics, I think it must be
acknowledged, had prepared by far the most animated and
spirited song.
31Suicide,
however, never seems to have been very common among the
Greeks. Excepting Cleomenes,
I cannot at present recollect any very illustrious either
patriot or hero of Greece, who died by his own hand. The
death of Aristomenes
is as much beyond the period of true history as that of
Ajax.
The common story of the death of Themistocles,
though within that period, bears upon its face all the marks
of a most romantic fable. Of all the Greek heroes whose
lives have been written by Plutarch, Cleomenes appears to
have been the only one who perished in this manner.
Theramines, Socrates, and Phocion,
who certainly did not want courage, suffered themselves to
be sent to prison, and submitted patiently to that death to
which the injustice of their fellow–citizens had condemned
them. The brave Eumenes allowed himself to be delivered up,
by his own mutinous soldiers, to his enemy Antigonus, and
was starved to death, without attempting any violence.
The gallant Philopoemen suffered himself to be taken
prisoner by the Messenians, was thrown into a dungeon, and
was supposed to have been privately poisoned.
Several of the philosophers, indeed, are said to have died
in this manner; but their lives have been so very foolishly
written, that very little credit is due to the greater part
of the tales which are told of them. Three different
accounts have been given of the death of Zeno the Stoic. One
is, that after enjoying, for ninety–eight years, the most
perfect state of health, he happened, in going out of his
school, to fall; and though he suffered no other damage than
that of breaking or dislocating one of his fingers, he
struck the ground with his hand, and, in the words of the
Niobe of Euripides, said, I come, why doest thou call me?
and immediately went home and hanged himself.
At that great age, one should think, he might have had a
little more patience. Another account is, that, at the same
age, and in consequence of a like accident, he starved
himself to death.
The third account is, that, at seventy–two years of age, he
died in the natural way; by far the most probable account of
the three, and supported too by the authority of a
contemporary, who must have had every opportunity of being
well informed; of Persaeus,
originally the slave, and afterwards the friend and disciple
of Zeno. The first account is given by Apollonius of Tyre,
who flourished about the time of Augustus Caesar, between
two and three hundred years after the death of Zeno. I know
not who is the author of the second account. Apollonius, who
was himself a Stoic, had probably thought it would do honour
to the founder of a sect which talked so much about
voluntary death, to die in this manner by his own hand. Men
of letters, though, after their death, they are frequently
more talked of than the greatest princes or statesmen of
their times, are generally, during their life, so obscure
and insignificant that their adventures are seldom recorded
by cotemporary historians. Those of after–ages, in order to
satisfy the public curiosity, and having no authentic
documents either to support or to contradict their
narratives, seem frequently to have fashioned them according
to their own fancy; and almost always with a great mixture
of the marvellous. In this particular case the marvellous,
though supported by no authority, seems to have prevailed
over the probable, though supported by the best. Diogenes
Laertius plainly gives the preference to the story of
Apollonius. Lucian and Lactantius appear both to have given
credit to that of the great age and of the violent death.
32This
fashion of voluntary death appears to have been much more
prevalent among the proud Romans, than it ever was among the
lively, ingenious, and accommodating Greeks. Even among the
Romans, the fashion seems not to have been established in
the early and, what are called, the virtuous ages of the
republic. The common story of the death of Regulus,
though probably a fable, could never have been invented, had
it been supposed that any dishonour could fall upon that
hero, from patiently submitting to the tortures which the
Carthaginians are said to have inflicted upon him. In the
later ages of the republic some dishonour, I apprehend,
would have attended this submission. In the different civil
wars which preceded the fall of the commonwealth, many of
the eminent men of all the contending parties chose rather
to perish by their own hands, than to fall into those of
their enemies. The death of Cato, celebrated by Cicero, and
censured by Caesar,
and become the subject of a very serious controversy
between, perhaps, the two most illustrious advocates that
the world had ever beheld, stamped a character of splendour
upon this method of dying which it seems to have retained
for several ages after. The eloquence of Cicero was superior
to that of Caesar. The admiring prevailed greatly over the
censuring party, and the lovers of liberty, for many ages
afterwards, looked up to Cato as to the most venerable
martyr of the republican party. The head of a party, the
Cardinal de Retz observes, may do what he pleases; as long
as he retains the confidence of his own friends, he can
never do wrong;
a maxim of which his Eminence had himself, upon several
occasions, an opportunity of experiencing the truth. Cato,
it seems, joined to his other virtues that of an excellent
bottle companion. His enemies accused him of drunknness,
but, says Seneca, whoever objected this vice to Cato, will
find it much easier to prove that drunkenness is a virtue,
than that Cato could be addicted to any vice.
33Under
the Emperors this method of dying seems to have been, for a
long time, perfectly fashionable. In the epistles of Pliny
we find an account of several persons who chose to die in
this manner, rather from vanity and ostentation, it would
seem, than from what would appear, even to a sober and
judicious Stoic, any proper or necessary reason. Even the
ladies, who are seldom behind in following the fashion, seem
frequently to have chosen, most unnecessarily, to die in
this manner; and, like the ladies in Bengal, to accompany,
upon some occasions, their husbands to the tomb. The
prevalence of this fashion certainly occasioned many deaths
which would not otherwise have happened. All the havock,
however, which this, perhaps the highest exertion of human
vanity and impertinence, could occasion, would, probably, at
no time, be very great.
34The
principle of suicide, the principle which would teach us,
upon some occasions, to consider that violent action as an
object of applause and approbation, seems to be altogether a
refinement of philosophy.
Nature, in her sound and healthful state, seems never to
prompt us to suicide. There is, indeed, a species of
melancholy (a disease to which human nature, among its other
calamities, is unhappily subject) which seems to be
accompanied with, what one may call, an irresistible
appetite for self–destruction. In circumstances often of the
highest external prosperity, and sometimes too, in spite
even of the most serious and deeply impressed sentiments of
religion, this disease has frequently been known to drive
its wretched victims to this fatal extremity. The
unfortunate persons who perish in this miserable manner, are
the proper objects, not of censure, but of commiseration. To
attempt to punish them, when they are beyond the reach of
all human punishment, is not more absurd than it is unjust.
That punishment can fall only on their surviving friends and
relations, who are always perfectly innocent, and to whom
the loss of their friend, in this disgraceful manner, must
always be alone a very heavy calamity. Nature, in her sound
and healthful state, prompts us to avoid distress upon all
occasions; upon many occasions to defend ourselves against
it, though at the hazard, or even with the certainty of
perishing in that defence. But, when we have neither been
able to defend ourselves from it, nor have perished in that
defence, no natural principle, no regard to the approbation
of the supposed impartial spectator, to the judgment of the
man within the breast, seems to call upon us to escape from
it by destroying ourselves. It is only the consciousness of
our own weakness, of our own incapacity to support the
calamity with proper manhood and firmness, which can drive
us to this resolution. I do not remember to have either read
or heard of any American savage, who, upon being taken
prisoner by some hostile tribe, put himself to death, in
order to avoid being afterwards put to death in torture, and
amidst the insults and mockery of his enemies. He places his
glory in supporting those torments with manhood, and in
retorting those insults with tenfold contempt and derision.
35This
contempt of life and death, however, and, at the same time,
the most entire submission to the order of Providence; the
most complete contentment with every event which the current
of human affairs could possibly cast up, may be considered
as the two fundamental doctrines upon which rested the whole
fabric of Stoical morality. The independent and spirited,
but often harsh Epictetus, may be considered as the great
apostle of the first of those doctrines: the mild, the
humane, the benevolent Antoninus,
of the second.
36The
emancipated slave of Epaphriditus, who, in his youth, had
been subjected to the insolence of a brutal master, who, in
his riper years, was, by the jealousy and caprice of
Domitian, banished from Rome and Athens, and obliged to
dwell at Nicopolis, and who, by the same tyrant, might
expect every moment to be sent to Gyarae, or, perhaps, to be
put to death;
could preserve his tranquillity only by fostering in his
mind the most sovereign contempt of human life. He never
exults so much,
his eloquence is
never so animated as when he represents the futility and
nothingness of all its pleasures and all its pains.
37The
good–natured Emperor, the absolute sovereign of the whole
civilized part of the world, who certainly had no peculiar
reason to complain of his own allotment, delights in
expressing his contentment with the ordinary course of
things, and in pointing out beauties even in those parts of
it where vulgar observers are not apt to see any. There is a
propriety and even an engaging grace, he observes,
in old age as well as in youth; and the weakness and
decrepitude of the one state are as suitable to nature as
the bloom and vigour of the other. Death, too, is just as
proper a termination of old age, as youth is of childhood,
or manhood of youth. As we frequently say, he remarks upon
another occasion,
that the physician has ordered to such a man to ride on
horseback, or to use the cold bath, or to walk barefooted;
so ought we to say, that Nature, the great conductor and
physician of the universe, has ordered to such a man a
disease, or the amputation of a limb, or the loss of a
child. By the prescriptions of ordinary physicians the
patient swallows many a bitter potion; undergoes many a
painful operation. From the very uncertain hope, however,
that health may be the consequence, he gladly submits to
all. The harshest prescriptions of the great Physician of
nature, the patient may, in the same manner, hope will
contribute to his own health, to his own final prosperity
and happiness: and he may be perfectly assured that they not
only contribute, but are indispensably necessary to the
health, to the prosperity and happiness of the universe, to
the furtherance and advancement of the great plan of
Jupiter. Had they not been so, the universe would never have
produced them; its all–wise Architect and Conductor would
never have suffered them to happen. As all, even the
smallest of the co–existent parts of the universe, are
exactly fitted to one another, and all contribute to compose
one immense and connected system; so all, even apparently
the most insignificant of the successive events which follow
one another, make parts, and necessary parts, of that great
chain of causes and effects which had no beginning, and
which will have no end; and which, as they all necessarily
result from the original arrangement and contrivance of the
whole; so they are all essentially necessary, not only to
its prosperity, but to its continuance and preservation.
Whoever does not cordially embrace whatever befals him,
whoever is sorry that it has befallen him, whoever wishes
that it had not befallen him, wishes, so far as in him lies,
to stop the motion of the universe, to break that great
chain of succession, by the progress of which that system
can alone be continued and preserved, and, for some little
conveniency of his own, to disorder and discompose the whole
machine of the world. ‘O world,’ says he, in another place,
‘all things are suitable to me which are suitable to thee.
Nothing is too early or too late to me which is seasonable
for thee. All is fruit to me which thy seasons bring forth.
From thee are all things; in thee are all things; for thee
are all things. One man says, O beloved city of Cecrops.
Wilt not thou say, O beloved city of God?’
38From
these very sublime doctrines the Stoics, or at least some of
the Stoics, attempted to deduce all their paradoxes.
39The
Stoical wise man endeavoured to enter into the views of the
great Superintendant of the universe, and to see things in
the same light in which that divine Being beheld them. But,
to the great Superintendant of the universe, all the
different events which the course of his providence may
bring forth, what to us appear the smallest and the
greatest, the bursting of a bubble, as Mr. Pope says,
and that of a world, for example, were perfectly equal, were
equally parts of that great chain which he had predestined
from all eternity, were equally the effects of the same
unerring wisdom, of the same universal and boundless
benevolence. To the Stoical wise man, in the same manner,
all those different events were perfectly equal. In the
course of those events, indeed, a little department, in
which he had himself some little management and direction,
had been assigned to him. In this department he endeavoured
to act as properly as he could, and to conduct himself
according to those orders which, he understood, had been
prescribed to him. But he took no anxious or passionate
concern either in the success, or in the disappointment of
his own most faithful endeavours. The highest prosperity and
the total destruction of that little department, of that
little system which had been in some measure committed to
his charge, were perfectly indifferent to him. If those
events had depended upon him, he would have chosen the one,
and he would have rejected the other. But as they did not
depend upon him, he trusted to a superior wisdom, and was
perfectly satisfied that the event which happened, whatever
it might be, was the very event which he himself, had he
known all the connections and dependencies of things, would
most earnestly and devoutly have wished for. Whatever he did
under the influence and direction of those principles was
equally perfect; and when he stretched out his finger, to
give the example which they commonly made use of, he
performed an action in every respect as meritorious, as
worthy of praise and admiration, as when he laid down his
life for the service of his country. As, to the great
Superintendant of the universe, the greatest and the
smallest exertions of his power, the formation and
dissolution of a world, the formation and dissolution of a
bubble, were equally easy, were equally admirable, and
equally the effects of the same divine wisdom and
benevolence; so, to the Stoical wise man, what we would call
the great action required no more exertion than the little
one, was equally easy, proceeded from exactly the same
principles, was in no respect more meritorious, nor worthy
of any higher degree of praise and admiration.
40As
all those who had arrived at this state of perfection, were
equally happy; so all those who fell in the smallest degree
short of it, how nearly soever they might approach to it,
were equally miserable. As the man, they said, who was but
an inch below the surface of the water, could no more
breathe than he who was an hundred yards below it; so the
man who had not completely subdued all his private, partial,
and selfish passions, who had any other earnest desire but
that for the universal happiness, who had not completely
emerged from that abyss of misery and disorder into which
his anxiety for the gratification of those private, partial,
and selfish passions had involved him, could no more breathe
the free air of liberty and independency, could no more
enjoy the security and happiness of the wise man, than he
who was most remote from that situation. As all the actions
of the wise man were perfect, and equally perfect; so all
those of the man who had not arrived at this supreme wisdom
were faulty, and, as some Stoics pretended, equally faulty.
As one truth, they said, could not be more true, nor one
falsehood more false than another; so an honourable action
could not be more honourable, nor a shameful one more
shameful than another. As in shooting at a mark, the man who
missed it by an inch had equally missed it with him who had
done so by a hundred yards; so the man who, in what to us
appears the most insignificant action, had acted improperly
and without a sufficient reason, was equally faulty with him
who had done so in, what to us appears, the most important;
the man who has killed a cock, for example, improperly and
without a sufficient reason, with him who had murdered his
father.
41If
the first of those two paradoxes should appear sufficiently
violent, the second is evidently too absurd to deserve any
serious consideration. It is, indeed, so very absurd that
one can scarce help suspecting that it must have been in
some measure misunderstood or misrepresented. At any rate, I
cannot allow myself to believe that such men as Zeno or
Cleanthes,
men, it is said, of the most simple as well as of the most
sublime eloquence, could be the authors, either of these, or
of the greater part of the other Stoical paradoxes, which
are in general mere impertinent quibbles, and do so little
honour to their system that I shall give no further account
of them. I am disposed to impute them rather to Chrysippus,
the disciple and follower, indeed, of Zeno and Cleanthes,
but who, from all that has been delivered down to us
concerning him, seems to have been a mere dialectical
pedant, without taste or elegance of any kind. He may have
been the first who reduced their doctrines into a scholastic
or technical system of artificial definitions, divisions,
and subdivisions; one of the most effectual expedients,
perhaps, for extinguishing whatever degree of good sense
there may be in any moral or metaphysical doctrine. Such a
man may very easily be supposed to have understood too
literally some animated expressions of his masters in
describing the happiness of the man of perfect virtue, and
the unhappiness of whoever fell short of that character.
42The
Stoics in general seem to have admitted that there might be
a degree of proficiency in those who had not advanced to
perfect virtue and happiness. They distributed those
proficients into different classes, according to the degree
of their advancement; and they called the imperfect virtues
which they supposed them capable of exercising, not
rectitudes, but proprieties, fitnesses, decent and becoming
actions, for which a plausible or probable reason could be
assigned, what Cicero expresses by the Latin word
officia, and Seneca, I think more exactly, by that of
convenientia. The doctrine of those imperfect, but
attainable virtues, seems to have constituted what we may
call the practical morality of the Stoics. It is the subject
of Cicero’s Offices;
and is said to have been that of another book written by
Marcus Brutus, but which is now lost.
43The
plan and system which Nature has sketched out for our
conduct, seems to be altogether different from that of the
Stoical philosophy.
44By
Nature the events which immediately affect that little
department in which we ourselves have some little management
and direction, which immediately affect ourselves, our
friends, our country, are the events which interest us the
most, and which chiefly excite our desires and aversions,
our hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows. Should those
passions be, what they are very apt to be, too vehement,
Nature has provided a proper remedy and correction. The real
or even the imaginary presence of the impartial spectator,
the authority of the man within the breast, is always at
hand to overawe them into the proper tone and temper of
moderation.
45If,
notwithstanding our most faithful exertions, all the events
which can affect this little department, should turn out the
most unfortunate and disastrous, Nature has by no means left
us without consolation. That consolation may be drawn, not
only from the complete approbation of the man within the
breast, but, if possible, from a still nobler and more
generous principle, from a firm reliance upon, and a
reverential submission to, that benevolent wisdom which
directs all the events of human life, and which, we may be
assured, would never have suffered those misfortunes to
happen, had they not been indispensably necessary for the
good of the whole.
46Nature
has not prescribed to us this sublime contemplation as the
great business and occupation of our lives. She only points
it out to us as the consolation of our misfortunes. The
Stoical philosophy prescribes it as the great business and
occupation of our lives. That philosophy teaches us to
interest ourselves earnestly and anxiously in no events,
external to the good order of our own minds, to the
propriety of our own choosing and rejecting, except in those
which concern a department where we neither have nor ought
to have any sort of management or direction, the department
of the great Superintendant of the universe. By the perfect
apathy which it prescribes to us, by endeavouring, not
merely to moderate, but to eradicate all our private,
partial, and selfish affections, by suffering us to feel for
whatever can befall ourselves, our friends, our country, not
even the sympathetic and reduced passions of the impartial
spectator, it endeavours to render us altogether indifferent
and unconcerned in the success or miscarriage of every thing
which Nature has prescribed to us as the proper business and
occupation of our lives.
47The
reasonings of philosophy, it may be said, though they may
confound and perplex the understanding, can never break down
the necessary connection which Nature has established
between causes and their effects. The causes which naturally
excite our desires and aversions, our hopes and fears, our
joys and sorrows, would no doubt, notwithstanding all the
reasonings of Stoicism, produce upon each individual,
according to the degree of his actual sensibility, their
proper and necessary effects. The judgments of the man
within the breast, however, might be a good deal affected by
those reasonings, and that great inmate might be taught by
them to attempt to overawe all our private, partial, and
selfish affections into a more or less perfect tranquillity.
To direct the judgments of this inmate is the great purpose
of all systems of morality. That the Stoical philosophy had
very great influence upon the character and conduct of its
followers, cannot be doubted; and that though it might
sometimes incite them to unnecessary violence, its general
tendency was to animate them to actions of the most heroic
magnanimity and most extensive benevolence.
48IV.
Besides these ancient, there are some modern systems,
according to which virtue consists in propriety; or in the
suitableness of the affection from which we act, to the
cause or object which excites it. The system of Dr. Clark,
which places virtue in acting according to the relations of
things, in regulating our conduct according to the fitness
or incongruity which there may be in the application of
certain actions to certain things, or to certain relations:
that of Mr. Woollaston,
which places it in acting according to the truth of things,
according to their proper nature and essence, or in treating
them as what they really are, and not as what they are not:
that of my Lord Shaftesbury,
which places it in maintaining a proper balance of the
affections, and in allowing no passion to go beyond its
proper sphere; are all of them more or less inaccurate
descriptions of the same fundamental idea.
49 either give, or
give, any
precise or distinct measure by which this fitness or
propriety of affection can be ascertained or judged of. That
precise and distinct measure can be found nowhere but in the
sympathetic feelings of the impartial and well–informed
spectator.v
50The
description of
which is either
given, or at least meant and intended to be given in each of
those systems, for some of the modern authors are not very
fortunate in their manner of expressing themselves, is no
doubt quite just, so far as it goes. There is no virtue
without propriety, and wherever there is propriety some
degree of approbation is due. But still this description is
imperfect. For though propriety is an essential ingredient
in every virtuous action, it is not always the sole
ingredient. Beneficent actions have in them another quality
by which they appear not only to deserve approbation but
recompense. None of those systems account either easily or
sufficiently for that superior degree of esteem which seems
due to such actions, or for that diversity of sentiment
which they naturally excite. Neither is the description of
vice more complete. For, in the same manner, though
impropriety is a necessary ingredient in every vicious
action, it is not always the sole ingredient; and there is
often the highest degree of absurdity and impropriety in
very harmless and insignificant actions. Deliberate actions,
of a pernicious tendency to those we live with, have,
besides their impropriety, a peculiar quality of their own
by which they appear to deserve, not only disapprobation,
but punishment; and to be the objects, not of dislike
merely, but of resentment and revenge: and none of those
systems easily and sufficiently account for that superior
degree of detestation which we feel for such actions.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of those Systems
which make Virtue consist in Prudence
1The
most ancient of those systems which make virtue consist in
prudence, and of which any considerable remains have come
down to us, is that of Epicurus, who is said, however, to
have borrowed all the leading principles of his philosophy
from some of those who had gone before him, particularly
from Aristippus;
though it is very probable, notwithstanding this allegation
of his enemies, that at least his manner of applying those
principles was altogether his own.
2According
to Epicurus
, bodily pleasure and pain were the sole ultimate objects of
natural desire and aversion. That they were always the
natural objects of those passions, he thought required no
proof. Pleasure might, indeed, appear sometimes to be
avoided; not, however, because it was pleasure, but because,
by the enjoyment of it, we should either forfeit some
greater pleasure, or expose ourselves to some pain that was
more to be avoided than this pleasure was to be desired.
Pain, in the same manner, might appear sometimes to be
eligible; not, however, because it was pain, but because by
enduring it we might either avoid a still greater pain, or
acquire some pleasure of much more importance. That bodily
pain and pleasure, therefore, were always the natural
objects of desire and aversion, was, he thought, abundantly
evident. Nor was it less so, he imagined, that they were the
sole ultimate objects of those passions. Whatever else was
either desired or avoided, was so, according to him, upon
account of its tendency to produce one or other of those
sensations. The tendency to procure pleasure rendered power
and riches desirable, as the contrary tendency to produce
pain made poverty and insignificancy the objects of
aversion. Honour and reputation were valued, because the
esteem and love of those we live with were of the greatest
consequence both to procure pleasure and to defend us from
pain. Ignominy and bad fame, on the contrary, were to be
avoided, because the hatred, contempt and resentment of
those we lived with, destroyed all security, and necessarily
exposed us to the greatest bodily evils.
3All
the pleasures and pains of the mind were, according to
Epicurus, ultimately derived from those of the body. The
mind was happy when it thought of the past pleasures of the
body, and hoped for others to come: and it was miserable
when it thought of the pains which the body had formerly
endured, and dreaded the same or greater thereafter.
4But
the pleasures and pains of the mind, though ultimately
derived from those of the body, were vastly greater than
their originals. The body felt only the sensation of the
present instant, whereas the mind felt also the past and the
future, the one by remembrance, the other by anticipation,
and consequently both suffered and enjoyed much more. When
we are under the greatest bodily pain, he observed, we shall
always find, if we attend to it, that it is not the
suffering of the present instant which chiefly torments us,
but either the agonizing remembrance of the past, or the yet
more horrible dread of the future. The pain of each instant,
considered by itself, and cut off from all that goes before
and all that comes after it, is a trifle, not worth the
regarding. Yet this is all which the body can ever be said
to suffer. In the same manner, when we enjoy the greatest
pleasure, we shall always find that the bodily sensation,
the sensation of the present instant, makes but a small part
of our happiness, that our enjoyment chiefly arises either
from the cheerful recollection of the past, or the still
more joyous anticipation of the future, and that the mind
always contributes by much the largest share of the
entertainment.
5Since
our happiness and misery, therefore, depended chiefly on the
mind, if this part of our nature was well disposed, if our
thoughts and opinions were as they should be, it was of
little importance in what manner our body was affected.
Though under great bodily pain, we might still enjoy a
considerable share of happiness, if our reason and judgment
maintained their superiority. We might entertain ourselves
with the remembrance of past, and with the hopes of future
pleasure; we might soften the rigour of our pains, by
recollecting what it was which, even in this situation, we
were under any necessity of suffering. That this was merely
the bodily sensation, the pain of the present instant, which
by itself could never be very great. That whatever agony we
suffered from the dread of its continuance, was the effect
of an opinion of the mind, which might be corrected by
juster sentiments; by considering that, if our pains were
violent, they would probably be of short duration; and that
if they were of long continuance, they would probably be
moderate, and admit of many intervals of ease; and that, at
any rate, death was always at hand and within call to
deliver us, which as, according to him, it put an end to all
sensation, either of pain or pleasure, could not be regarded
as an evil. When we are, said he, death is not; and when
death is, we are not; death therefore can be nothing to us.
6If
the actual sensation of positive pain was in itself so
little to be feared, that of pleasure was still less to be
desired. Naturally the sensation of pleasure was much less
pungent than that of pain. If, therefore, this last could
take so very little from the happiness of a well–disposed
mind, the other could add scarce any thing to it. When the
body was free from pain and the mind from fear and anxiety,
the superadded sensation of bodily pleasure could be of very
little importance; and though it might diversify, could not
properly be said to increase the happiness of
situation.
7In
ease of body, therefore, and in security or tranquillity of
mind, consisted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect
state of human nature, the most complete happiness which man
was capable of enjoying. To obtain this great end of natural
desire was the sole object of all the virtues, which,
according to him, were not desirable upon their own account,
but upon account of their tendency to bring about this
situation.
8Prudence,
for example, though, according to this philosophy, the
source and principle of all the virtues, was not desirable
upon its own account. That careful and laborious and
circumspect state of mind, ever watchful and ever attentive
to the most distant consequences of every action, could not
be a thing pleasant or agreeable for its own sake, but upon
account of its tendency to procure the greatest goods and to
keep off the greatest evils.
9To
abstain from pleasure too, to curb and restrain our natural
passions for enjoyment, which was the office of temperance,
could never be desirable for its own sake. The whole value
of this virtue arose from its utility, from its enabling us
to postpone the present enjoyment for the sake of a greater
to come, or to avoid a greater pain that might ensue from
it. Temperance, in short, was nothing but prudence with
regard to pleasure.
10To
support labour, to endure pain, to be exposed to danger or
to death, the situations which fortitude would often lead us
into, were surely still less the objects of natural desire.
They were chosen only to avoid greater evils. We submitted
to labour, in order to avoid the greater shame and pain of
poverty, and we exposed ourselves to danger and to death in
defence of our liberty and property, the means and
instruments of pleasure and happiness; or in defence of our
country, in the safety of which our own was necessarily
comprehended. Fortitude enabled us to do all this
cheerfully, as the best which, in our present situation,
could possibly be done, and was in reality no more than
prudence, good judgment, and presence of mind in properly
appreciating pain, labour, and danger, always choosing the
less in order to avoid the greater.
11It
is the same case with justice. To abstain from what is
another’s was not desirable on its own account, and it could
not surely be better for you, that I should possess what is
my own, than that you should possess it. You ought, however,
to abstain from whatever belongs to me, because by doing
otherwise you will provoke the resentment and indignation of
mankind. The security and tranquillity of your mind will be
entirely destroyed. You will be filled with fear and
consternation at the thought of that punishment which you
will imagine that men are at all times ready to inflict upon
you, and from which no power, no art, no concealment, will
ever, in your own fancy, be sufficient to protect you. That
other species of justice which consists in doing proper good
offices to different persons, according to the various
relations of neighbours, kinsmen, friends, benefactors,
superiors, or equals, which they may stand in to us, is
recommended by the same reasons. To act properly in all
these different relations procures us the esteem and love of
those we live with; as to do otherwise excites their
contempt and hatred. By the one we naturally secure, by the
other we necessarily endanger our own ease and tranquillity,
the great and ultimate objects of all our desires. The whole
virtue of justice, therefore, the most important of all the
virtues, is no more than discreet and prudent conduct with
regard to our neighbours.
12Such
is the doctrine of Epicurus concerning the nature of virtue.
It may seem extraordinary that this philosopher, who is
described as a person of the most amiable manners, should
never have observed, that, whatever may be the tendency of
those virtues, or of the contrary vices, with regard to our
bodily ease and security, the sentiments which they
naturally excite in others are the objects of a much more
passionate desire or aversion than all their other
consequences; that to be amiable, to be respectable, to be
the proper object of esteem, is by every well–disposed mind
more valued than all the ease and security which love,
respect, and esteem can procure us; that, on the contrary,
to be odious, to be contemptible, to be the proper object of
indignation, is more dreadful than all that we can suffer in
our body from hatred, contempt, or indignation; and that
consequently our desire of the one character, and our
aversion to the other, cannot arise from any regard to the
effects which either of them is likely to produce upon the
body.
13This
system is, no doubt, altogether inconsistent with that which
I have been endeavouring to establish. It is not difficult,
however, to discover from what phasis, if I may say so, from
what particular view or aspect of nature, this account of
things derives its probability. By the wise contrivance of
the Author of nature, virtue is upon all ordinary occasions,
even with regard to this life, real wisdom, and the surest
and readiest means of obtaining both safety and advantage.
Our success or disappointment in our undertakings must very
much depend upon the good or bad opinion which is commonly
entertained of us, and upon the general disposition of those
we live with, either to assist or to oppose us. But the
best, the surest, the easiest, and the readiest way of
obtaining the advantageous and of avoiding the unfavourable
judgments of others, is undoubtedly to render ourselves the
proper objects of the former and not of the latter. ‘Do you
desire,’ said Socrates,
‘the reputation of a good musician? The only sure way of
obtaining it, is to become a good musician. Would you desire
in the same manner to be thought capable of serving your
country either as a general or as a statesman? The best way
in this case too is really to acquire the art and experience
of war and government, and to become really fit to be a
general or a statesman. And in the same manner if you would
be reckoned sober, temperate, just, and equitable, the best
way of acquiring this reputation is to become sober,
temperate, just, and equitable. If you can really render
yourself amiable, respectable, and the proper object of
esteem, there is no fear of your not soon acquiring the
love, the respect, and esteem of those you live with.’ Since
the practice of virtue, therefore, is in general so
advantageous, and that of vice so contrary to our interest,
the consideration of those opposite tendencies undoubtedly
stamps an additional beauty and propriety upon the one, and
a new deformity and impropriety upon the other. Temperance,
magnanimity, justice, and beneficence, come thus to be
approved of, not only under their proper characters, but
under the additional character of the highest wisdom and
most real prudence. And in the same manner, the contrary
vices of intemperance, pusillanimity, injustice, and either
malevolence or sordid selfishness, come to be disapproved
of, not only under their proper characters, but under the
additional character of the most short–sighted folly and
weakness. Epicurus appears in every virtue to have attended
to this species of propriety only. It is that which is most
apt to occur to those who are endeavouring to persuade
others to regularity of conduct. When men by their practice,
and perhaps too by their maxims, manifestly show that the
natural beauty of virtue is not like to have much effect
upon them, how is it possible to move them but by
representing the folly of their conduct, and how much they
themselves are in the end likely to suffer by it?
14By
running up all the different virtues too to this one species
of propriety, Epicurus indulged a propensity, which is
natural to all men, but which philosophers in particular are
apt to cultivate with a peculiar fondness, as the great
means of displaying their ingenuity, the propensity to
account for all appearances from as few principles as
possible. And he, no doubt, indulged this propensity still
further, when he referred all the primary objects of natural
desire and aversion to the pleasures and pains of the body.
The great patron of the atomical philosophy, who took so
much pleasure in deducing all the powers and qualities of
bodies from the most obvious and familiar, the figure,
motion, and arrangement of the small parts of matter, felt
no doubt a similar satisfaction, when he accounted, in the
same manner, for all the sentiments and passions of the mind
from those which are most obvious and familiar.
15The
system of Epicurus agreed with those of Plato, Aristotle,
and Zeno, in making virtue consist in acting in the most
suitable manner to obtain
primary objects of natural desire. It differed from all of
them in two other respects; first, in the account which it
gave of those primary objects of natural desire; and
secondly, in the account which it gave of the excellence of
virtue, or of the reason why that quality ought to be
esteemed.
16The
primary objects of natural desire consisted, according to
Epicurus, in bodily pleasure and pain, and in nothing else:
whereas, according to the other three philosophers, there
were many other objects, such as knowledge, such as the
happiness of our relations, of our friends, of our country,
which were ultimately desirable for their own sakes.
17Virtue
too, according to Epicurus, did not deserve to be pursued
for its own sake, nor was itself one of the ultimate objects
of natural appetite, but was eligible only upon account of
its tendency to prevent pain and to procure ease and
pleasure. In the opinion of the other three, on the
contrary, it was desirable, not merely as the means of
procuring the other primary objects of natural desire, but
as something which was in itself more valuable than them
all. Man, they thought, being born for action, his happiness
must consist, not merely in the agreeableness of his passive
sensations, but also in the propriety of his active
exertions.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of those Systems
which make Virtue consist in Benevolence
1The
system which makes virtue consist in benevolence, though I
think not so ancient as all of those which I have already
given an account of, is, however, of very great antiquity.
It seems to have been the doctrine of the greater part of
those philosophers who, about and after the age of Augustus,
called themselves Eclectics, who pretended to follow chiefly
the opinions of Plato and Pythagoras, and who upon that
account are commonly known by the name of the later
Platonists.
2In
the divine nature, according to these authors, benevolence
or love was the sole principle of action, and directed the
exertion of all the other attributes. The wisdom of the
Deity was employed in finding out the means for bringing
about those ends which his goodness suggested, as his
infinite power was exerted to execute them. Benevolence,
however, was still the supreme and governing attribute, to
which the others were subservient, and from which the whole
excellency, or the whole morality, if I may be allowed such
an expression, of the divine operations, was ultimately
derived. The whole perfection and virtue of the human mind
consisted in some resemblance or participation of the divine
perfections, and, consequently, in being filled with the
same principle of benevolence and love which influenced all
the actions of the Deity. The actions of men which flowed
from this motive were alone truly praise–worthy, or could
claim any merit in the sight of the Deity. It was by actions
of charity and love only that we could imitate, as became
us, the conduct of God, that we could express our humble and
devout admiration of his infinite perfections, that by
fostering in our own minds the same divine principle, we
could bring our own affections to a greater resemblance with
his holy attributes, and thereby become more proper objects
of his love and esteem; till at last we arrived at that
immediate converse and communication with the Deity to which
it was the great object of this philosophy to raise us.
3This
system, as it was much esteemed by many ancient fathers of
the Christian church, so after the Reformation it was
adopted by several divines of the most eminent piety and
learning and of the most amiable manners; particularly, by
Dr. Ralph Cudworth, by Dr. Henry More, and by Mr. John Smith
of Cambridge.
But of all the patrons of this system, ancient or modern,
the late Dr. Hutcheson was undoubtedly, beyond all
comparison, the most acute, the most distinct, the most
philosophical, and what is of the greatest consequence of
all, the soberest and most judicious.
4That
virtue consists in benevolence is a notion supported by many
appearances in human nature. It has been observed already,
that proper benevolence is the most graceful and agreeable
of all the affections, that it is recommended to us by a
double sympathy, that as its tendency is necessarily
beneficent, it is the proper object of gratitude and reward,
and that upon all these accounts it appears to our natural
sentiments to possess a merit superior to any other. It has
been observed too, that even the weaknesses of benevolence
are not very disagreeable to us, whereas those of every
other passion are always extremely disgusting. Who does not
abhor excessive malice, excessive selfishness, or excessive
resentment? But the most excessive indulgence even of
partial friendship is not so offensive. It is the benevolent
passions only which can exert themselves without any regard
or attention to propriety, and yet retain something about
them which is engaging. There is something pleasing even in
mere instinctive good–will which goes on to do good offices
without once reflecting whether by this conduct it is the
proper object either of blame or approbation. It is not so
with the other passions. The moment they are deserted, the
moment they are unaccompanied by the sense of propriety,
they cease to be agreeable.
5As
benevolence bestows upon those actions which proceed from
it, a beauty superior to all others, so the want of it, and
much more the contrary inclination, communicates a peculiar
deformity to whatever evidences such a disposition.
Pernicious actions are often punishable for no other reason
than because they shew a want of sufficient attention to the
happiness of our neighbour.
6Besides
all this, Dr. Hutcheson
observed that whenever in any action, supposed to proceed
from benevolent affections, some other motive had been
discovered, our sense of the merit of this action was just
so far diminished as this motive was believed to have
influenced it. If an action, supposed to proceed from
gratitude, should be discovered to have arisen from an
expectation of some new favour, or if what was apprehended
to proceed from public spirit, should be found out to have
taken its origin from the hope of a pecuniary reward, such a
discovery would entirely destroy all notion of merit or
praise–worthiness in either of these actions. Since,
therefore, the mixture of any selfish motive, like that of a
baser alloy, diminished or took away altogether the merit
which would otherwise have belonged to any action, it was
evident, he imagined, that virtue must consist in pure and
disinterested benevolence alone.
7When
those actions, on the contrary, which are commonly supposed
to proceed from a selfish motive, are discovered to have
arisen from a benevolent one, it greatly enhances our sense
of their merit. If we believed of any person that he
endeavoured to advance his fortune from no other view but
that of doing friendly offices, and of making proper returns
to his benefactors, we should only love and esteem him the
more. And this observation seemed still more to confirm the
conclusion, that it was benevolence only which could stamp
upon any action the character of virtue.
8Last
of all, what, he imagined, was an evident proof of the
justness of this account of virtue, in all the disputes of
casuists concerning the rectitude of conduct, the public
good, he observed, was the standard to which they constantly
referred; thereby universally acknowledging that whatever
tended to promote the happiness of mankind was right and
laudable and virtuous, and the contrary, wrong, blamable,
and vicious. In the late debates about passive obedience and
the right of resistance, the sole point in controversy among
men of sense was, whether universal submission would
probably be attended with greater evils than temporary
insurrections when privileges were invaded. Whether what,
upon the whole, tended most to the happiness of mankind, was
not also morally good, was never once, he said, made a
question.
9Since
benevolence, therefore, was the only motive which could
bestow upon any action the character of virtue, the greater
the benevolence which was evidenced by any action, the
greater the praise which must belong to it.
10Those
actions which aimed at the happiness of a great community,
as they demonstrated a more enlarged benevolence than those
which aimed only at that of a smaller system, so were they,
likewise, proportionally the more virtuous. The most
virtuous of all affections, therefore, was that which
embraced as its object the happiness of all intelligent
beings. The least virtuous, on the contrary, of those to
which the character of virtue could in any respect belong,
was that which aimed no further than at the happiness of an
individual, such as a son, a brother, a friend.
11In
directing all our actions to promote the greatest possible
good, in submitting all inferior affections to the desire of
the general happiness of mankind, in regarding one’s self
but as one of the many, whose prosperity was to be pursued
no further than it was consistent with, or conducive to that
of the whole, consisted the perfection of virtue.
12Self–love
was a principle which could never be virtuous in any degree
or in any direction. It was vicious whenever it obstructed
the general good. When it had no other effect than to make
the individual take care of his own happiness, it was merely
innocent, and though it deserved no praise, neither ought it
to incur any blame. Those benevolent actions which were
performed, notwithstanding some strong motive from
self–interest, were the more virtuous upon that account.
They demonstrated the strength and vigour of the benevolent
principle.
13Dr.
Hutcheson
was so far from allowing self–love to be in any case a
motive of virtuous actions, that even a regard to the
pleasure of self–approbation, to the comfortable applause of
our own consciences, according to him, diminished the merit
of a benevolent action.
This was a selfish motive, he thought, which, so far as it
contributed to any action, demonstrated the weakness of that
pure and disinterested benevolence which could alone stamp
upon the conduct of man the character of virtue. In the
common judgments of mankind, however, this regard to the
approbation of our own minds is so far from being considered
as what can in any respect diminish the virtue of any
action, that it is rather looked upon as the sole motive
which deserves the appellation of virtuous.
14Such
is the account given of the nature of virtue in this amiable
system, a system which has a peculiar tendency to nourish
and support in the human heart the noblest and the most
agreeable of all affections, and not only to check the
injustice of self–love, but in some measure to discourage
that principle altogether, by representing it as what could
never reflect any honour upon those who were influenced by
it.
15As
some of the other systems which I have already given an
account of, do not sufficiently explain from whence arises
the peculiar excellency of the supreme virtue of
beneficence, so this system seems to have the contrary
defect, of not sufficiently explaining from whence arises
our approbation of the inferior virtues of prudence,
vigilance, circumspection, temperance, constancy, firmness.
The view and aim of our affections, the beneficent and
hurtful effects which they tend to produce, are the only
qualities at all attended to in this system. Their propriety
and impropriety, their suitableness and unsuitableness, to
the cause which excites them, are disregarded altogether.
16Regard
to our own private happiness and interest, too, appear upon
many occasions very laudable principles of action. The
habits of oeconomy, industry, discretion, attention, and
application of thought, are generally supposed to be
cultivated from self–interested motives, and at the same
time are apprehended to be very praise–worthy qualities,
which deserve the esteem and approbation of every body. The
mixture of a selfish motive, it is true, seems often to
sully the beauty of those actions which ought to arise from
a benevolent affection. The cause of this, however, is not
that self–love can never be the motive of a virtuous action,
but that the benevolent principle appears in this particular
case to want its due degree of strength, and to be
altogether unsuitable to its object. The character,
therefore, seems evidently imperfect, and upon the whole to
deserve blame rather than praise. The mixture of a
benevolent motive in an action to which self–love alone
ought to be sufficient to prompt us, is not so apt indeed to
diminish our sense of its propriety, or of the virtue of the
person who performs it. We are not ready to suspect any
person of being defective in selfishness. This is by no
means the weak side of human nature, or the failing of which
we are apt to be suspicious. If we could really believe,
however, of any man, that, was it not from a regard to his
family and friends, he would not take that proper care of
his health, his life, or his fortune, to which
self–preservation alone ought to be sufficient to prompt
him, it would undoubtedly be a failing, though one of those
amiable failings, which render a person rather the object of
pity than of contempt or hatred. It would still, however,
somewhat diminish the dignity and respectableness of his
character. Carelessness and want of oeconomy are universally
disapproved of, not, however, as proceeding from a want of
benevolence, but from a want of the proper attention to the
objects of self–interest.
17Though
the standard by which casuists frequently determine what is
right or wrong in human conduct, be its tendency to the
welfare or disorder of society, it does not follow that a
regard to the welfare of society should be the sole virtuous
motive of action, but only that, in any competition, it
ought to cast the balance against all other motives.
18Benevolence
may, perhaps, be the sole principle of action in the Deity,
and there are several, not improbable, arguments which tend
to persuade us that it is so. It is not easy to conceive
what other motive an independent and all–perfect Being, who
stands in need of nothing external, and whose happiness is
complete in himself, can act from. But whatever may be the
case with the Deity, so imperfect a creature as man, the
support of whose existence requires so many things external
to him, must often act from many other motives. The
condition of human nature were peculiarly hard, if those
affections, which, by the very nature of our being, ought
frequently to influence our conduct, could upon no occasion
appear virtuous, or deserve esteem and commendation from any
body.
19Those
three systems, that which places virtue in propriety, that
which places it in prudence, and that which makes it consist
in benevolence, are the principal accounts which have been
given of the nature of virtue. To one or other of them, all
the other descriptions of virtue, how different soever they
may appear, are easily reducible.
20That
system which places virtue in obedience to the will of the
Deity, may be counted either among those which make it
consist in prudence, or among those which make it consist in
propriety. When it is asked, why we ought to obey the will
of the Deity, this question, which would be impious and
absurd in the highest degree, if asked from any doubt that
we ought to obey him, can admit but of two different
answers. It must either be said that we ought to obey the
will of the Deity because he is a Being of infinite power,
who will reward us eternally if we do so, and punish us
eternally if we do otherwise: or it must be said, that
independent of any regard to our own happiness, or to
rewards and punishments of any kind, there is a congruity
and fitness that a creature should obey its creator, that a
limited and imperfect being should submit to one of infinite
and incomprehensible perfections. Besides one or other of
these two, it is impossible to conceive that any other
answer can be given to this question. If the first answer be
the proper one, virtue consists in prudence, or in the
proper pursuit of our own final interest and happiness;
since it is upon this account that we are obliged to obey
the will of the Deity. If the second answer be the proper
one, virtue must consist in propriety, since the ground of
our obligation to obedience is the suitableness or congruity
of the sentiments of humility and submission to the
superiority of the object which excites them.
21That
system which places virtue in utility,
coincides too with that which makes it consist in propriety.
According to this system, all those qualities of the mind
which are agreeable or advantageous, either to the person
himself or to others, are approved of as virtuous, and the
contrary disapproved of as vicious. But the agreeableness or
utility of any affection depends upon the degree which it is
allowed to subsist in. Every affection is useful when it is
confined to a certain degree of moderation; and every
affection is disadvantageous when it exceeds the proper
bounds. According to this system therefore, virtue consists
not in any one affection, but in the proper degree of all
the affections. The only difference between it and that
which I have been endeavouring to establish, is, that it
makes utility, and not sympathy, or the correspondent
affection of the spectator, the
measure of
this proper degree.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iv
Of licentious
Systems
1All
those systems, which I have hitherto given an account of,
suppose that there is a real and essential distinction
between vice and virtue, whatever these qualities may
consist in. There is a real and essential difference between
the propriety and impropriety of any affection, between
benevolence and any other principle of action, between real
prudence and short–sighted folly or precipitate rashness. In
the main too all of them contribute to encourage the
praise–worthy, and to discourage the blamable disposition.
2It
may be true, perhaps, of some of them, that they tend, in
some measure, to break the balance of the affections, and to
give the mind a particular bias to some principles of
action, beyond the proportion that is due to them. The
ancient systems, which place virtue in propriety, seem
chiefly to recommend the great, the awful, and the
respectable virtues, the virtues of self–government and
self–command; fortitude, magnanimity, independency upon
fortune, the contempt of all outward accidents, of pain,
poverty, exile, and death. It is in these great exertions
that the noblest propriety of conduct is displayed. The
soft, the amiable, the gentle virtues, all the virtues of
indulgent humanity are, in comparison, but little insisted
upon, and seem, on the contrary, by the Stoics in
particular, to have been often regarded as mere weaknesses
which it behoved a wise man not to harbour in his breast.
3The
benevolent system, on the other hand, while it fosters and
encourages all those milder virtues in the highest degree,
seems entirely to neglect the more
and respectable qualities
of the mind. It even denies them the appellation of virtues.
It calls them moral abilities, and treats them as qualities
which do not deserve the same sort of esteem and
approbation, that is due to what is properly denominated
virtue. All those principles of action which aim only at our
own interest, it treats, if that be possible, still worse.
So far from having any merit of their own, they diminish, it
pretends, the merit of benevolence, when they co–operate
with it: and prudence, it is asserted, when employed only in
promoting private interest, can never even be imagined a
virtue.
4That
system, again, which makes virtue consist in prudence only,
while it gives the highest encouragement to the habits of
caution, vigilance, sobriety, and judicious moderation,
seems to degrade equally both the amiable and respectable
virtues, and to strip the former of all their beauty, and
the latter of all their grandeur.
5But
notwithstanding these defects, the general tendency of each
of those three systems is to encourage the best and most
laudable habits of the human mind: and it were well for
society, if, either mankind in general, or even those few
who pretend to live according to any philosophical rule,
were to regulate their conduct by the precepts of any one of
them. We may learn from each of them something that is both
valuable and peculiar. If it was possible, by precept and
exhortation, to inspire the mind with fortitude and
magnanimity, the ancient systems of propriety would seem
sufficient to do this. Or if it was possible, by the same
means, to soften it into humanity, and to awaken the
affections of kindness and general love towards those we
live with, some of the pictures with which the benevolent
system presents us, might seem capable of producing this
effect. We may learn from the system of Epicurus, though
undoubtedly the
of all the three,
how much the practice of both the amiable and respectable
virtues is conducive to our own interest, to our own ease
and safety and quiet even in this life. As Epicurus placed
happiness in the attainment of ease and security, he exerted
himself in a particular manner to show that virtue was, not
merely the best and the surest, but the only means of
acquiring those invaluable possessions. The good effects of
virtue, upon our inward tranquillity and peace of mind, are
what other philosophers have chiefly celebrated. Epicurus,
without neglecting this topic, has chiefly insisted upon the
influence of that amiable quality on our outward prosperity
and safety. It was upon this account that his writings were
so much studied in the ancient world by men of all different
philosophical parties. It is from him that Cicero, the great
enemy of the Epicurean system, borrows his most agreeable
proofs that virtue alone is sufficient to secure happiness.
Seneca, though a Stoic, the sect most opposite to that of
Epicurus, yet quotes this philosopher more frequently than
any other.
6 to
take away altogether the distinction between vice and
virtue, and of which the tendency is, upon that account,
wholly pernicious: I mean
are in almost every respect
erroneous, there are, however, some appearances in human
nature, which, when viewed in a certain manner, seem at
first sight to favour them.
an air of truth and probability which is very apt to impose
upon the unskilful.
7 considers whatever is done from a
sense of propriety, from a regard to what is commendable and
praise–worthy, as being done from a love of praise and
commendation, or as he calls it from vanity. Man, he
observes, is naturally much more interested in his own
happiness than in that of others, and it is impossible that
in his heart he can ever really prefer their prosperity to
his own. Whenever he appears to do so, we may be assured
that he imposes upon us, and that he is then acting from the
same selfish motives as at all other times. Among his other
selfish passions, vanity is one of the strongest, and he is
always easily flattered and greatly delighted with the
applauses of those about him. When he appears to sacrifice
his own interest to that of his companions, he knows that
conduct will be highly
agreeable to their self–love, and that they will not fail to
express their satisfaction by bestowing upon him the most
extravagant praises. The pleasure which he expects from
this, over–balances, in his opinion, the interest which he
abandons in order to procure it. His conduct, therefore,
upon this occasion, is in reality just as selfish, and
arises from just as mean a
as upon any other. He is
flattered, however, and he flatters
with the belief that it
is entirely disinterested; since, unless this was supposed,
it would not seem to merit any commendation either in his
own eyes or in those of others. All public spirit,
therefore, all preference of public to private interest, is,
according to him, a mere cheat and imposition upon mankind;
and that human virtue which is so much boasted of, and which
is the occasion of so much emulation among men, is the mere
offspring of flattery begot upon pride.
8Whether
the most generous and public–spirited actions may not, in
some sense, be regarded as proceeding from self–love, I
shall not at present examine. The decision of this question
is not, I apprehend, of any importance towards establishing
the reality of virtue, since self–love may frequently be a
virtuous motive of action. I shall only endeavour to show
that the desire of doing what is honourable and noble, of
rendering ourselves the proper objects of esteem and
approbation, cannot with any propriety be called vanity.
Even the love of well–grounded fame and reputation, the
desire of acquiring esteem by what is really estimable, does
not deserve that name. The first is the love of virtue, the
noblest and the best passion
human nature. The second is
the love of true glory, a passion inferior no doubt to the
former, but which in dignity appears to come immediately
after it. He is guilty of vanity who desires praise for
qualities which are either not praise–worthy in any degree,
or not in that degree in which he expects to be praised for
them; who sets his character upon the frivolous ornaments of
dress and equipage, or upon the equally frivolous
accomplishments of ordinary behaviour. He is guilty of
vanity who desires praise for what indeed very well deserves
it, but what he perfectly knows does not belong to him. The
empty coxcomb who gives himself airs of importance which he
has no title to, the silly liar who assumes the merit of
adventures which never happened, the foolish plagiary
who gives himself out for the author of what he has no
pretensions to, are properly accused of this passion. He too
is said to be guilty of vanity who is not contented with the
silent sentiments of esteem and approbation, who seems to be
fonder of their noisy expressions and acclamations than of
the sentiments themselves, who is never satisfied but when
his own praises are ringing in his ears, and who solicits
with the most anxious importunity all external marks of
respect, is fond of titles, of compliments, of being
visited, of being attended, of being taken notice of in
public places with the appearance of deference and
attention. This frivolous passion is altogether different
from either of the two former, and is the passion of the
lowest and the least of mankind, as they are of the noblest
and the greatest.
9But
though these three passions, the desire of rendering
ourselves the proper objects of honour and esteem; or of
becoming what is honourable and estimable; the desire of
acquiring honour and esteem by really deserving those
sentiments; and the frivolous desire of praise at any rate,
are widely different; though the two former are always
approved of, while the latter never fails to be despised;
there is, however, a certain remote affinity among them,
which, exaggerated by the humorous and diverting eloquence
of this lively author, has enabled him to impose upon his
readers. There is an affinity between vanity and the love of
true glory, as both these passions aim at acquiring esteem
and approbation. But they are different in this, that the
one is a just, reasonable, and equitable passion, while the
other is unjust, absurd, and ridiculous. The man who desires
esteem for what is really estimable, desires nothing but
what he is justly entitled to, and what cannot be refused
him without some sort of injury. He, on the contrary, who
desires it upon any other terms, demands what he has no just
claim to. The first is easily satisfied, is not apt to be
jealous or suspicious that we do not esteem him enough, and
is seldom solicitous about receiving many external marks of
our regard. The other, on the contrary, is never to be
satisfied, is full of jealousy and suspicion that we do not
esteem him so much as he desires, because he has some secret
consciousness that he desires more than he deserves. The
least neglect of ceremony, he considers as a mortal affront,
and as an expression of the most determined contempt. He is
restless and impatient, and perpetually afraid that we have
lost all respect for him, and is upon this account always
anxious to obtain new expressions of esteem, and cannot be
kept in temper but by continual attention and adulation.
10There
is an affinity too between the desire of becoming what is
honourable and estimable, and the desire of honour and
esteem, between the love of virtue and the love of true
glory. They resemble one another not only in this respect,
that both aim at really being what is honourable and noble,
but even in that respect in which the love of true glory
resembles what is properly called vanity, some reference to
the sentiments of others. The man of the greatest
magnanimity, who desires virtue for its own sake, and is
most indifferent about what actually are the opinions of
mankind with regard to him, is still, however, delighted
with the thoughts of what they should be, with the
consciousness that though he may neither be honoured nor
applauded, he is still the proper object of honour and
applause, and that if mankind were cool and candid and
consistent with themselves, and properly informed of the
motives and circumstances of his conduct, they would not
fail to honour and applaud him. Though he despises the
opinions which are actually entertained of him, he has the
highest value for those which ought to be entertained of
him. That he might think himself worthy of those honourable
sentiments, and, whatever was the idea which other men might
conceive of his character, that when he should put himself
in their situation, and consider, not what was, but what
ought to be their opinion, he should always have the highest
idea of it himself, was the great and exalted motive of his
conduct. As even in the love of virtue, therefore, there is
still some reference, though not to what is, yet to what in
reason and propriety ought to be, the opinion of others,
there is even in this respect some affinity between it, and
the love of true glory. There is, however, at the same time,
a very great difference between them. The man who acts
solely from a regard to what is right and fit to be done,
from a regard to what is the proper object of esteem and
approbation, though these sentiments should never be
bestowed upon him, acts from the most sublime and godlike
motive which human nature is even capable of conceiving. The
man, on the other hand, who while he desires to merit
approbation is at the same time anxious to obtain it, though
he too is laudable in the main, yet his motives have a
greater mixture of human infirmity. He is in danger of being
mortified by the ignorance and injustice of mankind, and his
happiness is exposed to the envy of his rivals and the folly
of the public. The happiness of the other, on the contrary,
is altogether secure and independent of fortune, and of the
caprice of those he lives with. The contempt and hatred
which may be thrown upon him by the ignorance of mankind, he
considers as not belonging to him, and is not at all
mortified by it. Mankind despise and hate him from a false
notion of his character and conduct. If they knew him
better, they would esteem and love him. It is not him whom,
properly speaking, they hate and despise, but another person
whom they mistake him to be. Our friend, whom we should meet
at a masquerade in the garb of our enemy, would be more
diverted than mortified, if under that disguise we should
vent our indignation against him. Such are the sentiments of
a man of real magnanimity, when exposed to unjust censure.
It seldom happens, however, that human nature arrives at
this degree of firmness. Though none but the weakest and
most worthless of mankind are much delighted with false
glory, yet, by a strange inconsistency, false ignominy is
often capable of mortifying those who appear the most
resolute and determined.
11Dr.
Mandeville is not satisfied with representing the frivolous
motive of vanity, as the source of all those actions which
are commonly accounted virtuous. He endeavours to point out
the imperfection of human virtue in many other respects. In
every case, he pretends, it falls short of that complete
self–denial which it pretends to, and, instead of a
conquest, is commonly no more than a concealed indulgence of
our passions. Wherever our reserve with regard to pleasure
falls short of the most ascetic abstinence, he treats it as
gross luxury and sensuality. Every thing, according to him,
is luxury which exceeds what is absolutely necessary for the
support of human nature, so that there is vice even in the
use of a clean shirt, or of a convenient habitation. The
indulgence of the inclination to sex, in the most lawful
union, he considers as the same sensuality with the most
hurtful gratification of that passion, and derides that
temperance and that chastity which can be practised at so
cheap a rate. The ingenious sophistry of his reasoning, is
here, as upon many other occasions, covered by the ambiguity
of language. There are some of our passions which have no
other names except those which mark the disagreeable and
offensive degree. The spectator is more apt to take notice
of them in this degree than in any other. When they shock
his own sentiments, when they give him some sort of
antipathy and uneasiness, he is necessarily obliged to
attend to them, and is from thence naturally led to give
them a name. When they fall in with the natural state of his
own mind, he is very apt to overlook them altogether, and
either gives them no name at all, or, if he give them any,
it is one which marks rather the subjection and restraint of
the passion, than the degree which it still is allowed to
subsist in, after it is so subjected and restrained. Thus
the common names
of the love of pleasure, and of the love of sex, denote a
vicious and offensive degree of those passions. The words
temperance and chastity, on the other hand, seem to mark
rather the restraint and subjection which they are kept
under, than the degree which they are still allowed to
subsist in. When he can show, therefore, that they still
subsist in some degree, he imagines, he has entirely
demolished the reality of the virtues of temperance and
chastity, and shown them to be mere impositions upon the
inattention and simplicity of mankind. Those virtues,
however, do not require an entire insensibility to the
objects of the passions which they mean to govern. They only
aim at restraining the violence of those passions so far as
not to hurt the individual, and neither disturb nor offend
the society.
12It
is the great fallacy of Dr. Mandeville’s book
to represent every passion as wholly vicious, which is so in
any degree and in any direction. It is thus that he treats
every thing as vanity which has any reference, either to
what are, or to what ought to be the sentiments of others:
and it is by means of this sophistry, that he establishes
his favourite conclusion, that private vices are public
benefits.
If the love of magnificence, a taste for the elegant arts
and improvements of human life, for whatever is agreeable in
dress, furniture, or equipage, for architecture, statuary,
painting, and music, is to be regarded as luxury,
sensuality, and ostentation, even in those whose situation
allows, without any inconveniency, the indulgence of those
passions, it is certain that luxury, sensuality, and
ostentation are public benefits: since without the qualities
upon which he thinks proper to bestow such opprobrious
names, the arts of refinement could never find
encouragement, and must languish for want of employment.
Some popular ascetic doctrines which had been current before
his time, and which placed virtue in the entire extirpation
and annihilation of all our passions, were the real
foundation of this licentious system. It was easy for Dr.
Mandeville to prove, first, that this entire conquest never
actually took place among men; and secondly, that, if it was
to take place universally, it would be pernicious to
society, by putting an end to all industry and commerce, and
in a manner to the whole business of human life. By the
first of these propositions he seemed to prove that there
was no real virtue, and that what pretended to be such, was
a mere cheat and imposition upon mankind; and by the second,
that private vices were public benefits, since without them
no society could prosper or flourish.
13Such
is the system of Dr. Mandeville, which once made so much
noise in the world, and which, though, perhaps, it never
gave occasion to more vice than what would have been without
it, at least taught that vice, which arose from other
causes, to appear with more effrontery, and to avow the
corruption of its motives with a profligate audaciousness
which had never been heard of before.
14But
how destructive soever this system may appear, it could
never have imposed upon so great a number of persons, nor
have occasioned so general an alarm among those who are the
friends of better principles, had it not in some respects
bordered upon the truth. A system of natural philosophy may
appear very plausible, and be for a long time very generally
received in the world, and yet have no foundation in nature,
nor any sort of resemblance to the truth. The vortices of
Des Cartes were regarded by a very ingenious nation, for
near a century together, as a most satisfactory account of
the revolutions of the heavenly bodies. Yet it has been
demonstrated, to the conviction of all mankind, that these
pretended causes of those wonderful effects, not only do not
actually exist, but are utterly impossible, and if they did
exist, could produce no such effects as are ascribed to
them.
But it is otherwise with systems of moral philosophy, and an
author who pretends to account for the origin of our moral
sentiments, cannot deceive us so grossly, nor depart so very
far from all resemblance to the truth. When a traveller
gives an account of some distant country, he may impose upon
our credulity the most groundless and absurd fictions as the
most certain matters of fact. But when a person pretends to
inform us of what passes in our neighbourhood, and of the
affairs of the very parish which we live in, though here
too, if we are so careless as not to examine things with our
own eves, he may deceive us in many respects, yet the
greatest falsehoods which he imposes upon us must bear some
resemblance to the truth, and must even have a considerable
mixture of truth in them. An author who treats of natural
philosophy, and pretends to assign the causes of the great
phaenomena of the universe, pretends to give an account of
the affairs of a very distant country, concerning which he
may tell us what he pleases, and as long as his narration
keeps within the bounds of seeming possibility, he need not
despair of gaining our belief. But when he proposes to
explain the origin of our desires and affections, of our
sentiments of approbation and disapprobation, he pretends to
give an account, not only of the affairs of the very parish
that we live in, but of our own domestic concerns. Though
here too, like indolent masters who put their trust in a
steward who deceives them, we are very liable to be imposed
upon, yet we are incapable of passing any account which does
not preserve some little regard to the truth. Some of the
articles, at least, must be just, and even those which are
most overcharged must have had some foundation, otherwise
the fraud would be detected even by that careless inspection
which we are disposed to give. The author who should assign,
as the cause of any natural sentiment, some principle which
neither had any connexion with it, nor resembled any other
principle which had some such connexion, would appear absurd
and ridiculous to the most injudicious and unexperienced
reader.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION III
Of the different Systems which
have been formed concerning the Principle of Approbation
[Back to Table of Contents]
introduction
1After
the inquiry concerning the nature of virtue, the next
question of importance in Moral Philosophy, is concerning
the principle of approbation, concerning the power or
faculty of the mind which renders certain characters
agreeable or disagreeable to us, makes us prefer one tenour
of conduct to another, denominate the one right and the
other wrong, and consider the one as the object of
approbation, honour, and reward; the other as that of blame,
censure, and punishment.
2Three
different accounts have been given of this principle of
approbation. According to some, we approve and disapprove
both of our own actions and of those of others, from
self–love only, or from some view of their tendency to our
own happiness or disadvantage: according to others, reason,
the same faculty by which we distinguish between truth and
falsehood, enables us to distinguish between what is fit and
unfit both in actions and affections: according to others
this distinction is altogether the effect of immediate
sentiment and feeling, and arises from the satisfaction or
disgust with which the view of certain actions or affections
inspires us. Self–love, reason, and sentiment, therefore,
are the three different sources which have been assigned for
the principle of approbation.
3Before
I proceed to give an account of those different systems, I
must observe, that the determination of this second
question, though of the greatest importance in speculation,
is of none in practice. The question concerning the nature
of virtue necessarily has some influence upon our notions of
right and wrong in many particular cases. That concerning
the principle of approbation can possibly have no such
effect. To examine from what contrivance or mechanism
within, those different notions or sentiments arise, is a
mere matter of philosophical curiosity.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. i
Of those Systems
which deduce the Principle of Approbation from Self–love
1Those
who account for the principle of approbation from self–love,
do not all account for it in the same manner, and there is a
good deal of confusion and inaccuracy in all their different
systems. According to Mr. Hobbes, and many of his followers
, man is driven to take refuge in society, not by any
natural love which he bears to his own kind, but because
without the assistance of others he is incapable of
subsisting with ease or safety. Society, upon this account,
becomes necessary to him, and whatever tends to its support
and welfare, he considers as having a remote tendency to his
own interest; and, on the contrary, whatever is likely to
disturb or destroy it, he regards as in some measure hurtful
or pernicious to himself. Virtue is the great support, and
vice the great disturber of human society. The former,
therefore, is agreeable, and the latter offensive to every
man; as from the one he foresees the prosperity, and from
the other the ruin and disorder of what is so necessary for
the comfort and security of his existence.
2That
the tendency of virtue to promote, and of vice to disturb
the order of society, when we consider it coolly and
philosophically, reflects a very great beauty upon the one,
and a very great deformity upon the other, cannot, as I have
observed upon a former occasion,
be called in question. Human society, when we contemplate it
in a certain abstract and philosophical light, appears like
a great, an immense machine, whose regular and harmonious
movements produce a thousand agreeable effects. As in any
other beautiful and noble machine that was the production of
human art, whatever tended to render its movements more
smooth and easy, would derive a beauty from this effect,
and, on the contrary, whatever tended to obstruct them would
displease upon that account: so virtue, which is, as it
were, the fine polish to the wheels of society, necessarily
pleases; while vice, like the vile rust, which makes them
jar and grate upon one another, is as necessarily offensive.
This account, therefore, of the origin of approbation and
disapprobation, so far as it derives them from a regard to
the order of society, runs into that principle which gives
beauty to utility, and which I have explained upon a former
occasion;
and it is from thence that this system derives all that
appearance of probability which it possesses. When those
authors describe the innumerable advantages of a cultivated
and social, above a savage and solitary life; when they
expatiate upon the necessity of virtue and good order for
the maintenance of the one, and demonstrate how infallibly
the prevalence of vice and disobedience to the laws tend to
bring back the
the reader is charmed
with the novelty and grandeur of those views which they open
to him: he sees plainly a new beauty in virtue, and a new
deformity in vice, which he had never taken notice of
before, and is commonly so delighted with the discovery,
that he seldom takes time to reflect, that this political
having never occurred to
him in his life before, cannot possibly be the ground of
that approbation and disapprobation with which he has always
been accustomed to consider those different qualities.
3When
those authors, on the other hand, deduce from self–love the
interest which we take in the welfare of society, and the
esteem which upon that account we bestow upon virtue, they
do not mean, that when we in this age applaud the virtue of
Cato, and detest the villany of Catiline, our sentiments are
influenced by the notion of any benefit we receive from the
one, or of any detriment we suffer from the other. It was
not because the prosperity or subversion of society, in
those remote ages and nations, was apprehended to have any
influence upon our happiness or misery in the present times;
that according to those philosophers, we esteemed the
virtuous, and blamed the disorderly characters. They never
imagined that our sentiments were influenced by any benefit
or damage which we supposed actually to redound to us, from
either; but by that which might have redounded to us, had we
lived in those distant ages and countries; or by that which
might still redound to us, if in our own times we should
meet with characters of the same kind. The idea, in short,
which those authors were groping about, but which they were
never able to unfold distinctly, was that indirect sympathy
which we feel with the gratitude or resentment of those who
received the benefit or suffered the damage resulting from
such opposite characters: and it was this which they were
indistinctly pointing at, when they said, that it was not
the thought of what we had gained or suffered which prompted
our applause or indignation, but the conception or
imagination of what we might gain or suffer if we were to
act in society with such associates.
4Sympathy,
however, cannot, in any sense, be regarded as a selfish
principle. When I sympathize with your sorrow or your
indignation, it may be pretended, indeed, that my emotion is
founded in self–love, because it arises from bringing your
case home to myself, from putting myself in your situation,
and thence conceiving what I should feel in the like
circumstances. But though sympathy is very properly said to
arise from an imaginary change of situations with the person
principally concerned, yet this imaginary change is not
supposed to happen to me in my own person and character, but
in that of the person with whom I sympathize. When I condole
with you for the loss of your only son, in order to enter
into your grief I do not consider what I, a person of such a
character and profession, should suffer, if I had a son, and
if that son was unfortunately to die: but I consider what I
should suffer if I was really you, and I not only change
circumstances with you, but I change persons and characters.
My grief, therefore, is entirely upon your account, and not
in the least upon my own. It is not, therefore, in the least
selfish. How can that be regarded as a selfish passion,
which does not arise even from the imagination of any thing
that has befallen, or that relates to myself, in my own
proper person and character, but which is entirely occupied
about what relates to you? A man may sympathize with a woman
in child–bed; though it is impossible that he should
conceive himself as suffering her pains in his own proper
person and character. That whole account of human nature,
however, which deduces all sentiments and affections from
self–love, which has made so much noise in the world, but
which, so far as I know, has never yet been fully and
distinctly explained, seems to me to have arisen from some
confused misapprehension of the system of sympathy.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. ii
Of those Systems
which make Reason the Principle of Approbation
1It
is well known to have been the doctrine of Mr. Hobbes, that
a state of nature is a state of war; and that antecedent to
the institution of civil government there could be no safe
or peaceable society among men. To preserve society,
therefore, according to him, was to support civil
government, and to destroy civil government was the same
thing as to put an end to society. But the existence of
civil government depends upon the obedience that is paid to
the supreme magistrate. The moment he loses his authority,
all government is at an end. As self–preservation,
therefore, teaches men to applaud whatever tends to promote
the welfare of society, and to blame whatever is likely to
hurt it; so the same principle, if they would think and
speak consistently, ought to teach them to applaud upon all
occasions obedience to the civil magistrate, and to blame
all disobedience and rebellion. The very ideas of laudable
and blamable, ought to be the same with those of obedience
and disobedience. The laws of the civil magistrate,
therefore, ought to be regarded as the sole ultimate
standards of what was just and unjust, of what was right and
wrong.
2It
was the avowed intention of Mr. Hobbes, by propagating these
notions, to subject the consciences of men immediately to
the civil, and not to the ecclesiastical powers, whose
turbulence and ambition, he had been taught, by the example
of his own times, to regard as the principal source of the
disorders of society. His doctrine, upon this account, was
peculiarly offensive to theologians, who accordingly did not
fail to vent their indignation against him with great
asperity and bitterness. It was likewise offensive to all
sound moralists, as it supposed that there was no natural
distinction between right and wrong, that these were mutable
and changeable, and depended upon the mere arbitrary will of
the civil magistrate. This account of things, therefore, was
attacked from all quarters, and by all sorts of weapons, by
sober reason as well as by furious declamation.
3In
order to confute so odious a doctrine, it was necessary to
prove, that antecedent to all law or positive institution,
the mind was naturally endowed with a faculty, by which it
distinguished in certain actions and affections, the
qualities of right, laudable, and virtuous, and in others
those of wrong, blamable, and vicious.
4Law,
it was justly observed by Dr. Cudworth
, could not be the original source of those distinctions;
since upon the supposition of such a law, it must either be
right to obey it, and wrong to disobey it, or indifferent
whether we obeyed it, or disobeyed it. That law which it was
indifferent whether we obeyed or disobeyed, could not, it
was evident, be the source of those distinctions; neither
could that which it was right to obey and wrong to disobey,
since even this still supposed the antecedent notions or
ideas of right and wrong, and that obedience to the law was
conformable to the idea of right, and disobedience to that
of wrong.
5Since
the mind, therefore, had a notion of those distinctions
antecedent to all law, it seemed necessarily to follow, that
it derived this notion from reason, which pointed out the
difference between right and wrong, in the same manner in
which it did that between truth and falsehood: and this
conclusion, which, though true in some respects, is rather
hasty in others, was more easily received at a time when the
abstract science of human nature was but in its infancy, and
before the distinct offices and powers of the different
faculties of the human mind had been carefully examined and
distinguished from one another. When this controversy with
Mr. Hobbes was carried on with the greatest warmth and
keenness, no other faculty had been thought of from which
any such ideas could possibly be supposed to arise. It
became at this time, therefore, the popular doctrine, that
the essence of virtue and vice did not consist in the
conformity or disagreement of human actions with the law of
a superior, but in their conformity or disagreement with
reason, which was thus considered as the original source and
principle of approbation and disapprobation.
6That
virtue consists in conformity to reason, is true in some
respects, and this faculty may very justly be considered as,
in some sense, the source and principle of approbation and
disapprobation, and of all solid judgments concerning right
and wrong. It is by reason that we discover those general
rules of justice by which we ought to regulate our actions:
and it is by the same faculty that we form those more vague
and indeterminate ideas of what is prudent, of what is
decent, of what is generous or noble, which we carry
constantly about with us, and according to which we
endeavour, as well as we can, to model the tenor of our
conduct. The general maxims of morality are formed, like all
other general maxims, from experience and induction. We
observe in a great variety of particular cases what pleases
or displeases our moral faculties, what these approve or
disapprove of, and, by induction from this experience, we
establish those general rules. But induction is always
regarded as one of the operations of reason. From reason,
therefore, we are very properly said to derive all those
general maxims and ideas. It is by these, however, that we
regulate the greater part of our moral judgments, which
would be extremely uncertain and precarious if they depended
altogether upon what is liable to so many variations as
immediate sentiment and feeling, which the different states
of health and humour are capable of altering so essentially.
As our most solid judgments, therefore, with regard to right
and wrong, are regulated by maxims and ideas derived from an
induction of reason, virtue may very properly be said to
consist in a conformity to reason, and so far this faculty
may be considered as the source and principle of approbation
and disapprobation.
7But
though reason is undoubtedly the source of the general rules
of morality, and of all the moral judgments which we form by
means of them; it is altogether absurd and unintelligible to
suppose that the first perceptions of right and wrong can be
derived from reason, even in those particular cases upon the
experience of which the general rules are formed. These
first perceptions, as well as all other experiments upon
which any general rules are founded, cannot be the object of
reason, but of immediate sense and feeling. It is by finding
in a vast variety of instances that one tenor of conduct
constantly pleases in a certain manner,
and that another as constantly displeases the mind, that we
form the general rules of morality. But reason cannot render
any particular object either agreeable or disagreeable to
the mind for its own sake. Reason may show that this object
is the means of obtaining some other which is naturally
either pleasing or displeasing, and in this manner may
render it either agreeable or disagreeable for the sake of
something else. But nothing can be agreeable or disagreeable
for its own sake, which is not rendered such by immediate
sense and feeling. If virtue, therefore, in every particular
instance, necessarily pleases for its own sake, and if vice
as certainly displeases the mind, it cannot be reason, but
immediate sense and feeling, which, in this manner,
reconciles us to the one, and alienates us from the other.
8Pleasure
and pain are the great objects of desire and aversion: but
these are distinguished not by reason, but by immediate
sense and feeling. If virtue, therefore, be desirable for
its own sake, and if vice be, in the same manner, the object
of aversion, it cannot be reason which originally
distinguishes those different qualities, but immediate sense
and feeling.
9As
reason, however, in a certain sense, may justly be
considered as the principle of approbation and
disapprobation, these sentiments were, through inattention,
long regarded as originally flowing from the operations of
this faculty. Dr. Hutcheson had the merit of being the first
who distinguished with any degree of precision in what
respect all moral distinctions may be said to arise from
reason, and in what respect they are founded upon immediate
sense and feeling. In his illustrations upon the moral sense
he has explained this so fully, and, in my opinion, so
that, if any
controversy is still kept up about this subject, I can
impute it to nothing, but either to inattention to what that
gentleman has written, or to a superstitious attachment to
certain forms of expression, a weakness not very uncommon
among the learned, especially in subjects so deeply
interesting as the present, in which a man of virtue is
often loath to abandon, even the propriety of a single
phrase which he has been accustomed to.
[Back to Table of Contents]
chap. iii
Of those Systems
which make Sentiment the Principle of Approbation
1Those
systems which make sentiment the principle of approbation
may be divided into two different classes.
2I.
According to some the principle of approbation is
founded upon a sentiment of a peculiar nature, upon a
particular power of perception exerted by the mind at the
view of certain actions or affections; some of which
affecting this faculty in an agreeable and others in a
disagreeable manner, the former are stamped with the
characters of right, laudable, and virtuous; the latter with
those of wrong, blamable, and vicious. This sentiment being
of a peculiar nature distinct from every other, and the
effect of a particular power of perception, they give it a
particular name, and call it a moral sense.
3II.
According to others, in order to account for the
principle of approbation, there is no occasion for supposing
any new power of perception which had never been heard of
before: Nature, they imagine, acts here, as in all other
cases, with the strictest oeconomy, and produces a multitude
of effects from one and the same cause; and sympathy, a
power which has always been taken notice of, and with which
the mind is manifestly endowed, is, they think, sufficient
to account for all the effects ascribed to this peculiar
faculty.
4I.
Dr. Hutcheson
had been at great pains to prove that the principle of
approbation was not founded on self–love. He had
demonstrated too that it could not arise from any operation
of reason. Nothing remained, he thought, but to suppose it a
faculty of a peculiar kind, with which Nature had endowed
the human mind, in order to produce this one particular and
important effect. When self–love and reason were both
excluded, it did not occur to him that there was any other
known faculty of the mind which could in any respect answer
this purpose.
5This
new power of perception he called a moral sense, and
supposed it to be somewhat analogous to the external senses.
As the bodies around us, by affecting these in a certain
manner, appear to possess the different qualities of sound,
taste, odour, colour; so the various affections of the human
mind, by touching this particular faculty in a certain
manner, appear to possess the different qualities of amiable
and odious, of virtuous and vicious, of right and wrong.
6The
various senses or powers of perception
, from which the human mind derives all its simple ideas,
were, according to this system, of two different kinds, of
which the one were called the direct or antecedent, the
other, the reflex or consequent senses. The direct senses
were those faculties from which the mind derived the
perception of such species of things as did not presuppose
the antecedent perception of any other. Thus sounds and
colours were objects of the direct senses. To hear a sound
or to see a colour does not presuppose the antecedent
perception of any other quality or object. The reflex or
consequent senses, on the other hand, were those faculties
from which the mind derived the perception of such species
of things as presupposed the antecedent perception of some
other. Thus harmony and beauty were objects of the reflex
senses. In order to perceive the harmony of a sound, or the
beauty of a colour, we must first perceive the sound or the
colour. The moral sense was considered as a faculty of this
kind.
That faculty, which Mr. Locke calls reflection, and from
which he derived the simple ideas of the different passions
and emotions of the human mind, was, according to Dr.
Hutcheson, a direct internal sense. That faculty again by
which we perceived the beauty or deformity, the virtue or
vice of those different passions and emotions, was a reflex,
internal sense.
7Dr.
Hutcheson endeavoured still further to support this
doctrine, by shewing that it was agreeable to the analogy of
nature, and that the mind was endowed with a variety of
other reflex senses exactly similar to the moral sense; such
as a sense of beauty and deformity in external objects; a
public sense, by which we sympathize with the happiness or
misery of our fellow–creatures; a sense of shame and honour,
and a sense of ridicule.
8But
notwithstanding all the pains which this ingenious
philosopher has taken to prove that the principle of
approbation is founded in a peculiar power of perception,
somewhat analogous to the external senses, there are some
consequences, which he acknowledges to follow from this
doctrine, that will, perhaps, be regarded by many as a
sufficient confutation of it. The qualities he allows
, which belong to the objects of any sense, cannot, without
the greatest absurdity, be ascribed to the sense itself. Who
ever thought of calling the sense of seeing black or white,
the sense of hearing loud or low, or the sense of tasting
sweet or bitter? And, according to him, it is equally absurd
to call our moral faculties virtuous or vicious, morally
good or evil. These qualities belong to the objects of those
faculties, not to the faculties themselves. If any man,
therefore, was so absurdly constituted as to approve of
cruelty and injustice as the highest virtues, and to
disapprove of equity and humanity as the most pitiful vices,
such a constitution of mind might indeed be regarded as
inconvenient both to the individual and to the society, and
likewise as strange, surprising, and unnatural in itself;
but it could not, without the greatest absurdity, be
denominated vicious or morally evil.
9Yet
surely if we saw any man shouting with admiration and
applause at a barbarous and unmerited execution, which some
insolent tyrant had ordered, we should not think we were
guilty of any great absurdity in denominating this behaviour
vicious and morally evil in the highest degree, though it
expressed nothing but depraved moral faculties, or an absurd
approbation of this horrid action, as of what was noble,
magnanimous, and great. Our heart, I imagine, at the sight
of such a spectator, would forget for a while its sympathy
with the sufferer, and feel nothing but horror and
detestation, at the thought of so execrable a wretch. We
should abominate him even more than the tyrant who might be
goaded on by the strong passions of jealousy, fear, and
resentment, and upon that account be more excusable. But the
sentiments of the spectator would appear altogether without
cause or motive, and therefore most perfectly and completely
detestable. There is no perversion of sentiment or affection
which our heart would be more averse to enter into, or which
it would reject with greater hatred and indignation than one
of this kind; and so far from regarding such a constitution
of mind as being merely something strange or inconvenient,
and not in any respect vicious or morally evil, we should
rather consider it as the very last and most dreadful stage
of moral depravity.
10Correct
moral sentiments, on the contrary, naturally appear in some
degree laudable and morally good. The man, whose censure and
applause are upon all occasions suited with the greatest
accuracy to the value or unworthiness of the object, seems
to deserve a degree even of moral approbation. We admire the
delicate precision of his moral sentiments: they lead our
own judgments, and, upon account of their uncommon and
surprising justness, they even excite our wonder and
applause. We cannot indeed be always sure that the conduct
of such a person would be in any respect correspondent to
the precision and accuracy of his judgments concerning the
conduct of others. Virtue requires habit and resolution of
mind, as well as delicacy of sentiment; and unfortunately
the former qualities are sometimes wanting, where the latter
is in the greatest perfection. This disposition of mind,
however, though it may sometimes be attended with
imperfections, is incompatible with any thing that is
grossly criminal, and is the happiest foundation upon which
the superstructure of perfect virtue can be built. There are
many men who mean very well, and seriously purpose to do
what they think their duty, who notwithstanding are
disagreeable on account of the coarseness of their moral
sentiments.
11It
may be said, perhaps, that though the principle of
approbation is not founded upon any power of perception that
is in any respect analogous to the external senses, it may
still be founded upon a peculiar sentiment which answers
this one particular purpose and no other. Approbation and
disapprobation, it may be pretended, are certain feelings or
emotions which arise in the mind upon the view of different
characters and actions; and as resentment might be called a
sense of injuries, or gratitude a sense of benefits, so
these may very properly receive the name of a sense of right
and wrong, or of a moral sense.
12But
this account of things, though it may not be liable to the
same objections with the foregoing, is exposed to others
which are equally unanswerable.
13First
of all, whatever variations any particular emotion may
undergo, it still preserves the general features which
distinguish it to be an emotion of such a kind, and these
general features are always more striking and remarkable
than any variation which it may undergo in particular cases.
Thus anger is an emotion of a particular kind: and
accordingly its general features are always more
distinguishable than all the variations it undergoes in
particular cases. Anger against a man is, no doubt, somewhat
different from anger against a woman, and that again from
anger against a child. In each of those three cases, the
general passion of anger receives a different modification
from the particular character of its object, as may easily
be observed by the attentive. But still the general features
of the passion predominate in all these cases. To
distinguish these, requires no nice observation: a very
delicate attention, on the contrary, is necessary to
discover their variations: every body takes notice of the
former; scarce any body observes the latter. If approbation
and disapprobation, therefore, were, like gratitude and
resentment, emotions of a particular kind, distinct from
every other, we should expect that in all the variations
which either of them might undergo, it would still retain
the general features which mark it to be an emotion of such
a particular kind, clear, plain, and easily distinguishable.
But in fact it happens quite otherwise. If we attend to what
we really feel when upon different occasions we either
approve or disapprove, we shall find that our emotion in one
case is often totally different from that in another, and
that no common features can possibly be discovered between
them. Thus the approbation with which we view a tender,
delicate, and humane sentiment, is quite different from that
with which we are struck by one that appears great, daring,
and magnanimous. Our approbation of both may, upon different
occasions, be perfect and entire; but we are softened by the
one, and we are elevated by the other, and there is no sort
of resemblance between the emotions which they excite in us.
But according to that system which I have been endeavouring
to establish, this must necessarily be the case. As the
emotions of the person whom we approve of, are, in those two
cases, quite opposite to one another, and as our approbation
arises from sympathy with those opposite emotions, what we
feel upon the one occasion, can have no sort of resemblance
to what we feel upon the other. But this could not happen if
approbation consisted in a peculiar emotion which had
nothing in common with the sentiments we approved of, but
which arose at the view of those sentiments, like any other
passion at the view of its proper object. The same thing
holds true with regard to disapprobation. Our horror for
cruelty has no sort of resemblance to our contempt for
mean–spiritedness. It is quite a different species of
discord which we feel at the view of those two different
vices, between our own minds and those of the person whose
sentiments and behaviour we consider.
14Secondly,
I have already observed,
that not only the different passions or affections of the
human mind which are approved or disapproved of, appear
morally good or evil, but that proper and improper
approbation appear, to our natural sentiments, to be stamped
with the same characters. I would ask, therefore, how it is,
that, according to this system, we approve or disapprove of
proper or improper approbation? To this question there is, I
imagine, but one reasonable answer, which can possibly be
given. It must be said, that when the approbation with which
our neighbour regards the conduct of a third person
coincides with our own, we approve of his approbation, and
consider it as, in some measure, morally good; and that, on
the contrary, when it does not coincide with our own
sentiments, we disapprove of it, and consider it as, in some
measure, morally evil. It must be allowed, therefore, that,
at least in this one case, the coincidence or opposition of
sentiments, between the observer and the person observed,
constitutes moral approbation or disapprobation. And if it
does so in this one case, I would ask, why not in every
other?
what purpose imagine a new
power of perception in order to account for those
sentiments?
15Against
every account of the principle of approbation, which makes
it depend upon a peculiar sentiment, distinct from every
other, I would object; that it is strange that this
sentiment, which Providence undoubtedly intended to be the
governing principle of human nature, should hitherto have
been so little taken notice of, as not to have got a name in
any language. The word moral sense is of very late
formation, and cannot yet be considered as making part of
the English tongue. The word approbation has but within
these few years been appropriated to denote peculiarly any
thing of this kind. In propriety of language we approve of
whatever is entirely to our satisfaction, of the form of a
building, of the contrivance of a machine, of the flavour of
a dish of meat. The word conscience does not immediately
denote any moral faculty by which we approve or disapprove.
Conscience supposes, indeed, the existence of some such
faculty, and properly signifies our consciousness of having
acted agreeably or contrary to its directions. When love,
hatred, joy, sorrow, gratitude, resentment, with so many
other passions which are all supposed to be the subjects of
this principle, have made themselves considerable enough to
get titles to know them by, is it not surprising that the
sovereign of them all should hitherto have been so little
heeded, that, a few philosophers excepted, nobody has yet
thought it worth while to bestow a name upon
16When
we approve of any character or action, the sentiments which
we feel, are, according to the foregoing system, derived
from four sources, which are in some respects different from
one another. First, we sympathize with the motives of the
agent; secondly, we enter into the gratitude of those who
receive the benefit of his actions; thirdly, we observe that
his conduct has been agreeable to the general rules by which
those two sympathies generally act; and, last of all, when
we consider such actions as making a part of a system of
behaviour which tends to promote the happiness either of the
individual or of the society, they appear to derive a beauty
from this utility, not unlike that which we ascribe to any
well–contrived machine. After deducting, in any one
particular case, all that must be acknowledged to proceed
from some one or other of these four principles, I should be
glad to know what remains, and I shall freely allow this
overplus to be ascribed to a moral sense, or to any other
peculiar faculty, provided any body will ascertain precisely
what this overplus is. It might be expected, perhaps, that
if there was any such peculiar principle, such as this moral
sense is supposed to be, we should feel it, in some
particular cases, separated and detached from every other,
as we often feel joy, sorrow, hope, and fear, pure and
unmixed with any other emotion. This however, I imagine,
cannot even be pretended. I have never heard any instance
alleged in which this principle could be said to exert
itself alone and unmixed with sympathy or antipathy, with
gratitude or resentment, with the perception of the
agreement or disagreement of any action to an established
rule, or last of all with that general taste for beauty and
order which is excited by inanimated as well as by animated
objects.
17II.
There is another system which attempts to account for
the origin of our moral sentiments from sympathy, distinct
from that which I have been endeavouring to establish. It is
that which places virtue in utility, and accounts for the
pleasure with which the spectator surveys the utility of any
quality from sympathy with the happiness of those who are
affected by it. This sympathy is different both from that by
which we enter into the motives of the agent, and from that
by which we go along with the gratitude of the persons who
are benefited by his actions. It is the same principle with
that by which we approve of a well–contrived machine. But no
machine can be the object of either of those two last
mentioned sympathies. I have already, in the fourth part of
this discourse,
given some account of this system.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SECTION IV
Of the Manner in which different
Authors have treated of the practical Rules of Morality
1It
was observed in the third part of this discourse,
that the rules of justice are the only rules of morality
which are precise and accurate; that those of all the other
virtues are loose, vague, and indeterminate; that the first
may be compared to the rules of grammar; the others to those
which critics lay down for the attainment of what is sublime
and elegant in composition, and which present us rather with
a general idea of the perfection we ought to aim at, than
afford us any certain and infallible directions for
acquiring it.
2As
the different rules of morality admit such different degrees
of accuracy, those authors who have endeavoured to collect
and digest them into systems have done it in two different
manners; and one set has followed through the whole that
loose method to which they were naturally directed by the
consideration of one species of virtues; while another has
as universally endeavoured to introduce into their precepts
that sort of accuracy of which only some of them are
susceptible. The first have wrote like critics, the second
like grammarians.
3I.
The first, among whom we may count all the ancient
moralists, have contented themselves with describing in a
general manner the different vices and virtues, and with
pointing out the deformity and misery of the one disposition
as well as the propriety and happiness of the other, but
have not affected to lay down many precise rules that are to
hold good unexceptionably in all particular cases. They have
only endeavoured to ascertain, as far as language is capable
of ascertaining, first, wherein consists the sentiment of
the heart, upon which each particular virtue is founded,
what sort of internal feeling or emotion it is which
constitutes the essence of friendship, of humanity, of
generosity, of justice, of magnanimity, and of all the other
virtues, as well as of the vices which are opposed to them:
and, secondly, what is the general way of acting, the
ordinary tone and tenor of conduct to which each of those
sentiments would direct us, or how it is that a friendly, a
generous, a brave, a just, and a humane man, would, upon
ordinary occasions, chuse to act.
4To
characterize the sentiment of the heart, upon which each
particular virtue is founded, though it requires both a
delicate and an accurate pencil, is a task, however, which
may be executed with some degree of exactness. It is
impossible, indeed, to express all the variations which each
sentiment either does or ought to undergo, according to
every possible variation of circumstances. They are endless,
and language wants names to mark them by. The sentiment of
friendship, for example, which we feel for an old man is
different from that which we feel for a young: that which we
entertain for an austere man different from that which we
feel for one of softer and gentler manners: and that again
from what we feel for one of gay vivacity and spirit. The
friendship which we conceive for a man is different from
that with which a woman affects us, even where there is no
mixture of any grosser passion. What author could enumerate
and ascertain these and all the other infinite varieties
which this sentiment is capable of undergoing? But still the
general sentiment of friendship and familiar attachment
which is common to them all, may be ascertained with a
sufficient degree of accuracy. The picture which is drawn of
it, though it will always be in many respects incomplete,
may, however, have such a resemblance as to make us know the
original when we meet with it, and even distinguish it from
other sentiments to which it has a considerable resemblance,
such as good–will, respect, esteem, admiration.
5To
describe, in a general manner, what is the ordinary way of
acting to which each virtue would prompt us, is still more
easy. It is, indeed, scarce possible to describe the
internal sentiment or emotion upon which it is founded,
without doing something of this kind. It is impossible by
language to express, if I may say so, the invisible features
of all the different modifications of passion as they show
themselves within. There is no other way of marking and
distinguishing them from one another, but by describing the
effects which they produce without, the alterations which
they occasion in the countenance, in the air and external
behaviour, the resolutions they suggest, the actions they
prompt to. It is thus that Cicero, in the first book of his
Offices, endeavours to direct us to the practice of the four
cardinal virtues, and that Aristotle in the practical parts
of his Ethics, points out to us the different habits by
which he would have us regulate our behaviour, such as
liberality, magnificence, magnanimity, and even jocularity
and good–humour, qualities which that indulgent philosopher
has thought worthy of a place in the catalogue of the
virtues,
though the lightness of that approbation which we naturally
bestow upon them, should not seem to entitle them to so
venerable a name.
6Such
works present us with agreeable and lively pictures of
manners. By the vivacity of their descriptions they inflame
our natural love of virtue, and increase our abhorrence of
vice: by the justness as well as delicacy of their
observations they may often help both to correct and to
ascertain our natural sentiments with regard to the
propriety of conduct, and suggesting many nice and delicate
attentions, form us to a more exact justness of behaviour,
than what, without such instruction, we should have been apt
to think of. In treating of the rules of morality, in this
manner, consists the science which is properly called
Ethics, a science which, though like criticism it does not
admit of the most accurate precision, is, however, both
highly useful and agreeable. It is of all others the most
susceptible of the embellishments of eloquence, and by means
of them of bestowing, if that be possible, a new importance
upon the smallest rules of duty. Its precepts, when thus
dressed and adorned, are capable of producing upon the
flexibility of youth, the noblest and most lasting
impressions, and as they fall in with the natural
magnanimity of that generous age, they are able to inspire,
for a time at least, the most heroic resolutions, and thus
tend both to establish and confirm the best and most useful
habits of which the mind of man is susceptible. Whatever
precept and exhortation can do to animate us to the practice
of virtue, is done by this science delivered in this manner.
7II.
The second set of moralists, among whom we may count
all the casuists of the middle and latter ages of the
christian church, as well as all those who in this and in
the preceding century have treated of what is called natural
jurisprudence, do not content themselves with characterizing
in this general manner that tenor of conduct which they
would recommend to us, but endeavour to lay down exact and
precise rules for the direction of every circumstance of our
behaviour. As justice is the only virtue with regard to
which such exact rules can properly be given; it is this
virtue, that has chiefly fallen under the consideration of
those two different sets of writers. They treat of it,
however, in a very different manner.
8Those
who write upon the principles of jurisprudence, consider
only what the person to whom the obligation is due, ought to
think himself entitled to exact by force; what every
impartial spectator would approve of him for exacting, or
what a judge or arbiter, to whom he had submitted his case,
and who had undertaken to do him justice, ought to oblige
the other person to suffer or to perform. The casuists, on
the other hand, do not so much examine what it is, that
might properly be exacted by force, as what it is, that the
person who owes the obligation ought to think himself bound
to perform from the most sacred and scrupulous regard to the
general rules of justice, and from the most conscientious
dread, either of wronging his neighbour, or of violating the
integrity of his own character. It is the end of
jurisprudence to prescribe rules for the decisions of judges
and arbiters. It is the end of casuistry to prescribe rules
for the conduct of a good man. By observing all the rules of
jurisprudence, supposing them ever so perfect, we should
deserve nothing but to be free from external punishment. By
observing those of casuistry, supposing them such as they
ought to be, we should be entitled to considerable praise by
the exact and scrupulous delicacy of our behaviour.
9It
may frequently happen that a good man ought to think himself
bound, from a sacred and conscientious regard to the general
rules of justice, to perform many things which it would be
the highest injustice to extort from him, or for any judge
or arbiter to impose upon him by force. To give a trite
example; a highwayman, by the fear of death, obliges a
traveller to promise him a certain sum of money. Whether
such a promise, extorted in this manner by unjust force,
ought to be regarded as obligatory, is a question that has
been very much debated.
10If
we consider it merely as a question of jurisprudence, the
decision can admit of no doubt. It would be absurd to
suppose that the highwayman can be entitled to use force to
constrain the other to perform. To extort the promise was a
crime which deserved the highest punishment, and to extort
the performance would only be adding a new crime to the
former. He can complain of no injury who has been only
deceived by the person by whom he might justly have been
killed. To suppose that a judge ought to enforce the
obligation of such promises, or that the magistrate ought to
allow them to sustain action at law, would be the most
ridiculous of all absurdities. If we consider this question,
therefore, as a question of jurisprudence, we can be at no
loss about the decision.
11But
if we consider it as a question of casuistry, it will not be
so easily determined. Whether a good man, from a
conscientious regard to that most sacred rule of justice,
which commands the observance of all serious promises, would
not think himself bound to perform, is at least much more
doubtful. That no regard is due to the disappointment of the
wretch who brings him into this situation, that no injury is
done to the robber, and consequently that nothing can be
extorted by force, will admit of no sort of dispute. But
whether some regard is not, in this case, due to his own
dignity and honour, to the inviolable sacredness of that
part of his character which makes him reverence the law of
truth and abhor every thing that approaches to treachery and
falsehood, may, perhaps, more reasonably be made a question.
The casuists accordingly are greatly divided about it. One
party, with whom we may count Cicero among the ancients,
among the moderns, Puffendorf, Barbeyrac his commentator,
and above all the late Dr. Hutcheson, one who in most cases
was by no means a loose casuist, determine, without any
hesitation, that no sort of regard is due to any such
promise, and that to think otherwise is mere weakness and
superstition.
Another party, among whom we may reckon
some of the ancient fathers of the church, as well as
some very eminent modern casuists, have been of another
opinion, and have judged all such promises obligatory.
12If
we consider the matter according to the common sentiments of
mankind, we shall find that some regard would be thought due
even to a promise of this kind; but that it is impossible to
determine how much, by any general rule that will apply to
all cases without exception. The man who was quite frank and
easy in making promises of this kind, and who violated them
with as little ceremony, we should not chuse for our friend
and companion. A gentleman who should promise a highwayman
five pounds and not perform, would incur some blame. If the
sum promised, however, was very great, it might be more
doubtful, what was proper to be done. If it was such, for
example, that the payment of it would entirely ruin the
family of the promiser, if it was so great as to be
sufficient for promoting the most useful purposes, it would
appear in some measure criminal, at least extremely
improper, to throw it, for the sake of a punctilio, into
such worthless hands. The man who should beggar himself, or
who should throw away an hundred thousand pounds, though he
could afford that vast sum, for the sake of observing such a
parole with a thief, would appear to the common sense of
mankind, absurd and extravagant in the highest degree. Such
profusion would seem inconsistent with his duty, with what
he owed both to himself and others, and what, therefore,
regard to a promise extorted in this manner, could by no
means authorise. To fix, however, by any precise rule, what
degree of regard ought to be paid to it, or what might be
the greatest sum which could be due from it, is evidently
impossible. This would vary according to the characters of
the persons, according to their circumstances, according to
the solemnity of the promise, and even according to the
incidents of the rencounter: and if the promiser had been
treated with a great deal of that sort of gallantry, which
is sometimes to be met with in persons of the most abandoned
characters, more would seem due than upon other occasions.
It may be said in general, that exact propriety requires the
observance of all such promises, wherever it is not
inconsistent with some other duties that are more sacred;
such as regard to the public interest, to those whom
gratitude, whom natural affection, or whom the laws of
proper beneficence should prompt us to provide for. But, as
was formerly taken notice of, we have no precise rules to
determine what external actions are due from a regard to
such motives, nor, consequently, when it is that those
virtues are inconsistent with the observance of such
promises.
13It
is to be observed, however, that whenever such promises are
violated, though for the most necessary reasons, it is
always with some degree of dishonour to the person who made
them. After they are made, we may be convinced of the
impropriety of observing them. But still there is some fault
in having made them. It is at least a departure from the
highest and noblest maxims of magnanimity and honour. A
brave man ought to die, rather than make a promise which he
can neither keep without folly, nor violate without
ignominy. For some degree of ignominy always attends a
situation of this kind. Treachery and falsehood are vices so
dangerous, so dreadful, and, at the same time, such as may
so easily, and, upon many occasions, so safely be indulged,
that we are more jealous of them than of almost any other.
Our imagination therefore attaches the idea of shame to all
violations of faith, in every circumstance and in every
situation. They resemble, in this respect, the violations of
chastity in the fair sex, a virtue of which, for the like
reasons, we are excessively jealous; and our sentiments are
not more delicate with regard to the one, than with regard
to the other. Breach of chastity dishonours irretrievably.
No circumstances, no solicitation can excuse it; no sorrow,
no repentance atone for it. We are so nice in this respect
that even a rape dishonours, and the innocence of the mind
cannot, in our imagination, wash out the pollution of the
body. It is the same case with the violation of faith, when
it has been solemnly pledged, even to the most worthless of
mankind. Fidelity is so necessary a virtue, that we
apprehend it in general to be due even to those to whom
nothing else is due, and whom we think it lawful to kill and
destroy. It is to no purpose that the person who has been
guilty of the breach of it, urges that he promised in order
to save his life, and that he broke his promise because it
was inconsistent with some other respectable duty to keep
it. These circumstances may alleviate, but cannot entirely
wipe out his dishonour. He appears to have been guilty of an
action with which, in the imaginations of men, some degree
of shame is inseparably connected. He has broke a promise
which he had solemnly averred he would maintain; and his
character, if not irretrievably stained and polluted, has at
least a ridicule affixed to it, which it will be very
difficult entirely to efface; and no man, I imagine, who had
gone through an adventure of this kind would be fond of
telling the story.
14This
instance may serve to show wherein consists the difference
between casuistry and jurisprudence, even when both of them
consider the obligations of the general rules of justice.
15But
though this difference be real and essential, though those
two sciences propose quite different ends, the sameness of
the subject has made such a similarity between them, that
the greater part of authors whose professed design was to
treat of jurisprudence, have determined the different
questions they examine, sometimes according to the
principles of that science, and sometimes according to those
of casuistry, without distinguishing, and, perhaps, without
being themselves aware when they did the one, and when the
other.
16The
doctrine of the casuists, however, is by no means confined
to the consideration of what a conscientious regard to the
general rules of justice would demand of us. It embraces
many other parts of Christian and moral duty. What seems
principally to have given occasion to the cultivation of
this species of science was the custom of auricular
confession, introduced by the Roman Catholic superstition,
in times of barbarism and ignorance. By that institution,
the most secret actions, and even the thoughts of every
person, which could be suspected of receding in the smallest
degree from the rules of Christian purity, were to be
revealed to the confessor. The confessor informed his
penitents whether, and in what respect they had violated
their duty, and what penance it behoved them to undergo,
before he could absolve them in the name of the offended
Deity.
17The
consciousness, or even the suspicion of having done wrong,
is a load upon every mind, and is accompanied with anxiety
and terror in all those who are not hardened by long habits
of iniquity. Men, in this, as in all other distresses, are
naturally eager to disburthen themselves of the oppression
which they feel upon their thoughts, by unbosoming the agony
of their mind to some person whose secrecy and discretion
they can confide in. The shame, which they suffer from this
acknowledgment, is fully compensated by that alleviation of
their uneasiness which the sympathy of their confident
seldom fails to occasion. It relieves them to find that they
are not altogether unworthy of regard, and that however
their past conduct may be censured, their present
disposition is at least approved of, and is perhaps
sufficient to compensate the other, at least to maintain
them in some degree of esteem with their friend. A numerous
and artful clergy had, in those times of superstition,
insinuated themselves into the confidence of almost every
private family. They possessed all the little learning which
the times could afford, and their manners, though in many
respects rude and disorderly, were polished and regular
compared with those of the age they lived in. They were
regarded, therefore, not only as the great directors of all
religious, but of all moral duties. Their familiarity gave
reputation to whoever was so happy as to possess it, and
every mark of their disapprobation stamped the deepest
ignominy upon all who had the misfortune to fall under it.
Being considered as the great judges of right and wrong,
they were naturally consulted about all scruples that
occurred, and it was reputable for any person to have it
known that he made those holy men the confidents of all such
secrets, and took no important or delicate step in his
conduct without their advice and approbation. It was not
difficult for the clergy, therefore, to get it established
as a general rule, that they should be entrusted with what
it had already become fashionable to entrust them, and with
what they generally would have been entrusted, though no
such rule had been established. To qualify themselves for
confessors became thus a necessary part of the study of
churchmen and divines, and they were thence led to collect
what are called cases of conscience, nice and delicate
situations in which it is hard to determine whereabouts the
propriety of conduct may lie. Such works, they imagined,
might be of use both to the directors of consciences and to
those who were to be directed; and hence the origin of books
of casuistry.
18The
moral duties which fell under the consideration of the
casuists were chiefly those which can, in some measure at
least, be circumscribed within general rules, and of which
the violation is naturally attended with some degree of
remorse and some dread of suffering punishment. The design
of that institution which gave occasion to their works, was
to appease those terrors of conscience which attend upon the
infringement of such duties. But it is not every virtue of
which the defect is accompanied with any very severe
compunctions of this kind, and no man applies to his
confessor for absolution, because he did not perform the
most generous, the most friendly, or the most magnanimous
action which, in his circumstances, it was possible to
perform. In failures of this kind, the rule that is violated
is commonly not very determinate, and is generally of such a
nature too, that though the observance of it might entitle
to honour and reward, the violation seems to expose to no
positive blame, censure, or punishment. The exercise of such
virtues the casuists seem to have regarded as a sort of
works of supererogation, which could not be very strictly
exacted, and which it was therefore unnecessary for them to
treat of.
19The
breaches of moral duty, therefore, which came before the
tribunal of the confessor, and upon that account fell under
the cognizance of the casuists, were chiefly of three
different kinds.
20First
and principally, breaches of the rules of justice. The rules
here are all express and positive, and the violation of them
is naturally attended with the consciousness of deserving,
and the dread of suffering punishment both from God and man.
21Secondly,
breaches of the rules of chastity. These in all grosser
instances are real breaches of the rules of justice, and no
person can be guilty of them without doing the most
unpardonable injury to some other. In smaller instances,
when they amount only to a violation of those exact decorums
which ought to be observed in the conversation of the two
sexes, they cannot indeed justly be considered as violations
of the rules of justice. They are
however, violations
of a pretty plain rule, and, at least in one of the sexes,
tend to bring ignominy upon the person who has been guilty
of them, and consequently to be attended in the scrupulous
with some degree of shame and contrition of mind.
22Thirdly,
breaches of the rules of veracity. The violation of truth,
it is to be observed, is not always a breach of justice,
though it is so upon many occasions, and consequently cannot
always expose to any external punishment. The vice of common
lying, though a most miserable meanness, may frequently do
hurt to nobody, and in this case no claim of vengeance or
satisfaction can be due either to the persons imposed upon,
or to others. But though the violation of truth is not
always a breach of justice, it is always a breach of a very
plain rule, and what naturally tends to cover with shame the
person who has been guilty of it.
23There
seems to be in young children an instinctive disposition to
believe whatever they are told. Nature seems to have judged
it necessary for their preservation that they should, for
some time at least, put implicit confidence in those to whom
the care of their childhood, and of the earliest and most
necessary parts of their education, is intrusted. Their
credulity, accordingly, is excessive, and it requires long
and much experience of the falsehood of mankind to reduce
them to a reasonable degree of diffidence and distrust. In
grown–up people the degrees of credulity are, no doubt, very
different. The wisest and most experienced are generally the
least credulous. But the man scarce lives who is not more
credulous than he ought to be, and who does not, upon many
occasions, give credit to tales, which not only turn out to
be perfectly false, but which a very moderate degree of
reflection and attention might have taught him could not
well be true. The natural disposition is always to believe.
It is acquired wisdom and experience only that teach
incredulity, and they very seldom teach it enough. The
wisest and most cautious of us all frequently gives credit
to stories which he himself is afterwards both ashamed and
astonished that he could possibly think of believing.
24The
man whom we believe is necessarily, in the things concerning
which we believe him, our leader and director, and we look
up to him with a certain degree of esteem and respect. But
as from admiring other people we come to wish to be admired
ourselves; so from being led and directed by other people we
learn to wish to become ourselves leaders and directors. And
as we cannot always be satisfied merely with being admired,
unless we can at the same time persuade ourselves that we
are in some degree really worthy of admiration; so we cannot
always be satisfied merely with being believed, unless we
are at the same time conscious that we are really worthy of
belief. As the desire of praise and that of
praise–worthiness, though very much a–kin, are yet distinct
and separate desires; so the desire of being believed and
that of being worthy of belief, though very much a–kin too,
are equally distinct and separate desires.
25The
desire of being believed, the desire of persuading, of
leading and directing other people, seems to be one of the
strongest of all our natural desires. It is, perhaps, the
instinct upon which is founded the faculty of speech, the
characteristical faculty of human nature. No other animal
possesses this faculty, and we cannot discover in any other
animal any desire to lead and direct the judgment and
conduct of its fellows. Great ambition, the desire of real
superiority, of leading and directing, seems to be
altogether peculiar to man, and speech is the great
instrument of ambition, of real superiority, of leading and
directing the judgments and conduct of other people.
26It
is always mortifying not to be believed, and it is doubly so
when we suspect that it is because we are supposed to be
unworthy of belief and capable of seriously and wilfully
deceiving. To tell a man that he lies, is of all affronts
the most mortal. But whoever seriously and wilfully deceives
is necessarily conscious to himself that he merits this
affront, that he does not deserve to be believed, and that
he forfeits all title to that sort of credit from which
alone he can derive any sort of ease, comfort, or
satisfaction in the society of his equals. The man who had
the misfortune to imagine that nobody believed a single word
he said, would feel himself the outcast of human society,
would dread the very thought of going into it, or of
presenting himself before it, and could scarce fail, I
think, to die of despair. It is probable, however, that no
man ever had just reason to entertain this humiliating
opinion of himself. The most notorious liar, I am disposed
to believe, tells the fair truth at least twenty times for
once that he seriously and deliberately lies; and, as in the
most cautious the disposition to believe is apt to prevail
over that to doubt and distrust; so in those who are the
most regardless of truth, the natural disposition to tell it
prevails upon most occasions over that to deceive, or in any
respect to alter or disguise it.
27We
are mortified when we happen to deceive other people, though
unintentionally, and from having been ourselves deceived.
Though this involuntary falsehood may frequently be no mark
of any want of veracity, of any want of the most perfect
love of truth, it is always in some degree a mark of want of
judgment, of want of memory, of improper credulity, of some
degree of precipitancy and rashness. It always diminishes
our authority to persuade, and always brings some degree of
suspicion upon our fitness to lead and direct. The man who
sometimes misleads from mistake, however, is widely
different from him who is capable of wilfully deceiving. The
former may safely be trusted upon many occasions; the latter
very seldom upon any.
28Frankness
and openness conciliate confidence. We trust the man who
seems willing to trust us. We see clearly, we think, the
road by which he means to conduct us, and we abandon
ourselves with pleasure to his guidance and direction.
Reserve and concealment, on the contrary, call forth
diffidence. We are afraid to follow the man who is going we
do not know where.
from a certain
correspondence of sentiments and opinions, from a certain
harmony of minds, which like so many musical instruments
coincide and keep time with one another. But this most
delightful harmony cannot be obtained unless there is a free
communication of sentiments and opinions. We all desire,
upon this account, to feel how each other is affected, to
penetrate into each other’s bosoms, and to observe the
sentiments and affections which really subsist there. The
man who indulges us in this natural passion, who invites us
into his heart, who, as it were, sets open the gates of his
breast to us, seems to exercise a species of hospitality
more delightful than any other. No man, who is in ordinary
good temper, can fail of pleasing, if he has the courage to
utter his real sentiments as he feels them, and because he
feels them. It is this unreserved sincerity which renders
even the prattle of a child agreeable. How weak and
imperfect soever the views of the open–hearted, we take
pleasure to enter into them, and endeavour, as much as we
can, to bring down our own understanding to the level of
their capacities, and to regard every subject in the
particular light in which they appear to have considered it.
This passion to discover the real sentiments of others is
naturally so strong, that it often degenerates into a
troublesome and impertinent curiosity to pry into those
secrets of our neighbours which they have very justifiable
reasons for concealing; and, upon many occasions, it
requires prudence and a strong sense of propriety to govern
this, as well as all the other passions of human nature, and
to reduce it to that pitch which any impartial spectator can
approve of. To disappoint this curiosity, however, when it
is kept within proper bounds, and aims at nothing which
there can be any just reason for concealing, is equally
disagreeable in its turn. The man who eludes our most
innocent questions, who gives no satisfaction to our most
inoffensive inquiries, who plainly wraps himself up in
impenetrable obscurity, seems, as it were, to build a wall
about his breast. We run forward to get within it, with all
the eagerness of harmless curiosity; and feel ourselves all
at once pushed back with the rudest and most offensive
violence.
29
The man of reserve and concealment, though seldom a very
amiable character, is not disrespected or despised. He seems
to feel coldly towards us, and we feel as coldly towards
him. He is not much praised or beloved, but he is as little
hated or blamed. He very seldom, however, has occasion to
repent of his caution, and is generally disposed rather to
value himself upon the prudence of his reserve. Though his
conduct, therefore, may have been very faulty, and sometimes
even hurtful, he can very seldom be disposed to lay his case
before the casuists, or to fancy that he has any occasion
for their acquittal or approbation.
30It
is not always so with the man, who, from false information,
from inadvertency, from precipitancy and rashness, has
involuntarily deceived. Though it should be in a matter of
little consequence, in telling a piece of common news, for
example, if he is a real lover of truth, he is ashamed of
his own carelessness, and never fails to embrace the first
opportunity of making the fullest acknowledgments. If it is
in a matter of some consequence, his contribution is still
greater; and if any unlucky or fatal consequence has
followed from his misinformation, he can scarce ever forgive
himself. Though not guilty, he feels himself to be in the
highest degree, what the ancients called, piacular,
and is anxious and eager to make every sort of atonement in
his power. Such a person might frequently be disposed to lay
his case before the casuists, who have in general been very
favourable to him, and though they have sometimes justly
condemned him for rashness, they have universally acquitted
him of the ignominy of falsehood.
31But
the man who had the most frequent occasion to consult them,
was the man of equivocation and mental reservation, the man
who seriously and deliberately meant to deceive, but who, at
the same time, wished to flatter himself that he had really
told the truth. With him they have dealt variously. When
they approved very much of the motives of his deceit, they
have sometimes acquitted him, though, to do them justice,
they have in general and much more frequently condemned him.
32The
chief subjects of the works of the casuists, therefore, were
the conscientious regard that is due to the rules of
justice; how far we ought to respect the life and property
of our neighbour; the duty of restitution; the laws of
chastity and modesty, and wherein consisted what, in their
language, are called the sins of concupiscence; the rules of
veracity, and the obligation of oaths, promises, and
contracts of all kinds.
33It
may be said in general of the works of the casuists that
they attempted, to no purpose, to direct by precise rules
what it belongs to feeling and sentiment only to judge of.
How is it possible to ascertain by rules the exact point at
which, in every case, a delicate sense of justice begins to
run into a frivolous and weak scrupulosity of conscience?
When it is that secrecy and reserve begin to grow into
dissimulation? How far an agreeable irony may be carried,
and at what precise point it begins to degenerate into a
detestable lie? What is the highest pitch of freedom and
ease of behaviour which can be regarded as graceful and
becoming, and when it is that it first begins to run into a
negligent and thoughtless licentiousness? With regard to all
such matters, what would hold good in any one case would
scarce do so exactly in any other, and what constitutes the
propriety and happiness of behaviour varies in every case
with the smallest variety of situation. Books of casuistry,
therefore, are generally as useless as they are commonly
tiresome. They could be of little use to one who should
consult them upon occasion, even supposing their decisions
to be just; because, notwithstanding the multitude of cases
collected in them, yet upon account of the still greater
variety of possible circumstances, it is a chance, if among
all those cases there be found one exactly parallel to that
under consideration. One, who is really anxious to do his
duty, must be very weak, if he can imagine that he has much
occasion for them; and with regard to one who is negligent
of it, the style of those writings is not such as is likely
to awaken him to more attention. None of them tend to
animate us to what is generous and noble. None of them tend
to soften us to what is gentle and humane. Many of them, on
the contrary, tend rather to teach us to chicane with our
own consciences, and by their vain subtilties serve to
authorise innumerable evasive refinements with regard to the
most essential articles of our duty. That frivolous accuracy
which they attempted to introduce into subjects which do not
admit of it, almost necessarily betrayed them into those
dangerous errors, and at the same time rendered their works
dry and disagreeable, abounding in abtruse and metaphysical
distinctions, but incapable of exciting in the heart any of
those emotions which it is the principal use of books of
morality to excite.
34The
two useful parts of moral philosophy, therefore, are Ethics
and Jurisprudence: casuistry ought to be rejected
altogether; and the ancient moralists appear to have judged
much better, who, in treating of the same subjects, did not
affect any such nice exactness, but contented themselves
with describing, in a general manner, what is the sentiment
upon which justice, modesty, and veracity are founded, and
what is the ordinary way of acting to which those virtues
would commonly prompt us.
35Something,
indeed, not unlike the doctrine of the casuists, seems to
have been attempted by several philosophers. There is
something of this kind in the third book of Cicero’s
Offices, where he endeavours like a casuist to give rules
for our conduct in many nice cases, in which it is difficult
to determine whereabouts the point of propriety may lie. It
appears too, from many passages in the same book, that
several other philosophers had attempted something of the
same kind before him. Neither he nor they, however, appear
to have aimed at giving a complete system of this sort, but
only meant to show how situations may occur, in which it is
doubtful, whether the highest propriety of conduct consists
in observing or in receding from what, in ordinary cases,
are the rules of duty.
36Every
system of positive law may be regarded as a more or less
imperfect attempt towards a system of natural jurisprudence,
or towards an enumeration of the particular rules of
justice. As the violation of justice is what men will never
submit to from one another, the public magistrate is under a
necessity of employing the power of the commonwealth to
enforce the practice of this virtue. Without this
precaution, civil society would become a scene of bloodshed
and disorder, every man revenging himself at his own hand
whenever he fancied he was injured. To prevent the confusion
which would attend upon every man’s doing justice to
himself, the magistrate, in all governments that have
acquired any considerable authority, undertakes to do
justice to all, and promises to hear and to redress every
complaint of injury. In all well–governed states too, not
only judges are appointed for determining the controversies
of individuals, but rules are prescribed for regulating the
decisions of those judges; and these rules are, in general,
intended to coincide with those of natural justice. It does
not, indeed, always happen that they do so in every
instance. Sometimes what is called the constitution of the
state, that is, the interest of the government; sometimes
the interest of particular orders of men who tyrannize the
government, warp the positive laws of the country from what
natural justice would prescribe. In some countries, the
rudeness and barbarism of the people hinder the natural
sentiments of justice from arriving at that accuracy and
precision which, in more civilized nations, they naturally
attain to. Their laws are, like their manners, gross and
rude and undistinguishing. In other countries the
unfortunate constitution of their courts of judicature
hinders any regular system of jurisprudence from ever
establishing itself among them, though the improved manners
of the people may be such as would admit of the most
accurate. In no country do the decisions of positive law
coincide exactly, in every case, with the rules which the
natural sense of justice would dictate. Systems of positive
law, therefore, though they deserve the greatest authority,
as the records of the sentiments of mankind in different
ages and nations, yet can never be regarded as accurate
systems of the rules of natural justice.
37It
might have been expected that the reasonings of lawyers,
upon the different imperfections and improvements of the
laws of different countries, should have given occasion to
an inquiry into what were the natural rules of justice
independent of all positive institution. It might have been
expected that these reasonings should have led them to aim
at establishing a system of what might properly be called
natural jurisprudence, or a theory of the general principles
which ought to run through and be the foundation of the laws
of all nations.
But though the reasonings of lawyers did produce something
of this kind, and though no man has treated systematically
of the laws of any particular country, without intermixing
in his work many observations of this sort; it was very late
in the world before any such general system was thought of,
or before the philosophy of law was treated of by itself,
and without regard to the particular institutions of any one
nation. In none of the ancient moralists, do we find any
attempt towards a particular enumeration of the rules of
justice. Cicero in his Offices, and Aristotle in his Ethics,
treat of justice in the same general manner in which they
treat of all the other virtues. In the laws of Cicero and
Plato,
where we might naturally have expected some attempts towards
an enumeration of those rules of natural equity, which ought
to be enforced by the positive laws of every country, there
is, however, nothing of this kind. Their laws are laws of
police, not of justice.
Grotius seems to have been the first who attempted to give
the world any thing like a system of those principles which
ought to run through, and be the foundation of the laws of
all nations: and his treatise of the laws of war and peace,
with all its imperfections, is perhaps at this day the most
complete work that has yet been given upon this subject.
I shall in another discourse endeavour to give an account of
the general principles of law and government, and of the
different revolutions they have undergone in the different
ages and periods of society, not only in what concerns
justice, but in what concerns police, revenue, and arms, and
whatever else is the object of law.
I shall not, therefore, at present enter into any further
detail concerning the history of jurisprudence.
THE END
[Back to Table of Contents]
Appendix I
MINOR VARIANTS
First page of manuscript described in Appendix II
[Back to Table of Contents]
Appendix II
THE PASSAGE ON ATONEMENT, AND A
MANUSCRIPT FRAGMENT ON JUSTICE
TMS II.ii.3 criticizes the view that the idea of justice
arises solely from utility. In editions 1–5, the chapter
ends with a paragraph of orthodox theological doctrine on
retributive justice. The paragraph is unusual for Smith,
both in its concluding firm endorsement of Christian
revelation, and in the ‘high–flying’ rhetoric of an earlier
pious phrase (‘neither can he see any reason why the divine
indignation should not be let loose without restraint, upon
so vile an insect, as he is sensible that he himself must
appear to be’—slightly toned down for edition 3). In edition
6, the paragraph was removed and replaced by a single dry
sentence: ‘In every religion, and in every superstition that
the world has ever beheld, accordingly, there has been a
Tartarus as well as an Elysium; a place provided for the
punishment of the wicked, as well as one for the reward of
the just.’
This important change, made in 1788–9, would naturally
lead one to think that Smith had become more sceptical about
orthodox religion; or perhaps that he felt less inclination
or obligation to express pious sentiments once he had
quitted a Professorship of Moral Philosophy. (It is clear
from the Advertisement to edition 6 that some of the
revisions then made had been contemplated long before.)
There has in fact been a curious controversy about possible
reasons for Smith’s withdrawal of the paragraph.
William Magee, Archbishop of Dublin, published in 1801 a
volume of Discourses on the Scriptural Doctrines of
Atonement and Sacrifice. In edition 2, 1809, he added a
number of Illustrations and Explanatory Dissertations, and
in one of these (No. XXII) he quoted part of Adam Smith’s
paragraph on divine justice, taking great satisfaction in
the thought that the orthodox view of the Christian doctrine
of Atonement was endorsed by a distinguished philosopher,
‘and he too the familiar friend of David Hume’. Elsewhere in
edition 2 of his book (Dissertation No. LXIX), Magee
attacked Hume along with Bolingbroke and expressed his
astonishment that ‘such a man as Adam Smith’ could
describe Hume, after the latter’s death, as having come as
near as possible ‘to the idea of a
perfectly wise and virtuous man’. The emphasis of
capital letters is of course Magee’s own addition to the
words that Smith had used of Hume.
What happened next is pleasantly recounted by Rae,
Life, 428–9. (Rae’s first quotation from Magee is not
entirely accurate.) Magee had ended his illustration from
TMS by saying that the views which Smith had supported ‘as
the natural suggestions of reason’ were nevertheless ‘the
scoff of sciolists and witlings’. ‘The sciolists and
witlings’, writes Rae, ‘were not slow in returning the
scoff, and pointing out that while Smith was, no doubt, as
an intellectual authority all that the Archbishop claimed
for him, his authority really ran against the Archbishop’s
view and not in favour of it, inasmuch as he had withdrawn
the passage relied on from the last edition of his work.’
Magee tried to extricate himself from his discomfiture by
adding a footnote in edition 3 of his own book, 1812,
attributing Smith’s withdrawal to ‘the infection of David
Hume’s society . . . one proof more . . . of the danger,
even to the most enlightened, from a familiar contact with
infidelity’; and then Magee referred again to Smith’s
obituary praise of Hume which had shocked so many of the
conventionally religious. Rae himself joins in ‘returning
the scoff’ with the comment that Smith’s ‘intercourse with
Hume was at its closest when he first published the passage
in 1759, whereas Hume was fourteen years in his grave when
the passage was omitted’. But Magee was under a
misapprehension. He thought (and, as we shall see, he was
not the only one to think) that the passage had been
withdrawn long before edition 6. In the added footnote in
which he refers to the influence of Hume, Magee writes: ‘The
fact is, that in the later editions of the Theory of
Moral Sentiments, no one sentence appears of the extract
which has been cited above, and which I had derived from the
first edition, the only one that I possessed.’
Rae goes on to say that ‘there is no reason to believe
that Smith’s opinion about the atonement was anywise
different in 1790 from what it was in 1759, or for doubting
his own explanation of the omission, which he is said to
have given to certain Edinburgh friends, that he thought the
passage unnecessary and misplaced’. The report of this
explanation is in vol. ii, 40, of Memoirs of the Life and
Works of Sir John Sinclair (1837) by his son, the Rev.
John Sinclair. What Archdeacon Sinclair actually says of
Smith is this:
In the second edition of his Theory of Moral
Sentiments, he omitted, on the suggestion, as is
supposed, of his sceptical friend, a splendid passage,
referred to by Archbishop Magee as among the ablest
illustrations of the doctrine of Atonement. In the
suspicion thus excited, my father did not participate.
He was anxious to think favourably of a venerated
friend. Smith himself justified the omission alluded to,
not on the ground that the doctrine of Atonement was
unfounded, but that the paragraph was unnecessary and
misplaced.
When Archdeacon Sinclair states that the passage was
omitted in edition 2, he is obviously just following
what he took to be the natural sense of Magee’s footnote
and has not himself looked at the relevant editions of
TMS. Sinclair goes on to evoke a moving image of Smith
on his knees at his mother’s deathbed, praying to the
Redeemer whom he was alleged to have rejected. This is
supposed to be evidence either that the withdrawal of
the passage on the Redeemer did not imply any loss of
faith or that the faith was later regained. In fact
Smith’s mother died (in 1784) several years before the
withdrawal in edition 6. It is not clear from Archdeacon
Sinclair’s account whether Smith’s reasons for the
omission of the paragraph were given directly to Sir
John Sinclair himself or, as Rae apparently infers, to
others in Edinburgh. Presumably Archdeacon Sinclair was
told the story by his father. If Smith did give the
explanation to anyone, it must have been within the
short space of time that intervened between the
publication of edition 6 and his death. That would have
happened only if this particular revision (a minor one,
compared with others) had been noted and had excited
remark very soon after publication. Oddly enough, Rae
himself, despite the reference to Sinclair on p. 429 of
the Life, says on p. 428 that ‘the suppression of
the passage about the atonement escaped notice for
twenty years’ until Magee quoted it.
After mentioning Sinclair’s report, Rae then writes:
As if taking an odd revenge for its suppression, the
original manuscript of this particular passage seems to
have reappeared from between the leaves of a volume of
Aristotle in the year 1831, when all the rest of the MS.
of the book and of Smith’s other works had long gone to
destruction.
At the end of this sentence we are referred to a
footnote, which simply says ‘Add. MSS., 32,574’, and so
suggests that the manuscript which came to light in 1831 is
now in the British Library (the British Museum). In fact
this is not so. Additional Manuscript 32,574 in the British
Library is Volume XVI of the Notebooks of the Rev. John
Mitford (1781–1859), and it is the source of Rae’s
information. The first entry in this volume is signed ‘J.
Mitford’ and is dated ‘1855. Sept. 26.’ On leaf number 64,
there is the following note:
on Adam Smith’s Moral Sentiments. ‘I am sorry to find
sd Bp. Bathurst, that his Splendid Passage on the
necessity of a Redeemer, was omitted in the Second
Edition.’ The omission probably owing to his
Acquaintance with Hume.
Bp Bathurst and Chalmers. +
‘Second Edition’ and ‘Splendid Passage’ show that
Bathurst was simply relying on Sinclair’s book. The sign +
at the end of Mitford’s original entry was presumably added
later, together with this note on the facing verso of leaf
63:
+
A. Smith’s injunctions to his Executors to
destroy all his loose Mss. were strictly followed, but
that Passage so long[?] preserved, reappeared from
between the folds of a Volume of Aristotle in 1831.
Discovered by Revd W. B. Cunningham of Preston Pans into
whose hands Dr Smith’s Library had passed
The Rev. W. B. Cunningham of Prestonpans was the husband
of one of the two daughters of David Douglas, Lord Reston,
the cousin to whom Adam Smith bequeathed his books and other
possessions. On the death of Lord Reston, Adam Smith’s
library was divided between the two daughters. (See Bonar,
Catalogue 2, intro. xvi–xvii.)
W. R. Scott, ASSP, 57–9, describes one of four
manuscripts in the possession of the Glasgow University
Library. This particular manuscript consists of one folio
sheet of four pages, and the four documents together contain
fifteen pages of writing. Scott says:
The date of these four documents is of great
importance. The many avocations of Adam Smith during the
first eight years he was at Glasgow [i.e. 1751–9] make
it highly improbable, if not impossible, that they could
have been written then, and thus they may be assigned to
the Edinburgh period [i.e. 1748–51].
The one manuscript which is relevant to the present
discussion is taken by Scott to be ‘introductory to a group
of lectures’ on jurisprudence, delivered in Edinburgh and
corresponding to the Glasgow lectures on jurisprudence, a
Report of which was published by Edwin Cannan in 1896. Scott
describes the manuscript as follows:
There had been a very brief account of moral
obligation, and the surviving manuscript begins with the
statement that ‘duty, for its own sake and without any
further view, is the natural and proper object of love
and reward, and vice of hatred and punishment’. Here
follow the sentences on the Atonement, which appeared in
the first five editions of the Theory of Moral
Sentiments with small alterations. At this point in
the Theory a chapter ends, and in the next a
different aspect of the subject is begun. Here [i.e. in
the manuscript] the discussion continues with material
rewards and punishments. The sentry found asleep at his
post is discussed, then the argument passes on to the
institution of the civil magistrate. The authority of
custom or statute law is traced back to the natural
principles of justice, and the study of the rules which
express it constitutes Natural Jurisprudence or the
Theory of the General Principles of Law. Adam Smith
indicates that he will give a particular discourse upon
that subject. The concluding part of this paper
discusses the relation between Justice and Benevolence
and between the latter and resentment and punishment. No
doubt the lectures went on (as indicated) to discuss how
far these principles find expression in existing legal
systems.
In footnote 2 to p. 58, Scott writes:
This manuscript may be that which was found in a
volume of Aristotle in 1831 (Rae, Life, p. 261
[error for p. 429]) and described as that of a part of
the Theory of Moral Sentiments. The beginning of
it very closely resembles the corresponding part of the
Theory. The remainder is quite different.
In footnote 5 to p. 320 of his book, Scott refers again
to what he calls ‘the celebrated sentences on the
Atonement’, and writes:
There is no reason to doubt Adam Smith’s own
statement that they were withdrawn in the sixth edition
of the Theory (1790) because they were misplaced.
Rae mentions (Life, p. 429) that the manuscript,
containing the sentences, was found in a volume of
Aristotle in the year 1831. Whether Rae intended it or
not, this has been taken to mean that the fragment
discovered was a part of the Theory. It was not,
being the part of the Edinburgh Lectures which is
described in Part I, Chapter V [i.e. pp. 57–9]. This MS.
begins with the conclusion of a discussion which is that
‘duty for its own sake’ is ‘the natural and proper
object of love and reward’. As first written this
lecture went on to examine in some detail the principles
of legal sanctions. At an early revision the sentences
on the Atonement were inserted. This obviously was not a
happy arrangement. In the Theory the passage was
expanded and made to close Part II, Section
ii, Chapter iii. Then follows
Section iii, which discusses the
influence of fortune upon the sentiments of mankind,
which is far from being an ideal collocation.
Scott did not print the text of the manuscript described
in these quotations. It is given below, but first some
comment needs to be made on several points in Scott’s
account.
(1) Scott’s ground for assigning this and the other three
short manuscripts (amounting in all to fifteen pages) to the
period of the Edinburgh lectures is extraordinarily flimsy.
Since Smith had the time, between 1751 and 1759, not only to
write TMS but to compose courses of lectures which extended
beyond the subject–matter of that book to natural theology,
jurisprudence, and economics, why should it be supposed that
his ‘many avocations’ made it ‘highly improbable, if not
impossible,’ for him to compose these pieces which are all
concerned with subjects that were included in his lectures
as Professor of Moral Philosophy?
(2) Scott’s assertion that the initial words of the
manuscript had been preceded by ‘a very brief account of
moral obligation’ (how did he know that it was ‘very
brief’?) is a figment of his imagination, produced by a
misreading of the first word of the manuscript, which is
‘Deity’, but which Scott took to be ‘Duty’. In any case,
Smith would never have said that duty is ‘the natural
object of love and reward, and vice of hatred and
punishment’. Obviously virtue is what corresponds to
vice in this connection. The manuscript begins with words
that do not make a complete sentence: ‘Deity, as it does to
us, for its own sake and without any further view the
natural and proper object of Love and Reward and Vice of
hatred and punishment.’ Scott must have supposed that the
word ‘is’ had been inadvertently omitted before ‘the natural
and proper object’, and he conveniently ignored the phrase
‘as it does to us’. Clearly the word ‘Deity’ will have been
preceded by some such words as ‘Virtue appears to the’. In
editions 1–2 of TMS, the paragraph that was withdrawn from
edition 6 contains the following sentence (in editions 3–5,
the first words are revised to ‘Our untaught, natural
sentiments, all’):
All our natural sentiments prompt us to believe, that
as perfect virtue is supposed necessarily to appear to
the Deity, as it does to us, for its own sake, and
without any further view, the natural and proper object
of love and reward, so must vice, of hatred and
punishment.
(3) In the footnote to his p. 58, Scott says that the
manuscript ‘may be’ that which was found in a volume of
Aristotle in 1831, though in the footnote to p. 320 he takes
for granted that it was. Scott evidently did not look up
Rae’s reference to the British Library manuscript, but there
is in fact positive proof that the Glasgow manuscript is the
one referred to in Mitford’s second note. Mitford says the
manuscript was ‘Discovered by Revd W. B. Cunningham of
Preston Pans’. In the margin of the first page of the
Glasgow manuscript, there is written, in a later hand:
W.B.C.
Free Church Manse Prestonpans.
(4) In the footnote to his p. 320, Scott says there is no
reason to doubt Smith’s own statement that the paragraph of
editions 1–5 was withdrawn because it was ‘misplaced’. This
gives only half of the reason as reported by Sinclair and
Rae, namely that Smith thought the passage ‘unnecessary and
misplaced’. The addition of ‘unnecessary’ makes a
difference.
(5) Judging from what Scott says in the note to his p.
320, he appears to think that the manuscript ‘as first
written’ did not contain anything about the Atonement. ‘At
an early revision the sentences on the Atonement were
inserted.’ In fact, the manuscript ‘as first written’ had
this as its second sentence:
The Justice of the Deity we think cannot surely be
satisfied with [error for ‘without’] demanding some
attonement, some expiation for the Offences of Mankind,
and Revelation teaches us that this attonement has not
only been demanded but has been paid for, at least, the
more valuable part of Mankind.
Later, two sentences, corresponding to further words in
the paragraph of editions 1–5 of TMS, were inserted before
the sentence just quoted, but they are about our
consciousness of human imperfection in the sight of God
rather than about the idea of atonement.
(6) The remainder of the manuscript, that is to say, by
far the greater part of it, does not correspond to anything
in the so–called paragraph on ‘atonement’; but many of the
later words of the manuscript correspond to other
passages in the printed texts of TMS, and on the second page
there occur the very words ‘the Theory of moral Sentiments’.
Consequently some caution is needed before accepting Scott’s
hasty conclusion that the manuscript was not a part of TMS
but belonged to the Edinburgh lectures.
Having cleared Scott’s preconceptions from our path, it
will be best to describe the manuscript anew, and to give
its full text, before discussing further its relation to the
printed editions of TMS.
The manuscript (Glasgow University Library, MS. Gen.
1035/227) was originally a single folio sheet (the two
halves of which have now come apart) of four pages. The
watermarks, briefly mentioned by Scott in a footnote ending
on his p. 266, are similar to two of those which Scott
describes on his p. 322, one of them being illustrated in
Plate XV which faces that page. One half of the sheet has as
its watermark ‘G.R.’ within a circular emblem and surmounted
by a crown, with the word ‘Durham’
beneath. The other half–sheet has the watermark of Britannia
within a picket fence, and the motto ‘Pro
Patria’, as illustrated in Scott’s Plate XV, but in
reverse; that is to say, Britannia is sitting on the left
and facing right, with the motto at her right, while in
Scott’s plate she is sitting on the right and facing left,
with the motto at her left. The writing on the manuscript
covers the whole of the first three pages, and
three–quarters of the fourth page, indicating that it then
came to an end. Catchwords at the foot of the first three
pages make quite clear the order in which they were written.
Each of the pages has a margin at the left, and the top half
of the margin on the first page contains a lengthy
insertion, preceded by a figure 2 or a sign resembling it,
which Adam Smith was evidently accustomed to use for this
purpose, as can be seen from two of the other manuscripts
which were reproduced in facsimile by Scott (ASSP,
381, 383, 385). The place, in the original writing, at which
the addition is to be inserted, is likewise indicated by a
figure 2. The bottom half of the margin of the first page
contains the later entry made by Mr. Cunningham. The margins
on the other three sheets are left blank.
In the text of the manuscript, the words originally
written, and most of the revisions and insertions, are in
the hand of an amanuensis. Two or three of the revisions,
however, are in the hand of Adam Smith himself; e.g. the
word ‘men’ substituted for ‘Mankind’ in the first paragraph;
and the figure 2 at the end of the first sentence, though
not the corresponding figure 2 that precedes the inserted
passage in the margin. Some of the remaining revisions are
written above the relevant line. Others, however, are
written on the same line as, and immediately after,
cancelled words, showing that Smith made some changes as he
dictated the piece. This feature of the document is one
piece of evidence for the conclusion that it was written
before the manuscript actually used for edition 1 of TMS.
In the text that follows, square brackets enclose words
or letters that are struck out or over–written in the
manuscript, while angle brackets enclose words or letters
that constitute revisions of cancelled material or later
insertions. It will be recalled that the manuscript begins
in the middle of a sentence.
Deity, as it does to us, <for its own sake and
without any further view> the natural and proper object
of Love and Reward and Vice of hatred and punishment.<2>
<2. Nay vice we are apt to fear should appear before the
holiness of God more worthy of punishment than the
imperfection of human Virtue can ever be of Reward. Man
when about to appear before a Being of such perfect
Sanctity can feel but little Confidence in his own
merit[.]<;> [But the divine Justice etc.] and when he
remembers the numberless blemishes and imperfections in
his own Conduct must dread punishment rather than hope
for Reward. The divine Justice etc.> The <divine>
Justice [of the Deity] we think cannot surely be
satisfied with<out> demanding some attonement, some
expiation for the Offences of [Mankind]<men>, and
Revelation teaches us that this attonement has not only
been demanded but has been paid for, at least, the more
valuable part of Mankind.
[There are indeed] Upon some occasions indeed we
punish meerly from a View to the general interest of
Society which [cann] we imagine cannot be otherwise
supported. The punishments, for Example, which military
discipline prescribes are all inflicted from this
motive, and a Centinel who falls asleep upon his Watch
[is] suffers death by the Laws of War because such
carelessness might endanger the whole Army. In our
hearts we cannot blame this necessary Severity. Nothing
can be more just, than that one man [can]<should> be
sacrificed to the security of thousands. But do we
regard th[e]<is> punishment in the same light in which
we look upon that of an ungrateful murderer or
parricide[;]<?> Does our heart naturally applaud
the same Ardor with which it goes along with the other?
We look upon the one as an unfortunate Victime who
indeed must be devoted to the interest of Numbers but
whom in our hearts we would be glad to save, and we are
only sorry that the Interests of [others] many should
oppose it. If the other should escape from punishment it
would excite our highest indignation and we [w]<sh>ould
call upon God to avenge <in another world> that Crime
which the injustice of Mankind had neglected to chastise
upon Earth.
The violation of Justice is what Mankind will never
submit to from their Equals. It provokes the Resentment
of the injured and incites them to take vengeance upon
the Offender. They feel that Mankind applaud and go
along with <t>h[i]<e>m when they punish him,
and they imagine that they become contemptible when they
do not. That civil Society may not be a Scene of
Bloodshed <confusion> and disorder every man revenging
himself at his own hand whenever he fancies himself
injured, the Magistrates in all Governments that have
acquired considerable Authority employs the power of the
commonwealth to enforce the practice of Justice, and to
give Satisfaction to the injured either by punishing the
offender or by obliging him to compensate the wrong that
has been done. The magistrate promises to hear all
complaints of injustice, to enquire diligently into the
circumstances alledged upon both Sides, and to give that
redress which to any impartial person shall appear to be
just and equitable. Hence the origin of both civil and
criminal Jurisdiction. The Rules by which the
magistrate[s] in [all] <each> countries actually
regu[l]lates all his discisions of this kind
[which]<whether> established upon express Statute, upon
acc[o––?]<iden>tal custom or upon their own evident
equity constitute the civil and criminal Jurisprudence
of that Country. The Rules by which it is most suitable
to the natural principles of Justice, or to the Analogy
of those Sentiments upon which our Sense of it is
founded that such descisions should be regulated,
const[–?]<i>tute what is called Natural Jurisprudence,
or the Theory of the general principles of Law. they
make a very important part of the Theory of moral
Sentiments. I shall not at present, however, stop to
analyse them, as I intend hereafter to give a particular
discourse upon that Subject.
When our benevolence to each particular person is
exactly proportioned to the importance of those
circumstances which point them out to our favourable
regard, we are, by a metaphor, said to do them
Justice[:]<;> and we are said to do them injustice when
it is otherwise. When we chuse [–?]<r>ather, for
exemple, to do a good Office to a new acquaintance than
to an Old friend we are said to do Injustice to the
latter. This, however, is a different Species of
Injustice from that which we have been treating of
above. It does not consist in doing hurt, but in not
doing good according to the most perfect propriety. In
the Schools it has been distinguished by the name of
d[e?]<i>stributive Justice, as the former, which can
alone properly be called Justice, has been denominated
commutat[––?]<iv>e Justice. In the observation of
distributive Justice consists the proper exercise of all
the social and beneficent Virtues. It cannot be extorted
by force. The violation of it does no positive harm, and
therefor, exposes to no punishment. The Rules which
determine the external actions which it prescribes, are
loose and unaccurate and fall short of that exact
pre[s]<c>ision, which, as I shall show hereafter, is
peculiar to the Rules of what is properly called
Justice. The Rules of punishment have been by most
Writers referred to distributive Justice as well as the
Rules of Beneficence, and they seem to have imagined
that improper vengea[––?]<nc>e was an impropriety of the
same kind with improper Benevolence. There is indeed a
certain degree of looseness and inaccuracy [of] in what
may be called the natural principles of punishment. What
is the extent of the Right which is violated, and
wherein consists its v[e?]<i>olation, can in almost all
cases be determined with exact precision. But what
degree of Resentment or punishment is due for this
violation cannot easily be fixed exactly by general
Rules which have any great foundation in nature; but
varies with every variety of Circumstances: And so far
the principles and rules of punishments resemble those
of Beneficence. But they differ from them in another
Circumstance which is much more essential, and which
those Writers have not perhaps, sufficiently attended
to. Improper punishment, punishment which is either not
due at all or which exceeds the demerit of the Crime, is
an injury to the Criminal, may and ought to be opposed
by force, and if inflicted, exposes the person who
inflicts it to punishment in his turn. But meer improper
Beneficence cannot be opposed by force and exposes the
person who exercises it to no punishment.
Compare the following set of extracts from TMS.
References are given to the arrangement of chapters and
paragraphs in the present (and so in the sixth) edition, but
since the manuscript is earlier than any of the printed
texts, the actual words and punctuation of the quotations
are taken (except for the sixth extract) from edition 1.
All our natural sentiments prompt us to believe, that
as perfect virtue is supposed necessarily to appear to
the Deity, as it does to us, for its own sake, and
without any further view, the natural and proper object
of love and reward, so must vice, of hatred and
punishment. . . . If we consult our natural sentiments,
we are apt to fear, lest before the holiness of God,
vice should appear to be more worthy of punishment than
the weakness and imperfection of human virtue can ever
seem to be of reward. Man, when about to appear before a
being of infinite perfection, can feel but little
confidence in his own merit, . . . he can easily
conceive, how the numberless violations of duty, of
which he has been guilty, should render him the proper
object of aversion and punishment; . . . Some other
intercession, some other sacrifice, some other
atonement, he imagines, must be made for him, beyond
what he himself is capable of making, before the purity
of the divine justice can be reconciled to his manifold
offences. The doctrines of revelation . . . show us . .
. that the most powerful intercession has been made, and
that the most dreadful atonement has been paid for our
manifold transgressions and iniquities.
(II.ii.3, final
paragraph—the one suppressed in edition 6)
Upon some occasions, indeed, we both punish and
approve of punishment, merely from a view to the general
interest of society, which, we imagine, cannot otherwise
be secured. Of this kind are all the punishments
inflicted for breaches of what is called either civil
police, or military discipline. . . . A centinel, for
example, who falls asleep upon his watch, suffers death
by the laws of war, because such carelessness might
endanger the whole army. This severity may, upon many
occasions, appear necessary, and, for that reason, just
and proper. When the preservation of an individual is
inconsistent with the safety of a multitude, nothing can
be more just than that the many should be preferred to
the one. Yet this punishment, how necessary soever,
always appears to be excessively severe. The natural
atrocity of the crime seems to be so little, and the
punishment so great, that it is with great difficulty
that our heart can reconcile itself to it. . . . A man
of humanity . . . must make an effort . . . before he
can . . . go along with it . . . It is not, however, in
this manner, that he looks upon the just punishment of
an ungrateful murderer or parricide. His heart, in this
case, applauds with ardour, and even with transport, the
just retaliation which seems due to such detestable
crimes, . . . He looks upon the centinel as an
unfortunate victim, who, indeed, must, and ought to be,
devoted to the safety of numbers, but whom still, in his
heart, he would be glad to save; and he is only sorry,
that the interest of the many should oppose it. But if
the murderer should escape from punishment, it would
excite his highest indignation, and he would call upon
God to avenge, in another world, that crime which the
injustice of mankind had neglected to chastise upon
earth.
(II.ii.3.11)
There is, however, another virtue, . . . of which the
violation exposes to resentment, and consequently to
punishment. This virtue is justice: the violation of
justice is injury: . . . It is, therefore, the proper
object of resentment, and of punishment, . . . As
mankind go along with, and approve of, the violence
employed to avenge the hurt which is done by injustice,
so they much more go along with, and approve of, that
which is employed to prevent and beat off the injury, .
. .
(II.ii.1.5)
Among equals each individual is naturally . . .
regarded as having a right both to defend himself from
injuries, and to exact a certain degree of punishment .
. .
(II.ii.1.7)
As the violation of justice is what men will never
submit to from one another, the publick magistrate is
under a necessity of employing the power of the
commonwealth to enforce the practice of this virtue.
Without this precaution, civil society would become a
scene of bloodshed and disorder, every man revenging
himself at his own hand whenever he fancied he was
injured. To prevent the confusion which would attend
upon every man’s doing justice to himself, the
magistrate, in all governments that have acquired any
considerable authority, undertakes to do justice to all,
and promises to hear and to redress every complaint of
injury. In all well–governed states too not only judges
are appointed for determining the controversies of
individuals, but rules are prescribed for regulating the
decisions of those judges; and these rules are, in
general, intended to coincide with those of natural
justice. . . . In no country do the decisions of
positive law coincide exactly in every case with the
rules which the natural sense of justice would dictate.
(VII.iv.36)
The wisdom of every state or commonwealth endeavours
. . . to restrain those who are subject to its
authority, from hurting or disturbing the happiness of
one another. The rules which it establishes for this
purpose, constitute the civil and criminal law of each
particular state or country. The principles upon which
those rules either are, or ought to be founded, are the
subject of a particular science, of all sciences by far
the most important, but hitherto, perhaps, the least
cultivated, that of natural jurisprudence; concerning
which it belongs not to our present subject to enter
into any detail.
(VI.ii.intro.2.
This passage was first added in edition 6.)
It might have been expected that the reasonings of
lawyers . . . should have led them to aim at
establishing a system of what might properly be called
natural jurisprudence, or a theory of the general
principles which ought to run through and be the
foundation of the laws of all nations. . . . I shall in
another discourse endeavour to give an account of the
general principles of law and government, . . . I shall
not, therefore, at present enter into any further detail
concerning the history of jurisprudence.
(VII.iv.37)
In one sense we are said to do justice to our
neighbour when we abstain from doing him any positive
harm, and do not directly hurt him, . . . This is that
justice which I have treated of above, the observance of
which may be extorted by force, and the violation of
which exposes to punishment. In another sense we are
said not to do justice to our neighbour unless we
conceive for him all that love, respect and esteem,
which his character, his situation, and his connection
with ourselves, render suitable and proper for us to
feel, and unless we act accordingly. It is in this sense
that we are said to do injustice to a man of merit who
is connected with us, tho’ we abstain from hurting him
in every respect, if we do not exert ourselves to serve
him . . . The first sense of the word coincides with
what Aristotle and the Schoolmen call commutative
justice, and with what Grotius calls the justitia
expletrix, which consists in abstaining from what is
anothers, and in doing voluntarily whatever we can with
propriety be forced to do. The second sense of the word
coincides with what some have called distributive
justice [Added footnote: ‘The distributive justice of
Aristotle is somewhat different . . .’], and with the
justitia attributrix of Grotius, which consists in
proper beneficence, in the becoming use of what is our
own, and in the applying it to those purposes either of
charity or generosity, to which it is most suitable in
our situation that it should be applied. In this sense
justice comprehends all the social virtues. There is yet
another sense in which the word justice is sometimes
taken, . . . Thus we are said to do injustice to a poem
or a picture, when we do not admire them enough, . . .
In the same manner we are said to do injustice to
ourselves when we appear not to give sufficient
attention to any particular object of self–interest. In
this last sense, what is called justice means the same
thing with exact and perfect propriety of conduct and
behaviour, . . .
(VII.ii.1.10)
The decision of this question . . . will depend . . .
secondly, upon the precision and exactness, or the
looseness and inaccuracy of the general rules
themselves.
(III.6.2)
Secondly, I say, it will depend partly upon the
precision and exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy
of the general rules themselves, . . .
(III.6.8)
The general rules of almost all the virtues . . . are
in many respects loose and inaccurate, . . .
(III.6.9)
There is, however, one virtue of which the general
rules determine with the greatest exactness every
external action which it requires. This virtue is
justice.
(III.6.10)
Beneficence is always free, it cannot be extorted by
force, the meer want of it exposes to no punishment: . .
.
(II.ii.1.3)
The printed editions of TMS do not contain several
sentences found towards the end of the manuscript,
concerning the difference between improper vengeance or
punishment and improper benevolence. It may be thought that
this is because Adam Smith wanted to reserve the topic for
his projected book on jurisprudence, but a more likely
explanation is that he had changed his view by the time he
came to publish TMS. Two points require notice.
(1) In the manuscript, Smith says, of the natural
principles of punishment, that the extent and character of
the violation of a right can be determined with precision,
but not the degree of resentment or punishment due, since
this latter varies with circumstances. Now there is evidence
in the manuscript that, at the time when Smith dictated it,
he had not yet thought out his theory of the impartial
spectator (a theory which underwent considerable development
between the publication of editions 1 and 6 of TMS, as can
be seen in the elaboration of the account of conscience in
Part III, first for edition 2 and then again for edition 6).
When discussing the function of the magistrate, the
manuscript says that he ‘promises to hear all complaints of
injustice, . . . and to give that redress which to any
impartial person shall appear to be just and equitable’. TMS
reproduces this simply as ‘promises to hear and to redress
every complaint of injury’. If Smith had included at this
time the reference to ‘any impartial person’, he would
certainly have written of the impartial ‘spectator’ instead.
Once he had formulated his theory of the impartial
spectator, he of course took the view that the proper degree
of resentment or punishment was that which had the sympathy
of the impartial spectator, as we can see from II.ii.2 of
TMS. This chapter relates to resentment. That Smith would
hold the same view of punishment is obvious enough, but can
be confirmed from the two extant Reports of his lectures on
jurisprudence. LJ(A), a full Report of lectures delivered in
1762–3, contains the following sentences at ii.89–90.
Now in all cases the measure of the punishment to be
inflicted on the delinquent is the concurrence of the
impartial spectator with the resentment of the injured.
If the injury is so great as that the spectator can go
along with the injured person in revenging himself by
the death of the offender, this is the proper
punishment, and what is to be exacted by the offended
person or the magistrate in his place who acts in the
character of an impartial spectator. . . . In all cases
a punishment appears equitable in the eyes of the
[unconcerned spectator] <rest of mankind> when it is
such that the spectator would concur with the offended
person in exacting.
In LJ(B), a summarized version of lectures delivered in
1763–4, the corresponding passage is at 181 (Cannan ed.,
136): ‘Injury naturaly excites the resentment of the
spectator, and the punishment of the offender is reasonable
as far as the indifferent spectator can go along with it.
This is the natural measure of punishment.’
Consequently Smith would no longer accept the view that
the rules of punishment resemble those of beneficence in
being imprecise. That is why the relevant sentences of the
manuscript are not reproduced in TMS, either at II.ii.1,
where justice and beneficence are compared, or at
III.6.8–10, where Smith distinguishes the precision of the
rules of justice from the looseness of the rules of other
virtues.
(2) Having noted an apparent similarity between improper
punishment and improper benevolence, the manuscript goes on
to contrast them, in that improper punishment may and ought
to be opposed by force and renders the inflicter of it
liable to punishment in his turn as having done an injury,
while improper beneficence cannot be opposed by force and
exposes to no punishment. The conclusion about ‘improper’
(i.e. want of proper) beneficence is reproduced in TMS at
II.ii.1.3, but not that about improper punishment. It is
indeed surprising that nowhere in TMS does Smith repeat the
statement in the manuscript that ‘Improper punishment,
punishment which is either not due at all or which exceeds
the demerit of the Crime, is an injury to the Criminal’.
This is not only a sound expression of what Smith would call
our ‘natural moral sentiments’; it is a point which one
would expect Smith, as an upholder of the retributive or
desert theory of punishment, to include in his criticism of
the utilitarian account of justice. Why does he not do so?
The fact is that Smith found himself in a cleft stick on
this issue and had not thought out his position
consistently. In the manuscript he says that the sentinel is
punished for reasons of utility (‘meerly from a View to the
general interest of Society’), but he then writes: ‘In our
hearts we cannot blame this necessary Severity. Nothing
can be more just [our italics], than that one man should
be sacrificed to the security of thousands.’ In the printed
text of TMS, the sentences just quoted are modified and
elaborated.
This severity may, upon many occasions, appear
necessary, and, for that reason, just and proper. When
the preservation of an individual is inconsistent with
the safety of a multitude, nothing can be more just than
that the many should be preferred to the one. Yet this
punishment, how necessary soever, always appears to be
excessively severe. The natural atrocity of the crime
seems to be so little, and the punishment so great, that
it is with great difficulty that our heart can reconcile
itself to it. Though such carelessness appears very
blameable, yet the thought of this crime does not
naturally excite any such resentment, as would prompt us
to take such dreadful revenge.
Smith is still prepared to say it is ‘just’ (as well as
‘proper’) to inflict, for utilitarian reasons, a punishment
whose severity exceeds the ‘natural atrocity’ of the crime.
But in these circumstances he could not say elsewhere, as
the manuscript does, that ‘punishment . . . which exceeds
the demerit of the Crime, is an injury to the Criminal’, for
‘injury’ means a breach of justice.
The extant Reports of the lectures on jurisprudence quote
Smith as again using the example of the sentinel. In LJ(B)
182 (Cannan ed., 136), he is still prepared to call the
punishment ‘just’: ‘if a centinel be put to death for
leaving
his post, tho’ the punishment be just and the injury that
might have ensued be very great, yet mankind can never enter
into this punishment as if he had been a thief or a robber.’
But in LJ(A) ii.92, Smith expresses himself more cautiously:
In the same manner the military laws punish a
centinell who falls asleep upon guard with death. This
is intirely founded on the consideration of the publick
good; and tho we may perhaps [our italics]
approve of the sacrificing one person for the safety of
a few, yet such a punishment when it is inflicted
affects us in a very different manner from that of a
cruel murtherer or other attrocious criminall.
Apart from the few sentences comparing improper
punishment with improper benevolence, the whole of the
substance of our manuscript fragment, often with the
self–same words, is included in different parts of TMS. It
is interesting to observe that, even when writing new
material for edition 6, Smith was prepared to repeat some of
the thought of the manuscript fragment, and even to
introduce a brief phrase (but perhaps only by chance) that
had occurred in the manuscript and that he had not
previously used in TMS.
There can be no doubt that the manuscript is earlier than
edition 1 of the book. As we have already observed, some of
the corrections in the manuscript were made at the first
dictation of the material, and it is the revised words,
together with insertions made subsequently, that find a
place in edition 1 of TMS. Often, too, the version in the
printed text expands and improves upon the thought of the
manuscript. The discussion of the sentinel is one, but not
the only, clear instance of such improvement. Then again
there is the evidence already cited that in the manuscript
the theory of the impartial spectator has not yet been
explicitly formulated.
Having established that the manuscript preceded the one
submitted to the printer for edition 1 of the TMS, we can
now consider for what purpose it was written. There are two
possibilities, (1) that it was part of an early draft of the
book, and (2) that it was part of a lecture. The first
hypothesis receives some support from one piece of evidence,
namely the occurrence in the manuscript of the very words
‘the Theory of moral Sentiments’. As against that, however,
there are two considerations which point, one of them
strongly, to the alternative hypothesis of a lecture.
First, in the manuscript Smith states his intention
‘hereafter to give a particular discourse’ on natural
jurisprudence or the theory of the general principles of
law. In the last paragraph of TMS he says he will endeavour
‘in another discourse’ to give an account of the general
principles of law and government, and of the history of
jurisprudence. Here ‘another discourse’ means, of course,
another book; but that cannot be the meaning of the words in
the manuscript, ‘I intend hereafter to give a particular
discourse’. To give a particular discourse can
only mean to deliver a lecture, or possibly a series of
lectures.
The second consideration is less compelling, though worth
mentioning. The manuscript stops before the end of a page,
as do the two manuscripts of similar length reproduced in
facsimile by Scott in ASSP, 379–85. Scott mentions
(58) that these three manuscripts differ from the larger
‘early draft of part of The Wealth of Nations’ (the
text of which he prints on pp. 322–53) in that a new
chapter, in the latter work, follows on from the previous
one, on the same page, if there is room, instead of
beginning on a fresh page. The first printed versions of TMS
and WN often begin a new chapter on the same page as the end
of the previous chapter, if there is adequate space left,
and one can infer that this was Smith’s practice in the
manuscripts for those books, since the printers of the first
editions appear to have followed their copy closely in other
respects. We can therefore agree with Scott that the blank
space at the end of three of the short manuscripts,
including the one discussed here, is a reason for regarding
them as the final portions of lectures.
Whatever may be said, however, of the two other
fragments, which deal with economics,
there is no reason to assign our particular manuscript to
Smith’s Edinburgh lectures, which, so far as we know, did
not deal with ethics. Scott attributed this lecture to the
Edinburgh period because he took it to be an introduction to
lectures on law and because he thought Smith must have been
too busy, during his first years in Glasgow, to write about
law and economics. Since it is now perfectly clear that this
particular manuscript covers the subject–matter of parts of
TMS, the obvious conclusion is that it comes from one of the
lectures which he gave as Professor of Moral Philosophy at
Glasgow.
The lecture was, of course, on justice, and the single
sentence about the Christian doctrine of the Atonement is
relatively incidental. Smith’s retention of this sheet
cannot possibly have been due to any desire he might have
had to re–arrange the position in TMS of the paragraph on
divine justice. If he did have that purpose, he would have
kept the whole paragraph, not just a sheet which begins in
the middle of it; and in any event he would have used the
fuller version of the paragraph that was printed in editions
1–5, and not the shorter version that he had originally
written for his lecture course. It is perhaps idle to
speculate on the reasons why this particular sheet happened
to be placed in one of Smith’s books and so preserved, but
if conjecture may be allowed, one can hazard a different
suggestion.
We have already noted that certain sentences at the end
of the manuscript were not used in TMS, partly because Smith
had altered his view on one point and partly because he
would have seen a difficulty in his position on another. Now
in these sentences of the manuscript, he is discussing what
he takes to be the scholastic view of distributive justice,
as distinguished from commutative justice, which, he has
said, can alone properly be called justice. The distinction
between different senses of the term ‘justice’ is described
in TMS at VII.ii.1.10. We are there told that one sense
‘coincides with what Aristotle and the Schoolmen call
commutative justice’, and that a second sense ‘coincides
with what some have called distributive justice’ [our
italics]. At this point Smith inserts a footnote to explain
that ‘The distributive justice of Aristotle is somewhat
different’. The note goes on to give a succinct explanation
of Aristotle’s view and ends with a reference to the
Nicomachean Ethics. Now Mitford’s information was that
Mr. Cunningham found the manuscript in a volume of
Aristotle, and it is not too fanciful in the circumstances
to suppose that the volume was, or included, Aristotle’s
Ethics. In preparing his earlier thoughts for
publication, Smith would have checked many of his
statements, and in this instance he would have found, by
reference to Aristotle, that some qualification was needed
to the bare statement in the lecture that ‘in the Schools’
the name of distributive justice was used for the proper
allocation of beneficence. Following up this line of
thought, one can even suggest an identification of the
particular volume in which the manuscript was found. Adam
Smith had a copy of the Works of Aristotle in Greek and
Latin, edited by du Val and published in four folio volumes
at Paris in 1629. (Bonar, Catalogue 2, 10,
incorrectly gives the date as 1729.) Apart from this, he had
separate editions of the Rhetoric and of the
Poetics but no separate edition of the Ethics.
Volume III of the du Val edition includes Aristotle’s
ethical writings, and it is quite likely that this volume
was the one in which the manuscript was found. Smith’s copy
of the du Val Aristotle was certainly among the books that
were bequeathed to Mrs. Cunningham, and it is now in the
Library of the Queen’s University of Belfast. It would be
pleasant to be able to report that Volume III shows some
line of discoloration as the result of having secreted a
folded sheet of paper for some seventy years, either at the
relevant part of the Nicomachean Ethics or in the
endpapers, but the Sub–Librarian at the Queen’s University
tells us that there is no such trace.
Returning from these speculations to the fairly solid
facts established earlier, there are some further inferences
that may be drawn from the manuscript. To those who know the
content of TMS, the title of the book seems a little
strange, for the basic concepts of Smith’s distinctive
theory are sympathy and the impartial spectator, not moral
sentiments. In the manuscript, Smith uses the phrase ‘the
Theory of moral Sentiments’ as parallel to ‘the Theory of
the general principles of Law’, and from this we can see
that the title of his book is not meant to describe his own
individual contribution to ethics but is his name for the
scope of the subject in general (just as more recent writers
have entitled their books The Theory of Good and Evil
or The Theory of Morals, meaning that they are
writing essays in ethical theory, not that their own
views alone can properly be called ‘the’ theory). Once we
realize that Smith’s title is his name for the subject,
it no longer seems strange. He was first taught ethics by
Hutcheson, but Hume was the thinker who stimulated him to
form a theory of his own. In Smith’s eyes Hume had
demonstrated conclusively that moral judgement and action
are not based on reason but on ‘sentiment’ or feeling. Hume
had further suggested that the ‘peculiar sentiment of
morals’ is mediated by sympathy; and Smith found this
suggestion attractive in principle but over–simplified in
its assumption that there was a single, ‘peculiar’, moral
sentiment to be explained. He therefore elaborated a more
complex account of sympathy, that would explain the
distinction between several different forms of moral
sentiment, the ‘sense of propriety’, of virtue, of merit, of
duty. Hence he regards the task of ethical theory as that of
giving an account of ‘moral sentiments’ in the plural.
Another inference from the manuscript that can be made
with confidence is this. It has always been supposed, from
hearsay and intrinsic probability, that Smith worked up TMS
from his lectures on ethics. The manuscript provides
definite proof that he did so, even to the extent of
repeating many of the very words of his lectures in their
written form. Some, slightly hazardous, internal evidence
pointing in this direction can be found in the book itself,
as is mentioned in section 1(a) of our Introduction
(p. 4) and in editorial footnotes at II.i.1, IV.2.7 and 9,
and VII.iii.1.2. But comparison of the manuscript with
relevant parts of the printed texts puts the matter beyond
any doubt.
This leads to yet another point. Rae (Life, 260–1)
reports the opinion of J. R. McCulloch that Smith dictated
WN to an amanuensis but wrote the manuscript of TMS in his
own hand, and that this accounts for a difference in the
style of the two works. Rae is sceptical, since there is no
evidence that McCulloch had anything more to go on than his
own impression that the style of WN is more diffuse than
that of TMS, and Rae himself does not share that impression.
We can be fairly certain, from our knowledge of Smith’s
extensive use of amanuenses, that WN was indeed dictated.
Now if Smith was using an amanuensis even for his lectures,
it seems likely that he would have done so for the
manuscript of TMS.
Evidence from another quarter, however, makes this less
certain. A comparison of details of antique spellings in
edition 1 of WN with corresponding details in letters
written in Smith’s own hand, shows clearly enough that he
himself did not write the manuscript used by the printers. A
similar scrutiny of details of spelling and contractions in
edition 1 of TMS, on the other hand, shows little deviation
from, and indeed a good deal of correspondence with, Smith’s
practice in his letters. So it is possible that he did write
the manuscript of his first book in his own hand.
Nevertheless, we have already seen that much of the actual
phraseology and construction of sentences repeats material
in the lectures, which he had dictated to an amanuensis. If,
as McCulloch believed, dictation produced a more diffuse
style, the effect should be apparent in TMS too. One can of
course account for differences of style in the two books, if
differences there be, simply by the difference in Smith’s
age at the respective dates of composition. Certainly the
passages added in edition 6 of TMS tend to be more diffuse
than the writing of the original book, but the simplest
explanation of this is that in 1759 Smith was a man in his
thirties, while in 1788–9 he was in his sixties.
So much for the manuscript fragment. A good deal can be
learned from it about the composition of TMS, but nothing
about the reasons why Smith withdrew the paragraph on divine
justice. In returning to this question, we want to suggest
that Archbishop Magee was not so silly as Rae supposed, but
we must state clearly at the outset that our suggestion on
this issue is to a certain extent speculative.
The paragraph withdrawn from edition 6 occurred at the
end of a chapter that considers the extent to which the
sense of justice depends on utility. Earlier in the chapter,
Smith gives partial support to a utilitarian theory of
justice, and speaks of ‘the account commonly given of our
approbation of the punishment of injustice’ (II.ii.3.7). In
LJ(A) ii.90, he again discusses utilitarian theories of ‘the
originall measure of punishments’, which, he says, have been
held by ‘Grotius and other writers’. But if one thinks of a
utilitarian account of justice in general, Smith must surely
have regarded Hume as the main contemporary proponent. His
description of the utilitarian account in TMS II.ii.3.6
seems to refer particularly to Hume’s view that utility
pleases through sympathy. Writing in the 1750s, Smith was
bound to recall that Hume, in the Enquiry concerning the
Principles of Morals (1751), had argued strongly for the
view that justice, unlike benevolence, arises solely
from utility. Consequently, even though Smith’s criticism of
the utilitarian view of justice may have been aimed
originally at a wider target, in the particular context of
TMS II.ii.3 it must have seemed, and indeed have been
intended, to be primarily directed against Hume, as are
Smith’s criticisms of utilitarianism elsewhere in the book.
This conclusion is confirmed by a couple of minor
revisions of the disputed paragraph that were introduced in
edition 3. Editions 1 and 2 state that a utilitarian view of
divine justice ‘is not the doctrine of nature, but of an
artificial, though ingenious, refinement of philosophy’, and
that ‘All our natural sentiments prompt us’ to take a
non–utilitarian view. In edition 3, the first phrase becomes
‘is not the doctrine of untaught nature but of an artificial
refinement of reason and philosophy’, and the second phrase
becomes ‘Our untaught, natural sentiments, all prompt us’.
The addition of ‘untaught’ in both sentences plainly takes
account of Hume’s distinction between different senses of
the term ‘natural’ (Treatise of Human Nature,
III.i.2, III.ii.1; ed. Selby–Bigge, 474–5, 484).
It is likely that Hume would have discussed with Smith in
conversation their radical difference of opinion on the
place of utility in moral judgement, and the minor revision
noted above may be due to Hume’s criticism. It is also
possible that Hume may have teased Smith about his
acceptance of conventional orthodoxy on theological matters.
However that may be, edition 3 of TMS contains some further
minor revisions of the paragraphs on divine justice, and of
later remarks on the character of the clergyman, toning down
the categorical affirmations of the original version.
Editions 1 and 2 said that a non–retributive view of divine
justice ‘can, by no means, be so easily admitted’; edition 3
alters this to ‘seems repugnant to some very natural
feelings’. Editions 1 and 2 stated firmly that man can see
no reason why he should not be the subject of divine
indignation; edition 3 says ‘he thinks he can see no
reason’. In editions 1 and 2, man ‘is sensible’ that he
appears to God to be a vile insect, and ‘is conscious’ that
he is undeserving of happiness; in edition 3, he only
‘imagines’ the first and ‘suspects’ the second. In editions
1 and 2, repentance, sorrow, humiliation, and contrition
‘are’ the sentiments which become him; in edition 3, they
‘seem’ so. A similar problematic note is struck by a
revision in the preceding paragraph (II.ii.3.12) of
‘religion authorises’ to ‘religion, we suppose, authorises’.
Then again, at V.2.5, the clergyman, who in editions 1 and 2
‘is’ the messenger of serious tidings and ‘is’ continually
occupied with the grand and solemn, becomes in edition 3 one
who ‘seems to be’ the former and ‘is supposed to be’ the
latter. It is of course possible that the more cautious
statements of edition 3 represent Smith’s original views,
the expression of which he felt would be injudicious as
coming from a Professor of Moral Philosophy but which
honesty obliged him to make clear after he had quitted his
Chair. At any rate we ought to note that, in Smith’s
revision of TMS, the withdrawal of the paragraph on divine
justice in edition 6 was not the first suggestion that he
might have moved away from orthodox theology.
Whether or not the changes made in edition 3 were
influenced by discussion with Hume, there is no doubt that
the criticism of utilitarianism which ends with the
paragraph on divine justice was first and foremost a
criticism of Hume. In the light of this, let us consider
what Smith might have been ready to say in 1759 and
reluctant to let stand after the death of Hume in 1776.
(Edition 5 of TMS appeared in 1781, but at this
juncture we can properly say that Smith’s ‘many avocations’
prevented him for a long time from making the radical
revisions that he had contemplated.) It will be recalled
that Magee had been shocked by Smith’s estimate of Hume’s
character, and in this Magee was not alone. The phrase that
Magee quoted had given great offence to the faithful at the
time of its original publication. It came in the last
sentence of Letter 178 addressed to William Strahan, dated 9
November 1776, soon after Hume’s death. The letter was
written for publication along with Hume’s short
autobiography. Smith knew very well that he was stirring up
a hornet’s nest, but although he was temperamentally averse
from public controversy on matters of religion, he
deliberately ended his letter with the statement that Hume
had come as near to perfect virtue as human frailty allowed.
It was written with the deepest sincerity, on the death of
Smith’s greatest friend, whom the world called an ‘atheist’.
When Smith came to revise his book on ethics, he must surely
have felt some revulsion from concluding a criticism of Hume
with a paragraph whose language echoed the sermons of those
‘high–flying’ preachers who had been the bitterest
detractors of Hume. It is no wonder, if Archdeacon
Sinclair’s report is authentic, that Smith should have
thought the paragraph ‘unnecessary and misplaced’. It was
unnecessary because the preceding criticism of utilitarian
theory stood firmly enough on its own ground of appeal to
our ‘natural sentiments’. It was misplaced because it was
(after 1776, at least) quite the wrong spirit in which to
end a polemic directed as much against his dead friend as
against anyone else. So instead of Christian doctrine about
expiation and atonement, Smith made his own atonement by
substituting a sentence so Humean in tone that it might
almost be called a libation to Hume’s ghost: ‘In every
religion, and in every superstition that the world has ever
beheld, accordingly, there has been a Tartarus as well as an
Elysium; a place provided for the punishment of the wicked,
as well as one for the reward of the just.’
Rae concludes his account of the controversy by saying (Life,
429–30) that ‘Smith gives a fresh expression to his belief
in a future state and an all–seeing Judge in one of the new
passages he wrote’ for edition 6, showing ‘that he died as
he lived, in the full faith of those doctrines of natural
religion which he had publicly taught’. Certainly Smith
never abandoned natural religion. The new passages
(there are in fact two of them, at III.2.12 and III.2.33)
about the all–seeing Judge seem at first sight to be very
near in doctrine to the suppressed paragraph, and indeed one
might wonder why, if Smith really wanted to retain the
paragraph in another place, he did not insert it there. Yet
a closer look at the ‘all–seeing Judge’ passages gives a
different impression. Rae quotes from the first of them but
does not mention that Smith reverts to the idea more fully
towards the end of the same chapter. The new passages, like
the suppressed paragraph, are about the doctrine of divine
reward and punishment in an afterlife, but Smith does not
now give unqualified support to the doctrine as preached by
Christians. The notion of heavenly reward, says Smith, is
the only comfort for unrecognized innocence and virtue, but
it has too often been taught in a form that contradicts our
moral sentiments by confining divine salvation to the
religious. He quotes and derides an address of Massillon to
the effect that soldiers cannot hope for the heaven which
one day of penance and mortification in a monk’s cell can
bring. ‘To compare, in this manner, the futile
mortifications of a monastery, to the ennobling hardships
and hazards of war . . . is surely contrary to all our moral
sentiments’. A paragraph of support for theology is followed
by two paragraphs of scorn for ‘monks and friars’ as
contrasted with ‘heroes, . . . statesmen and lawgivers, . .
. poets and philosophers . . . all the great protectors,
instructors, and benefactors of mankind; all those to whom
our natural sense of praise–worthiness forces us to ascribe
the highest merit and most exalted virtue’. Smith then ends
his chapter by quoting Voltaire’s satirical couplet on the
Christian concept of hell:
- Vous y grillez sage et docte Platon,
- Divin Homère, éloquent Cicéron.
If Smith had added to this honours list of the ancients a
similar one for the moderns, he would have put Hume at the
head of it to correspond to Plato (and Plato’s Socrates).
Smith’s derision of ‘monks and friars’ and ‘the futile
mortifications of a monastery’ has a familiar ring. It was
Hume who wrote (Enquiry concerning the Principles of
Morals, IX.i; ed. Selby–Bigge, §219) that ‘penance,
mortification, . . . and the whole train of monkish virtues
. . . are . . . everywhere rejected by men of sense’. And it
was Adam Smith who deliberately imitated the last sentence
of Plato’s Phaedo by ending his epitaph to Hume with
the judgement that Hume had approached ‘as nearly to the
idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man, as perhaps the
nature of human frailty will permit’.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Addendum to Introduction, pp.
32–3
A second Japanese translation was published in 1973:
Dōtoku–kanjōron, translated by Hiroshi Mizuta from
ed. 1, with notes of revisions made in subsequent editions;
Tokyo, 1973.
Corr., Letter 9 addressed to William Cullen, dated 3
September 1751.
Dugald Stewart, ‘Account of the Life and Writings of
Adam Smith, LL.D.’ (1793; reprinted in EPS), I.12; A. F.
Tytler, Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Henry Home of
Kames (Edinburgh, 1807), i.190.
W. R. Scott, Adam Smith as Student and Professor
(Glasgow, 1937), 50, 54–5, cites evidence for lectures on
civil law.
Stewart, I.16. Stewart identifies his informant as
Millar in a note added to the reprint of the ‘Account’
included in Works of Adam Smith (London, 1811),
v.412.
Stewart, I.18–20.
Taken from transcription in Glasgow Univ. Library,
Murray MS. 506, pp. 169 ff.
‘The Development of Adam Smith’s Ideas on the
Division of Labour’, Economic Journal, lxxxiii
(1973), 1094–1116.
Stewart, I.21.
Cf. also WN III.iii.12; IV.v.b.43; IV.ix.28.
Inquiry concerning Moral Good and Evil,
III.viii; D. D. Raphael, British Moralists 1650–1800,
§ 333.
It may have been suggested to Smith by Addison’s
dedication of vol. i of The Spectator, which begins:
‘I should not act the part of an impartial spectator, if I
directed the following papers to one who is not of the most
consummate and most acknowledged merit.’
Corr., Letter 40, dated 10 October 1759.
Ronald L. Meek and Andrew S. Skinner, ‘The
Development of Adam Smith’s Ideas on the Division of
Labour’, Economic Journal, lxxxiii (1973), 1103.
Andrew Millar, the publisher.
James Oswald, a friend of Smith’s from boyhood.
Benjamin C. Nangle, The Monthly Review, First
Series, 1749 1789, Indexes of Contributors and Articles
(Oxford, 1934), 199.
Cf. John Rac, Life of Adam Smith (London,
1895), 51–2. Rae is, however, mistaken when he says (58)
that admiration for TMS induced the future Earl of Shelburne
(Lord Fitzmaurice) to send his brother Thomas to study under
Smith. Lord Fitzmaurice advised his father to do this in
1758 on the suggestion of Sir Gilbert Elliot, and Thomas
Fitzmaurice was in residence at Glasgow early in 1759 before
TMS appeared (see Letter 27 to Smith from Elliot, dated 14
November 1758, and Letter 28 from Smith to Lord Fitzmaurice,
dated 21 February 1759).
Scott, ASSP, 68, 293 n.3.
Rae, Life, 59.
Scott, ASSP, 221.
Quoted by the Abbé Blavet in the preface (vii–viii)
of his translation of TMS.
Eckstein, intro. xxi n. 1; cf. Rae, Life,
196.
Rae, Life, 197.
J. H. Burton (ed.), Letters of Eminent Persons
addressed to David Hume (Edinburgh and London, 1849),
237–8; cf. Rae, Life, 198.
Countess of Minto, A Memoir of Hugh Elliot
(Edinburgh, 1868), 13; cf. Rae, Life, 199. The report
of Hume’s marriage was an unfounded rumour.
Corr., Letter 194 from the Duc de La Rochefoucauld
to Smith, dated 3 March 1778.
A. H. Brown, ‘Adam Smith’s First Russian
Followers’, in the volume of Essays on Adam Smith
(edited by Andrew S. Skinner and Thomas Wilson) accompanying
the present edition of Smith’s Works.
The Advertisement was added in
ed. 6.
An exaggeration. See Introduction, pp. 5–6, 43–4.
The title of WN as published is An Inquiry into.
. .
Smith’s unusually wide definition of ‘sympathy’
needs to be noted because some scholars, more familiar with
his economics than his moral philosophy, have mistakenly
equated sympathy with benevolence and have inferred that TMS
deals with the altruistic side of human conduct and WN with
its egoistic side. See Introduction, section 2(b).
1–5 wretchedness, 6 7
1–5 which, 6 7
om. 1
Chapters 2–5 form a separate Section in
ed. 1.
Smith presumably has Hobbes and Mandeville in mind
as the leading exponents of the view that all sentiments
depend on self–love, but in fact neither of them gives this,
or any, account of the pleasure and pain felt on observing
sympathy and antipathy. Smith may simply be making a
reasonable conjecture of what an egoistic theorist would
say. It is also possible that, as in I.iii.1.1 below, he is
misremembering a passage in Joseph Butler, Fifteen
Sermons, v, para. 2 (D. D. Raphael, British Moralists
1650–1800, § 412), where compassion as a distinct
feeling is explained by connecting it with the want of
assistance. Butler’s explanation is of course not given from
an egoistic standpoint, but it follows a lengthy and
penetrating criticism of Hobbes’s egoistic account of pity,
so that Smith might in memory have confused Butler’s own
account with that of Hobbes.
1 2E occasion 2–7
1–5 ∼⁁6 7
1 companions 2–7 The singular
form is supported by other phrases in the context and
especially by our companion at the beginning of §
3.
In Astronomy, intro. 1, probably written earlier
than TMS, Smith regards admiration as distinct from wonder
and surprise. ‘What is new and singular, excites that
sentiment which, in strict propriety, is called Wonder; what
is unexpected, Surprise; and what is great or beautiful,
Admiration.’ He goes on to say that we can admire what is
neither novel nor unexpected, implying that admiration can
exist apart from wonder and surprise.
Smith has Hume in mind. Cf. IV.2.3–7, where § 3
refers directly to Hume and § 7 refers back to the present
passage.
Smith’s distinction between the ‘amiable’ and the
‘awful’ or ‘respectable’ virtues is influenced, at least in
the words used, by some remarks of Hume: ‘The characters of
Caesar and Cato, as drawn by Sallust,
are both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the
word; but in a different way: Nor are the sentiments
entirely the same, which arise from them. The one produces
love; the other esteem: The one is amiable; the other awful:
We cou’d wish to meet with the one character in a friend;
the other character we wou’d be ambitious of in ourselves.’
(Treatise of Human Nature, III.iii.4; ed. L. A.
Selby–Bigge, 607–8. Cf. Enquiry concerning the Principles
of Morals, appendix iv; ed. Selby–Bigge, § 265.) The
distinction is, however, far more important for Smith than
for Hume. Smith gives the second type of virtue an equal
place with benevolence or humanity in constituting human
perfection and sets ‘the great precept of nature’ on a par
with ‘the great law of Christianity’ (§ 5 below); he
combines the Christian ethic of love with the Stoic ethic of
self–command. This feature of Smith’s moral philosophy marks
a striking divergence from the position of Hutcheson and
Hume.
5 ∼. 1–3 ∼? 4 6 7 The
exclamation mark of ed. 5, which produces consistency with
the preceding paragraph, was overlooked when ed. 6 was
prepared from a copy of ed. 4.
1–3 ∼⁁4–7
1E should 1–7
I.i.1.3
In Sophocles’ Philoctetes.
In Euripides’ Hippolytus.
In Sophocles’ Trachiniae.
I.i.4.3
and if the lover is not good company to
his mistress, he is to no body else. 1–3 and if the
lover is not . . . he is so to no body else. 4 5
Propertius, 1–5
In ancient Greek myth the Fortunate Islands or
Islands of the Blessed were the abode of the virtuous in the
life after death. Hesiod (Works and Days, 170 ff.)
and Pindar (Olympian Odes, 2.61 ff.) both describe it
as a life free from toil and care.
The Orphan by Thomas Otway.
Racine’s Phèdre.
2E the 1–7
1E These 1–7
1 2E in turn, 2–7
II.ii.3
om. 1–5 Presumably emended by the
author; but since the earlier reading too makes good sense,
it may originally have been intentional.
om. 1
Joseph Butler (d. 1752), Fifteen Sermons, v,
para. 2; Raphael, British Moralists 1650–1800, § 412:
‘Though men do not universally rejoice with all whom they
see rejoice, yet . . . they naturally compassionate all . .
. whom they see in distress . . . insomuch that words
expressing this latter, pity, compassion, frequently occur;
whereas we have scarce any single one, by which the former
is distinctly expressed. Congratulation indeed answers
condolence: but both these words are intended to signify
certain forms of civility, rather than any inward sensation
or feeling. This difference or inequality is so remarkable,
that we plainly consider compassion as itself an original,
distinct, particular affection in human nature; whereas to
rejoice in the good of others, is only a consequence of the
general affection of love and good–will to them.’ Adam
Smith’s memory has misled him into thinking that Butler gave
arguments for the existence of sympathetic joy as a separate
principle. In fact Butler proceeds to explain why, unlike
compassion, it is not considered a separate principle. Hence
Eckstein (i.284–5), while believing that the reference is
probably to Butler, adds, implausibly, that it might be to
Hutcheson or Hume.
*] It has been objected
to me that as I found the sentiment of approbation, which is
always agreeable, upon sympathy, it is inconsistent with my
system to admit any disagreeable sympathy. I answer, that in
the sentiment of approbation there are two things to be
taken notice of; first, the sympathetic passion of the
spectator; and, secondly, the emotion which arises from his
observing the perfect coincidence between this sympathetic
passion in himself, and the original passion in the person
principally concerned. This last emotion, in which the
sentiment of approbation properly consists, is always
agreeable and delightful. The other may either be agreeable
or disagreeable, according to the nature of the original
passion, whose features it must always, in some measure,
retain.
.
The footnote was added in ed. 2. An
earlier draft of it was enclosed by Smith with Letter 40
addressed to Sir Gilbert Elliot, dated 10 October 1759. The
draft is in the hand of an amanuensis with minor revision in
the hand of Smith. Variants from the above text in this
draft are given in Appendix I.
By Hume in Letter 36, dated 28 July 1759: ‘I am told
that you are preparing a new Edition, and propose to make
some Additions and Alterations, in order to obviate
Objections. . . . I wish you had more particularly and fully
prov’d, that all kinds of Sympathy are necessarily
Agreeable. This is the Hinge of your System, and yet you
only mention the Matter cursorily in p. 20 [I.i.2.6]. Now it
woud appear that there is a disagreeable Sympathy, as well
as an agreeable. And indeed, as the Sympathetic Passion is a
reflex Image of the principal, it must partake of its
Qualities, and be painful where that is so. . . . It is
always thought a difficult Problem to account for the
Pleasure, receivd from the Tears and Grief and Sympathy of
Tragedy; which woud not be the Case, if all Sympathy was
agreeable. An Hospital woud be a more entertaining Place
than a Ball. I am afraid that in p. 99 and 111 [I.ii.5.4 and
I.iii.1.9] this Proposition has escapd you, or rather is
interwove with your Reasonings in that place. You say
expressly, it is painful to go along with Grief and we
always enter into it with Reluctance. It will probably
be requisite for you to modify or explain this Sentiment,
and reconcile it to your System.’
Rae, Life, 148, mistakenly says
that the second edition of TMS ‘contained none of the
alterations or additions [Hume] expected’.
Two sounds, I suppose, may, cach of them
[them, 4 5] taken singly, be austere, and yet, if
they are perfect concords, the perception of their [this
draft] harmony and coincidence may be agreeable.
[agreable. draft] add draft–of–1759 2–5
Seneca, De Providentia (Dialogues,
Book I), ii. 9.
Plato, Phaedo, 117 b–e.
Charles de Gontaut (1562–1602), son of the Baron de
Biron, was made Duc de Biron and Marshal of France by Henri
IV for his courage and success in war, but was later found
guilty of treason. He was executed on 31 July 1602.
5 ∼. 1–3 ∼? 4 6 7 The
question–mark gives the wrong sense, as inviting a negative
answer.
If we examine . . . with rigor, we
shall find 1 If we examine . . . with rigor, we
should find 2–5 If we examine . . . with rigour, we
should find 6–7 We have emended examine to
examined, as presumably intended by the revision of
shall to should.
Cf. Hume, Treatise of Human Nature, II.iii.5;
ed. Selby–Bigge, 360–2.
James II left for France during the night of 11–12
December 1688, but his ship was delayed by adverse winds. He
was captured and badly treated by a group of fishermen from
Faversham.
1–5 ∼⁁6 7
Voltaire, Siècle de Louis XIV, ch. 25. Smith
is probably giving his own translation from the French.
Cf. Plutarch, Lives, Aemilius Paulus, 33–4.
La Rochefoucauld, Maximes, 490. Smith’s
(slightly free) English translation is again probably his
own.
om. 1–5, which here begin a new
chapter. The third paragraph of that chapter leads into what
follows c–c in ed. 6. We give the text of ed. 1
with the variants of eds. 2–5 below. Part of this material
reappears in ed. 6 at VII.ii.1.23 and 20.
chap. iii
Of the stoical philosophy [ital. 2–5]
When we examine
in this manner into the ground of the different degrees of
estimation which mankind are apt to bestow upon the
different conditions of life, we shall find, that the
excessive preference, which they generally give to some of
them above others, is in a great measure without any
foundation. If to be able to act with propriety, and to
render ourselves the proper objects of the approbation of
mankind, be, as we have been endeavouring to show, what
chiefly recommends to us one condition above another, this
may be equally [equally be 2–5] attained in them all.
The noblest propriety of conduct may be supported in
adversity, as well as in prosperity; and tho’ [though 2–5]
it is somewhat more difficult in the first, it is upon that
very account more admirable. Perils and misfortunes are not
only the proper school of heroism, they are the only proper
theatre which can exhibit its virtue to advantage, and draw
upon it the full applause of the world. The man, whose whole
life has been one even and uninterrupted course of
prosperity, who never braved any danger, who never
encountered any difficulty, who never surmounted any
distress, can excite but an inferior degree of admiration.
When poets and romance–writers endeavour to invent a train
of adventures, which shall give the greatest lustre to those
characters for whom they mean to interest us, they are all
of a different kind. They are rapid and sudden changes of
fortune, situations the most apt to drive those who are in
them to frenzy and distraction, or to abject despair; but in
which their heroes act with so much propriety, or at least
with so much spirit and undaunted resolution, as still to
command our esteem. Is not the unfortunate magnanimity of
Cato, Brutus, and Leonidas, as much the object of
admiration, as that of the successful Caesar or Alexander?
To a generous mind, therefore, ought it not to be as much
the object of envy? If a more dazzling splendor seems to
attend the fortunes of successful conquerors, it is because
they join together the advantages of both situations, the
lustre of prosperity to the high admiration which is excited
by dangers encountered, and difficulties surmounted, with
intrepidity and valour.
It was upon this account that, according
to the stoical philosophy, to a wise man all the different
conditions of life were equal. Nature, they said, had
recommended some objects to our choice, and others to our
disapprobation. Our primary appetites directed us to the
pursuit of health, strength, ease, and perfection, in all
the qualities of mind and body; and of whatever could
promote or secure these, riches, power, authority: and the
same original principle taught us to avoid the contrary. But
in chusing or rejecting, in preferring or postponing, those
first objects of original appetite and aversion, nature
[Nature 4 5] had likewise taught us, that there was a
certain order, propriety, and grace, to be observed, of
infinitely greater consequence to happiness and perfection,
than the attainment of those objects themselves. The objects
of our primary appetites or aversions were to be pursued or
avoided, chiefly because a regard to this grace and
propriety required such conduct. In directing all our
actions according to these, consisted the happiness and
glory of human nature. In departing from those rules which
they prescribed to us, its greatest wretchedness and most
compleat [complete 4 5] depravity. The outward
appearance of this order and propriety was indeed more
easily maintained in some circumstances than in others. To a
fool, however, to one whose passions were subjected to no
proper controul, to act with real grace and propriety, was
equally impossible in every situation. Tho’ [Though 2–5]
the giddy multitude might admire him, tho’ [though 2–5]
his vanity might sometimes be elated by their ignorant
praises into something that resembled self–approbation, yet
still when he turned his view to what passed within his own
breast, he was secretly conscious to himself of the
absurdity and meanness of all his motives, and inwardly
blushed and trembled at the thoughts of the contempt which
he knew he deserved, and which mankind would certainly
bestow upon him if they saw his conduct in the light in
which in his own heart he was obliged to regard it.
To a wise man, on the contrary, to one whose passions
were all brought under perfect subjection to the ruling
principles of his nature, to reason and the love of
propriety, to act so as to deserve approbation was equally
easy upon all occasions. Was he in prosperity, he returned
thanks to Jupiter for having joined him with circumstances
which were easily mastered, and in which there was little
temptation to do wrong. Was he in adversity, he equally
returned thanks to the director of this spectacle of human
life, for having opposed to him a vigorous athlete, over
whom, tho’ [though 2–5] the contest was likely to be
more violent, the victory was more glorious, and equally
certain. Can there be any shame in that distress which is
brought upon us without any fault of our own, and in which
we behave with perfect propriety? There can, therefore, be
no evil, but, on the contrary, the greatest good and
advantage. A brave man exults in those dangers, in which,
from no rashness of his own, his fortune has involved him.
They afford an opportunity of exercising that heroic
intrepidity, whose exertion gives the exalted delight which
flows from the consciousness of superior propriety and
deserved admiration. One who is master of all his exercises
has no aversion to measure his strength and activity with
the strongest. And in the same manner, one who is master of
all his passions, does not dread any circumstance
[circumstances 2–5] in which the superintendent
[superintendant 4 5] of the universe may think proper
to place him. The bounty of that divine being [Divine Being
4 5] has provided him with virtues which render him
superior to every situation. If it is pleasure, he has
temperance to refrain from it; if it is pain, he has
constancy to bear it; if it is danger or death, he has
magnanimity and fortitude to despise it. He
never complains of the destiny of providence, nor
thinks the universe in confusion when he is out of order. He
does not look upon himself, according to what self–love
would suggest, as a whole, separated and detached from every
other part of nature, to be taken care of by itself, and for
itself. He regards himself in the light in which he imagines
the great Genius of human nature, and of the world [world,
4 5] regards him. He enters, if I may say so, into
the sentiments of that Divine Being, and considers himself
as an atom, a particle, of an immense and infinite system,
which must, and ought to be disposed of, according to the
conveniency of the whole. Assured of the wisdom which
directs all the events of human life, whatever lot befalls
[befals 5] him, he accepts it with joy, satisfied
that, if he had known all the connexions and dependencies of
the different parts of the universe, it is the very lot
which he himself would have wished for. If it is life, he is
contented to live: and if it is death, as nature [Nature
4 5] must have no further occasion for his presence
here, he willingly goes where he is appointed. I accept,
said a stoical philosopher, with equal joy and satisfaction,
whatever fortune can befal me. Riches or poverty, pleasure
or pain, health or sickness, all is alike: nor would I
desire that the Gods [gods 4 5] should in any respect
change my destination. If I was to ask of them any thing,
beyond what their bounty has already bestowed, it would
[should 2–5] be that they would inform me beforehand
what it was their pleasure should be done with me, that I
might of my own accord place myself in this situation, and
demonstrate the chearfulness with which I embraced their
allotment. If I am going to sail, says Epictetus, I chuse
the best ship, and the best pilot, and I wait for the
fairest weather that my circumstances and duty will allow.
Prudence and propriety, the principles which the Gods [gods
4 5] have given me for the direction of my conduct,
require this of me; but they require no more: and if,
notwithstanding, a storm arises, which neither the strength
of the vessel, nor the skill of the pilot are likely to
withstand, I give myself no trouble about the consequence.
All that I had to do, is done already. [2–5 already,
1] The directors of my conduct never command me to be
miserable, to be anxious, desponding, or afraid. Whether we
are to be drowned, or to come to a harbour, is the business
of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it intirely [entirely 4 5]
to his determination, nor ever break my rest with
considering which way he is likely to decide it, but receive
whatever comes with equal indifference and security.
Such was the philosophy of the stoics. A
[stoics; a 2–5] philosophy which affords the noblest
lessons of magnanimity, is the best school of heroes and
patriots, and to the greater part of whose precepts there
can be no other objection, except that honourable one, that
they teach us to aim at a perfection altogether beyond the
reach of human nature. I shall not at present stop to
examine it. I shall only observe, in confirmation of what
has formerly been said, that. . . .
For the next eleven sentences cf. VII.ii.1.23.
For the next fifteen sentences cf. VII.ii.1.20.
We cannot identify this incident. Even Frederick
William I of Prussia, who was inordinately fond of using the
cane, drew the line at officers, let alone generals. An
anecdote about Frederick the Great has a whiff of
similarity. Once in a fit of anger he struck with his cane
the horse of an officer of the hussars; the officer
immediately shot the horse dead, declaring that he could not
ride a horse that had been caned: Reinhold Koser,
Geschichte Friedrichs des Grossen, ed. 4–5 (Stuttgart
and Berlin, 1912–14), ii.288. But a horse is not a general.
Cardinal de Retz, Mémoires, under Sept. 1648:
Pléiade ed. (Paris, 1956), 108 (110 in recent printings);
Oeuvres, ed. A. Feillet and others (Paris, 1870–1920),
ii.68. The English translation is probably Smith’s own.
Smith refers to the maxim again, with a slightly different
form of translation, in LRBL ii.42 (Lothian ed., 98).
om. 1–5
This chapter was added in ed. 6.
Mémoires du Duc de Sully, Supplément: in ed.
of 1822 (Ledoux, Paris), vi.186.
Marcus Claudius Marcellus was a Roman aristocrat
hostile to Julius Caesar. His most notorious act as consul
in 51 b.c. was to scourge a
magistrate of Como, a colony founded by Caesar. Marcellus
supported Pompey against Caesar in their struggle for power,
and after Caesar had won a decisive victory at the battle of
Pharsalus in 48 b.c. Marcellus
retired to Mytilene. In September 46 Caesar pardoned
Marcellus at the request of leading members of the Senate.
This was the most notable example of Caesar’s ‘clemency’,
aimed at conciliating the aristocracy to his rule. Cicero
was moved to deliver his speech Pro Marcello,
expressing appreciation of Caesar’s magnanimity. Adam Smith
is recalling a passage from that speech (viii.25), in which
Cicero quotes Caesar as having said ‘I have lived long
enough either for nature or for glory’. Cicero’s own comment
(very different from Smith’s) is that Caesar may have lived
long enough for nature and perhaps also for glory, but is
far from having lived long enough for the good of Rome.
I.i.3.5–7
The mode of exposition in this chapter of TMS seems
to retain, more than most, the original form of Smith’s
lecturing method, which John Millar described as follows:
‘Each discourse consisted commonly of several distinct
propositions, which he successively endeavoured to prove and
illustrate’ (Stewart, I.21).
1–3 7 that 4–6 Cf. § 3,
line 1, where all eds. retain That
Smith thinks of all four as men of great military
prowess and patriotism whose services were not properly
appreciated. Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus led the
Romans to victory against Hannibal in the Second Punic War.
He later retired from public life embittered by attacks on
his family. Marcus Furius Camillus delivered Rome from
invasion by the Gauls and is called by Livy the ‘second
founder’ of the city. Tradition has it that after an earlier
military success he was accused of having unfairly
distributed the booty and so he went into voluntary exile.
Timoleon of Corinth overthrew the despotic rule of his
brother and then, many years later, was sent by the
Corinthians to liberate Sicily from tyrants and invaders.
Between these two exploits he lived in retirement because
his mother and his kinsmen blamed him for having allowed his
brother to be put to death. Aristides ‘the Just’ was an
Athenian statesman and general who took a leading part in
the defeat of the Persian invaders of Greece at the battles
of Salamis and Plataea. He was ostracized for a time owing
to political rivalry with Themistocles.
To ascribe in this manner our natural sense of the
ill desert of human actions to a sympathy with the
resentment of the sufferer, may seem, to the greater part of
people, to be a degradation of that sentiment. Resentment is
commonly regarded as so odious a passion, that they will be
apt to think it impossible that so laudable a principle, as
the sense of the ill desert of vice, should in any respect
be founded upon it. They will be more willing, perhaps, to
admit that our sense of the merit of good actions is founded
upon a sympathy with the gratitude of the persons who
receive the benefit of them; because gratitude, as well as
all the other benevolent passions, is regarded as an amiable
principle, which can take nothing from the worth of whatever
is founded upon it. Gratitude and resentment, however, are
in every respect, it is evident, counterparts to one
another; and if our sense of merit arises from a sympathy
with the one, our sense of demerit can scarce miss to
proceed from a fellow–feeling with the other.
Let it be considered too that resentment,
though, in the degrees in which we too often see it, the
most odious, perhaps, of all the passions, is not
disapproved of when properly humbled and entirely brought
down to the level of the sympathetic indignation of the
spectator. When we, who are the bystanders, feel that our
own animosity entirely corresponds with that of the
sufferer, when the resentment of this last does not in any
respect go beyond our own, when no word, no gesture, escapes
him that denotes an emotion more violent than what we can
keep time to, and when he never aims at inflicting any
punishment beyond what we should rejoice to see inflicted,
or what we ourselves would upon this account even desire to
be the instruments of inflicting, it is impossible that we
should not entirely approve of his sentiments. Our own
emotion in this case must, in our eyes, undoubtedly justify
his. And as experience teaches us how much the greater part
of mankind are incapable of this moderation, and how great
an effort must be made in order to bring down the rude and
undisciplined impulse of resentment to this suitable temper,
we cannot avoid conceiving a considerable degree of esteem
and admiration for one who appears capable of exerting so
much self–command over one of the most ungovernable passions
of his nature. When indeed the animosity of the sufferer
exceeds, as it almost always does, what we can go along
with, as we cannot enter into it, we necessarily disapprove
of it. We even disapprove of it more than we should of an
equal excess of almost any other passion derived from the
imagination. And this too violent resentment, instead of
carrying us along with it, becomes itself the object of our
resentment and indignation. We enter into the opposite
resentment of the person who is the object of this unjust
emotion, and who is in danger of suffering from it. Revenge,
therefore, the excess of resentment, appears to be the most
detestable of all the passions, and is the object of the
horror and indignation of every body. And as in the way in
which this passion commonly discovers itself among mankind,
it is excessive a hundred times for once that it is
moderate, we are very apt to consider it as altogether
odious and detestable, because in its most ordinary
appearances it is so. Nature, however, even in the present
depraved state of mankind, does not seem to have dealt so
unkindly with us, as to have endowed us with any principle
which is wholly and in every respect evil, or which, in no
degree and in no direction, can be the proper object of
praise and approbation. Upon some occasions we are sensible
that this passion, which is generally too strong, may
likewise be too weak. We sometimes complain that a
particular person shows too little spirit, and has too
little sense of the injuries that have been done to him; and
we are as ready to despise him for the defect, as to hate
him for the excess of this passion.
The inspired writers would not surely have
talked so frequently or so strongly of the wrath and anger
of God, if they had regarded every degree of those passions
as vicious and evil, even in so weak and imperfect a
creature as man.
Let it be considered too, that the present
inquiry is not concerning a matter of right, if I may say
so, but concerning a matter of fact. We are not at present
examining upon what principles a perfect being would approve
of the punishment of bad actions; but upon what principles
so weak and imperfect a creature as man actually and in fact
approves of it. The principles which I have just now
mentioned, it is evident, have a very great effect upon his
sentiments; and it seems wisely ordered that it should be
so. The very existence of society requires that unmerited
and unprovoked malice should be restrained by proper
punishments; and consequently, that to inflict those
punishments should be regarded as a proper and laudable
action. Though man, therefore, be naturally endowed with a
desire of the welfare and preservation of society, yet the
Author of nature has not entrusted it to his reason to find
out that a certain application of punishments is the proper
means of attaining this end; but has endowed him with an
immediate and instinctive approbation of that very
application which is most proper to attain it. The oeconomy
of nature is in this respect exactly of a piece with what it
is upon many other occasions. With regard to all those ends
which, upon account of their peculiar importance, may be
regarded, if such an expression is allowable, as the
favourite ends of nature, she has constantly in this manner
not only endowed mankind with an appetite for the end which
she proposes, but likewise with an appetite for the means by
which alone this end can be brought about, for their own
sakes, and independent of their tendency to produce it. Thus
self–preservation, and the propagation of the species, are
the great ends which Nature seems to have proposed in the
formation of all animals. Mankind are endowed with a desire
of those ends, and an aversion to the contrary; with a love
of life, and a dread of dissolution; with a desire of the
continuance and perpetuity of the species, and with an
aversion to the thoughts of its intire extinction. But
though we are in this manner endowed with a very strong
desire of those ends, it has not been intrusted to the slow
and uncertain determinations of our reason, to find out the
proper means of bringing them about. Nature has directed us
to the greater part of these by original and immediate
instincts. Hunger, thirst, the passion which unites the two
sexes, the love of pleasure, and the dread of pain, prompt
us to apply those means for their own sakes, and without any
consideration of their tendency to those beneficent ends
which the great Director of nature intended to produce by
them.
Before I conclude this note, I must take
notice of a difference between the approbation of propriety
and that of merit or beneficence. Before we approve of the
sentiments of any person as proper and suitable to their
objects, we must not only be affected in the same manner as
he is, but we must perceive this harmony and correspondence
of sentiments between him and ourselves. Thus, though upon
hearing of a misfortune that had befallen my friend, I
should conceive precisely that degree of concern which he
gives way to; yet till I am informed of the manner in which
he behaves, till I perceive the harmony between his emotions
and mine, I cannot be said to approve of the sentiments
which influence his behaviour. The approbation of propriety
therefore requires, not only that we should entirely
sympathize with the person who acts, but that we should
perceive this perfect concord between his sentiments and our
own. On the contrary, when I hear of a benefit that has been
bestowed upon another person, let him who has received it be
affected in what manner he pleases, if, by bringing his case
home to myself, I feel gratitude arise in my own breast, I
necessarily approve of the conduct of his benefactor, and
regard it as meritorious, and the proper object of reward.
Whether the person who has received the benefit conceives
gratitude or not, cannot, it is evident, in any degree alter
our sentiments with regard to the merit of him who has
bestowed it. No actual correspondence of sentiments,
therefore, is here required. It is sufficient that if he was
grateful, they would correspond; and our sense of merit is
often founded upon one of those illusive sympathies, by
which, when we bring home to ourselves the case of another,
we are often affected in a manner in which the person
principally concerned is incapable of being affected. There
is a similar difference between our disapprobation of
demerit, and that of impropriety.
1–3 ∼⁁∼⁁4–7
Henry Home, Lord Kames, in Essays on the
Principles of Morality and Natural Religion (1751), Part
I, essay ii (‘Of the Foundation and Principles of the Law of
Nature’), chaps. 3–4. To call him ‘an author of very great
and original genius’ seems extravagant but no doubt reflects
Smith’s gratitude to Kames, who was one of three friends
responsible for arranging Smith’s Edinburgh lectures in 1748
and who probably also recommended him for the Chair of Logic
at Glasgow in 1751. Smith cannot be referring here to Hume,
whose distinctions between justice and benevolence (Enquiry
concerning the Principles of Morals (1751), II–III and
appendix iii: Treatise of Human Nature, III (1740),
ii.1–2 and 6; iii.1) are drawn quite differently. Eckstein
(i.290) thinks, with others, that the flattering description
probably refers to Hume, but notes that Hume does not speak
of a ‘stricter obligation’ to justice than to other virtues,
and therefore adds that the reference may be to Kames.
Bonar, Catalogue 1, 52, attributes the reference to
Hume, but acknowledges in Catalogue 2, 97–8, that
Eckstein’s alternative suggestion is correct. Apart from
stressing the stricter obligation of justice as a ‘primary
virtue’, Kames writes that justice ‘is considered as less
free than generosity’ (p. 71); cf. Smith here and in § 3
above.
1 ∼⁁2–7
Smith may here again be influenced by Kames, who
also writes vividly of remorse, including the words ‘Hence
that remorse of conscience, the most severe of all tortures
. . . ’ (Principles of Morality and Natural Religion,
I.ii.3; ed. 1, 64; L. A. Selby–Bigge, British Moralists,
§ 932). Cf. R. F. Brissenden in Texas Studies in Lit. and
Lang. xi (1969), 961.
Like Eckstein (i.290), we think that Smith has Hume
in mind here. Hume’s Enquiry concerning the Principles of
Morals (1751), III, argues forcibly that ‘public utility
is the sole origin of justice’; cf. Enquiry,
appendix iii. (In the earlier Treatise of Human Nature,
III.ii.2, the account of justice is essentially the same,
but Hume does not give all the emphasis to utility.)
Although Hume is largely concerned with the civil law of
property, he speaks of ‘justice’ and ‘equity’ generally and
in one place (Enquiry, III.i; ed. Selby–Bigge, § 148)
includes a reference to the equity of punishment as
depending on utility. At the beginning of § 7 below Smith
writes of § 6 as the account of punishment ‘commonly given’,
and in LJ(A) ii.90 he says that utilitarian theories of
punishment have been held by ‘Grotius and other writers’.
Nevertheless he must surely have had Hume’s Enquiry
at the forefront of his thoughts when he prepared the
present chapter for publication in 1759. The sentences that
follow in § 6 seem to refer particularly to Hume’s view that
utility pleases through sympathy.
1 2 bear 3–7 bear is
probably a printer’s error.
religion authorises 1 2 See Appendix
II.
This sentence was added in ed. 6,
replacing a concluding paragraph that had appeared in eds.
1–5. We give below the text of the paragraph as printed in
ed. 1, with the variants of later editions. See also
Appendix II.
That the Deity loves virtue and hates
vice, as a voluptuous man loves riches and hates poverty,
not for their own sakes, but for the effects which they tend
to produce; that he loves the one, only because it promotes
the happiness of society, which his benevolence prompts him
to desire; and that he hates the other, only because it
occasions the misery of mankind, which the same divine
quality renders the object of his aversion; is not the
doctrine of nature, but of an artificial, though ingenious,
refinement of philosophy. All our natural sentiments [of
untaught nature but of an artificial refinement of reason
and philosophy. Our untaught, natural sentiments, all 3–5]
prompt us to believe, that as perfect virtue is supposed
necessarily to appear to the Deity, as it does to us, for
its own sake, and without any further view, the natural and
proper object of love and reward, so must vice, of hatred
and punishment. That the gods neither resent nor hurt, was
the general maxim of all the different sects of the ancient
philosophy: and if, by resenting, be understood, that
violent and disorderly perturbation, which often distracts
and confounds the human breast; or if, by hurting, be
understood, the doing mischief wantonly, and without regard
to propriety or justice, such weakness is undoubtedly
unworthy of the divine perfection. But if it be meant, that
vice does not appear to the Deity to be, for its own sake,
the object of abhorrence and aversion, and what, for its own
sake, it is fit and right should be punished, the truth of
this maxim can, by no means, be so easily admitted. [maxim
seems repugnant to some very natural feelings. 3–5]
If we consult our natural sentiments, we are apt [are even
apt 3–5] to fear, lest [lest, 2–5] before the
holiness of God, vice should appear to be more worthy of
punishment than the weakness and imperfection of human
virtue can ever seem to be of reward. Man, when about to
appear before a being of infinite perfection, can feel but
little confidence in his own merit, or in the imperfect
propriety of his own conduct. In the presence of his
fellow–creatures, he may often [may even 2–5] justly
elevate himself, and may often have reason to think highly
of his own character and conduct, compared to the still
greater imperfection of theirs. But the case is quite
different when about to appear before his infinite Creator.
To such a being, he can scarce imagine, that his littleness
and weakness should ever seem to be [being, he fears, that
his littleness and weakness can scarce ever appear 3–5]
the proper object, either of esteem or of reward. But he can
easily conceive, how the numberless violations of duty, of
which he has been guilty, should render him the proper
object of aversion and punishment; neither can he see any
[and he thinks he can see no 3–5] reason why the
divine indignation should not be let loose without any
restraint, upon so vile an insect, as he is sensible [he
imagines 3–5] that he himself must appear to be. If
he would still hope for happiness, he is conscious [he
suspects 3–5] that he cannot demand it from the
justice, but that he must entreat it from the mercy of God.
Repentance, sorrow, humiliation, contrition at the thought
of his past conduct, are, [seem, 3–5] upon this
account, the sentiments which become him, and seem to [and
to 3–5] be the only means which he has left for
appeasing that wrath which, he knows, he has justly
provoked. He even distrusts the efficacy of all these, and
naturally fears, lest the wisdom of God should not, like the
weakness of man, be prevailed upon to spare the crime, by
the most importunate lamentations of the criminal. Some
other intercession, some other sacrifice, some other
atonement, he imagines, [imagines 2–5] must be made
for him, beyond what he himself is capable of making, before
the purity of the divine justice can be reconciled to his
manifold offences. The doctrines of revelation coincide, in
every respect, with those original anticipations of nature;
and, as they teach us how little we can depend upon the
imperfection of our own virtue, so they show us, at the same
time, that the most powerful intercession has been made, and
that the most dreadful atonement has been paid for our
manifold transgressions and iniquities.
Smith is no doubt thinking not only of natural
attitudes but also of their reflection in ancient systems of
law. Cf. LJ(A) ii. 118–20 and LJ(B) 188 (Cannan ed., 141–2).
Smith is again thinking of ancient law. ‘The ox that
gores’ is a reference to Exodus 21:28, ‘If an ox gore a man
or a woman, that they die: then the ox shall be surely
stoned, and his flesh shall not be eaten; but the owner of
the ox shall be quit.’ Cf. LJ(A) ii.118.
[G. P. Marana,] Letters writ by a Turkish Spy,
vol. iv, Book III, letter 10. Marana tells the story of ‘a
certain French nobleman’, not of an ‘officer’.
5 beneficent, 1–4 6 7 Cf.
malevolent ⁁in the next line, and cf. also the
following sentence where ed. 1 alone inserts a comma after
benevolence.
Lucius Licinius Lucullus commanded the Roman army
against Mithridates from 74 to 66 b.c.
Brilliant successes in the early years were followed by
failure of the compaign of 68, and Lucullus lost control of
his troops. He was required to hand over the command to
Pompey in 66. Smith is probably recalling Plutarch,
Lives, Lucullus, 35–6, in the remarks about laurels and
the opinion of Lucullus’ friends.
Cf. LJ(A) v.61–2 and LJ(B) 80 (Cannan ed., 56).
We are advised by Professor David M. Walker that
Scots law has never had any rule to this effect. Sir George
Mackenzie, Laws and Customs of Scotland in Matters
Criminal (1678), I.xi.10, wrote that he would like to
see a fixed period of forty days, but neither this nor any
other stated interval ever became the rule. A fixed period
of a year is, however, the rule in several other European
systems of law, including the law of England. As Eckstein
notes (i.293), such a rule is not intended to express
leniency towards a less heinous act but is simply an attempt
to draw a line for attributing causal connection.
Plutarch, Lives, Lucullus, 25. The
‘formidable enemy’ was Lucullus.
Lata culpa prope dolum est.
Smith is misquoting from memory. The Corpus Iuris
Civilis does not contain the phrase precisely as Smith
gives it. He is probably thinking either of lata culpa
plane dolo comparabitur (Digest, XI.6.1.1) or of
magna culpa dolus est (Digest, L.16.226).
In LJ Smith notes that Scots law made no distinction
between murder and man–slaughter. See LJ(A) ii.112 and LJ(B)
187 (Cannan ed., 140).
1–5 if, 6 7
Culpa levis.
Culpa levissima.
Cf. Justinian, Institutes, IV.iii.8.
1 2E consequence 2–7
1 2 actions. 3–7 The change in
ed. 3 was probably a printer’s revision, perhaps influenced
by actions in the next sentence.
2E men. 1–7 Cf. VI.iii.30, a
passage added in ed. 6, where the phrase is introduced
again, with the correct reading man.
use that 1–5
The passage from As, in the ancient
. . . to the end of § 5 was added in ed. 6.
Smith is thinking of the religion of ancient Rome. A
person who had unwittingly violated certain religious laws
was required to make atonement, and the word piaculum
was used both for the trespass and for the act of expiation.
The laws were especially stringent about encroachment upon
sacred precincts.
Smith refers again to the concept of the
piacular at VII.iv.30, another passage added in ed. 6.
All four unwittingly violated sacred rules of
marriage. Oedipus and his mother Jocasta, who appear in
Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, formed an incestuous marriage
in ignorance of their blood relationship. Monimia, in
Otway’s The Orphan (cf. I.ii.2.3 above), admitted her
brother–in–law to her bed, thinking he was her husband.
Isabella, in Thomas Southerne’s The Fatal Marriage, or
The Innocent Adultery, made a bigamous marriage through
believing mistakenly that her husband was dead.
1 2E efforts 2–7
om. 1 6 7 Consisting of one
Section2–5
SECT. I 1
Of the consciousness of merited praise
or blame 1 idem ital. 2–5 Apart from the first paragraph,
the content of Sect. i in ed. 1 (Chap. 1 in eds. 2–5)
is largely what became part of Chap. 2 in ed. 6.
om. 1–5
These five sentences were added in
ed. 6. After the end of § 1, ed. 1 (followed
by eds. 2–5 with variants as indicated) proceeds:
The desire of the approbation and
esteem of those we live with, which is of so much [of
such 2–5] importance to our happiness, cannot be
fully and intirely [entirely 4 5] contented but
by rendering ourselves the just and proper objects of
those sentiments, and by adjusting our own character and
conduct according to those measures and rules by which
esteem and approbation are naturally bestowed. It is not
sufficient, that from ignorance or mistake, . . .
The passage continues as in III.2.4
(second sentence) to the end of III.2.5, and then
proceeds to give the major part of III.2.9. Sect. i in ed. 1
(Chap. 1 in eds. 2–5) ends there, and Sect. ii
(Chap. 2 in eds. 2–5) begins as follows:
sect. ii [chap. ii2–5]
In what manner our own judgments refer to
what ought to be the judgments of others: And [and 2–5]
of the origin of general rules [ital. 2–5]
A Great part, perhaps the greatest
part [part, 2] of human happiness and misery
arises from the view of our past conduct, and from the
degree of approbation or disapprobation which we feel
from the consideration of it. But in whatever manner it
may affect us, our sentiments of this kind have always
some secret reference. . . .
Sect. ii of ed. 1 (Chap. 2 of
eds. 2–5) then proceeds more or less as in the text
of ed. 6 at the end of the five new sentences.
But in whatever manner it [i.e. our
past conduct] may affect us, our sentiments of this kind
have always 1–5
sentiments 1–5
We examine it as we imagine an
impartial spectator 1–5
and upon which he is provided with no
mirror to enable him to turn his eyes. 1
Cf. Hume, Treatise of Human Nature, II.ii.5;
ed. Selby–Bigge, 365; (after speaking of sympathy in
relation to personal beauty): ‘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 . . .’.
Between § 3 and § 4, ed.
1 inserts three further paragraphs. [1]—To be
amiable . . . deserve to be hated?—was transferred in ed.
2 so as to follow what is now § 6; it remained there
in the subsequent editions, and is now § 7. [2]
and [3] are given below. [2]
was withdrawn in ed. 2, which substituted an improved
expression of its thought in the paragraph that is now §
6. [3] was retained, with slight revision
(noted in the variants below), in ed. 2, but was
transferred so as to follow the present § 7; it
remained there in eds. 3–5, but was withdrawn in ed. 6. We
show variants not only of eds. 2–5 but also of the draft
revision for ed. 2 enclosed with Letter 40 addressed to Sir
Gilbert Elliot, dated 10 October 1759. The draft is in the
hand of an amanuensis with light revision in Smith’s own
hand. The commas that the draft adds to the text of ed. 1
were inserted by Smith himself.
[2] To judge of ourselves as we judge of
others, to approve and condemn in ourselves what we approve
and condemn in others, is the greatest exertion of candour
and impartiality. In order to do this, we must look at
ourselves with the same eyes with which we look at others:
we must imagine ourselves not the actors, but the spectators
of our own character and conduct, and consider how these
would affect us when viewed from this new station, in which
their excellencies and imperfections can alone be
discovered. We must enter, in short, either into what are,
or into what ought to be, or into what, if the whole
circumstances of our conduct were known, we imagine would be
the sentiments of others, before we can either applaud or
condemn it.
[3] A moral being is an accountable being.
An [Man is considered as a moral, because he is regarded as
an accountable being. But an draft 2–5] accountable
being, as the word expresses, is a being that must give an
account of its actions to some other, and that consequently
[that, consequently, draft] must regulate them
according to the good–liking [good liking draft 2–5]
of this other. Man is accountable to God and his fellow
creatures. [fellow–creatures. 2–5] But tho’ [though
2–5] he is, no doubt, principally accountable to God,
[God; 3–5] in the order of time, [time 3] he
must necessarily conceive himself as accountable to his
fellow creatures, [fellow–creatures, 2–5] before he
can form any idea of the Deity, or of the rules by which
that Divine Being [divine being 2–5] will judge of
his conduct. A child surely [child, surely, draft]
conceives itself as accountable to its parents, and is
elevated or cast down by the thought of their merited
approbation or disapprobation, long before it forms any idea
of its accountableness to the Deity, or of the rules by
which that Divine Being [Divine being draft divine
being 2–5] will judge of its conduct.
others; 1–5
displeased with 1 3–5 pleased
with 2 (corr. 2E)
After the end of § 5, ed. 1 adds
a further paragraph:
Unfortunately this moral looking–glass
is not always a very good one. Common looking–glasses,
it is said, are extremely deceitful, and by the glare
which they throw over the face, conceal from the partial
eyes of the person many deformities which are obvious to
every body besides. But there is not in the world such a
smoother of wrinkles as is every man’s imagination, with
regard to the blemishes of his own character.
Ed. 1 then proceeds to a passage which
in ed. 6 became the major part of Chapter 4, There are
two different occasions . . . (III.4.2) to the end
of that chapter.
In ed. 2 (followed by eds. 3–5),
the short paragraph quoted above was withdrawn, and §
6 was added.
§ 6 was added in the draft revision of
1759 and in ed. 2. It is an improved expression of the
thought contained in paragraph [2] of the
variants noted at § 3k.
pannel. draft 2–5 ‘The panel’ is a
Scots term for ‘the accused’ in a criminal law trial.
pannel, draft 2–5
See notek to § 3.
After the end of § 7, the draft
of 1759 and eds. 2–5 proceed with the slightly revised
version of paragraph [3] given in the variants
at § 3k. They then follow this with
several paragraphs that give an earlier view of the thought
contained in III.2.31–2. These paragraphs are printed in the
textual note at III.2.31
. Eds. 2–5 next proceed more or less as in III.3.1–5,
7–9, and 11. (The draft has part of this material.)
Thereafter they revert to the text of ed. 1 at what is
now III.4.3. In all, ed. 2 has here added sixteen paragraphs
to what was contained in ed. 1.
See notek to § 3.
Most of the content of this chapter was
added or re–written for ed. 6. §§ 1–3, §§ 6–8,
the beginning of § 9, §§ 10–30, and §§
33–5 are quite new, while §§ 31–2 re–state in a new
form the thought of several paragraphs that were added in
the draft revision of 1759 and in ed. 2 and were then
withdrawn in ed. 6. §§ 4–5 and most of § 9
repeat, with light revision, what formed the major part of
Section i in ed. 1 and of Chapter 1 in ed. 2. See notek
at III.1.2.
The passage from this point to the end
of § 5 formed part of Sect. i in ed. 1, and of Chap.
1 in ed. 2.
not 1–5
approbation 1–5
paints to conceal her ugliness, could
derive, . . . paid to her beauty. 1–5
should 1–5
incurred 1–5
have often 1–5
After the end of § 5, eds. 1–5
proceed with a paragraph which begins On the contrary,
the man who has broke . . . and which continues as at
§ 9k.
In eds. 1–5, a new paragraph, following
§ 5, begins here: On the contrary, the man . . .
om. 1–5
7 possible, 1–6 The addition
of l– in ed. 6 rendered this comma
unintentionally ambiguous.
At this point, ed. 1 ends Sect. i and
begins Sect. ii as shown in notec–c to III.1.2.
Eds. 2–5 follow ed. 1 but with chapters instead of sections.
The remainder of this chapter was added
in ed. 6. But see also noter at § 31.
On 10 March 1762. Jean Calas was a Calvinist, whose
eldest son decided to renounce the family faith for Roman
Catholicism in order to be eligible for the bar but then
committed suicide in a fit of remorse. The father was
accused of murdering him and was found guilty with no shred
of proof. Owing to the efforts of Voltaire a new trial was
eventually held on 9 March 1765. Calas was declared innocent
and his family was granted compensation.
Adam Smith will have heard much of this
cause célèbre when he resided at Toulouse for eighteen
months in 1764–5, and his anecdote of Calas’s last words to
the monk is doubtless recalled from conversations at that
time.
I.iii.1.3
Racine’s Phèdre was first produced on 1
January 1677. Its lack of success was partly due to the plot
of a hostile faction who engaged Nicolas Pradon to treat of
the same subject in a play called Phèdre et Hippolyte,
produced two days later. Modern scholars take the view that
Racine’s withdrawal from dramatic poetry for twelve years
had more than one cause, his appointment as a royal
historiographer, his return to religion, and his resentment
of the plot against the success of Phèdre. They
attach least weight to the third of these.
An instance that Smith will have had in mind was
Voltaire’s pique at Lord Kames’s disapproval, in Elements
of Criticism, of the Henriade. Not content with
ridiculing the Elements in a review, Voltaire showed
on several subsequent occasions that he could neither
forgive nor forget Kames’s criticism.
Alexander Pope’s satiric poem, The Dunciad,
is directed against a number of his critics but especially
(in its first version, 1728) against Lewis Theobald, who had
attacked Pope’s edition of Shakespeare.
Thomas Gray’s two Pindaric odes, ‘The Progress of
Poesy’ and ‘The Bard’ (1757), were parodied by Robert Lloyd
and George Colman the elder in an ode ‘To Obscurity’,
published in 1760 together with a second ode ‘To Oblivion’
parodying the ‘Ode to Memory’ (1756) by Gray’s friend
William Mason. Mason was indeed hurt but there is doubt
whether Gray was. Overtly at least, Gray took the parody in
good part. See R. Halsband, ‘A Parody of Thomas Gray’,
Philological Quarterly, xxii (1943), 255–66. (On p. 264,
note 42, Mr. Halsband says that Adam Smith’s account of the
matter was first printed in ed. 7 of TMS, ‘which was revised
by Smith and published posthumously in 1792’. This is
incorrect. It appeared in ed. 6, and there is no reason to
believe that Smith did any revision for ed. 7.)
For Smith’s praise of Gray, cf. LRBL ii.96
(Lothian ed., 123), where Smith says that the best of
Horace’s Odes are inferior to Gray’s. Cf. also a report in
The Bee, iii (11 May 1791), 6, of views expressed by
Smith in an interview given in 1780: ‘At the same time, he
mentioned Gray’s odes, which Johnson has damned so
completely, and in my humble opinion with so much justice,
as the standard of lyric excellence.’ Smith uses a line from
‘The Progress of Poesy’ (‘Yet oft, before his infant eyes,
would run’) as an illustration in English and Italian
Verses, 21, written after 1781 (and published in EPS).
Robert Simson (1687–1768), Professor of Mathematics
at the University of Glasgow, 1711–61. Matthew Stewart
(1717–85), Professor of Mathematics at the University of
Edinburgh, 1747–75. Matthew Stewart, the father of Dugald
Stewart, was a fellow–student of Smith when both were pupils
of Simson. Rae (Life, 11) reminds us that when Smith
wrote that these two men were the greatest mathematicians to
whom he had been known, he had also been for many years a
friend of d’Alembert.
his 6 7
Boileau (Nicolas Boileau–Despréaux) and Racine, who
were close friends, espoused the cause of the ancients in
the ‘Querelle des anciens et des modernes’. Philippe
Quinault, dramatist, was parodied by Boileau. Charles
Perrault, Fontenelle, and Houdar de La Motte were advocates
of modernism in the ‘Querelle’. Perrault’s poem Siècle de
Louis le Grand was attacked by Boileau; Fontenelle’s
election to the Académie française was blocked on four
occasions by Racine, Boileau, and their friends; La Motte
incautiously showed his ‘modern’ adaptation of Homer’s
Iliad to Boileau, who made fun of it. La Fontaine
supported the ancients and was a fellow–member with Racine,
Boileau, and Molière of a famous literary circle; Smith is
probably thinking of a report, in Louis Racine’s Mémoires
of his father, that Molière once protested when the others
were teasing La Fontaine and that they all used to call him
‘le bonhomme’ because of his ingenuousness: Oeuvres de J.
Racine, ed. Mesnard (Paris, 1912), i.270.
Pope quarrelled with Addison in 1715 for describing
Thomas Tickell’s verse translation of Homer as more accurate
than Pope’s. His resentment was shown in some verses,
written at this time but published later (and best known
from the revised version in ‘An Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot’),
satirizing Addison and his ‘little senate’. There is no
justification for Smith’s view that Addison’s literary
circle was set up in order to decry Pope.
Fontenelle was Secretary of the Académie des
Sciences from 1699 to 1740 and wrote finely styled éloges
of its deceased members. The general observation quoted by
Smith comes at the end of the éloge of Lemery.
om. 6 7
D’Alembert became Secretary of the Académie
française in 1772 and wrote éloges of members who had
died between 1700 and 1772.
Smith has Mandeville mainly in mind. Cf. VII.ii.4,
especially § 7. Smith writes here in the plural, no doubt
recalling the plural title of VII.ii.4, which in eds. 1–5
classed La Rochefoucauld together with Mandeville. But when
Smith wrote the present passage for ed. 6, he was already
committed to deleting the references to La Rochefoucauld;
and indeed § 7, on the doctrine that moral motives can be
reduced to vanity, always had reference to Mandeville alone.
Cicero, De Officiis, I.xxi.71. Smith’s
translation is somewhat free.
§§ 31–2 were added in ed. 6, like the
preceding and succeeding paragraphs of this chapter, but
these two paragraphs revise the thought of the following
passage, which was added in ed. 2 (and in the draft revision
of 1759) after the paragraph that is now III.1.7 and the one
that is printed as [3] in the variants at III.1.3k.
Eds. 3–5 follow ed. 2 with minor variants, which we note
below together with variants in the draft of 1759.
The great judge [Great Judge draft]
of the world, has, for the wisest reasons, thought proper to
interpose, between the weak eye of human reason, [reason
draft] and the throne of his eternal justice, a degree
of obscurity and darkness, which though [darkness which, tho
draft darkness, which, though 5] it does not
intirely [entirely draft] cover that great tribunal
from the view of mankind, yet renders the impression of it
faint and feeble in comparison of what might be expected
from the grandeur and importance of so mighty an object. If
those infinite rewards and punishments [punishments,
draft] which the Almighty has prepared for those who
obey or transgress his will, were perceived as distinctly as
we foresee the frivolous and temporary retaliations
[relations 2 corr. 2E] which we may expect from one
another, the weakness of human nature, astonished at the
immensity of objects so little fitted to its comprehension,
could no longer attend to the little affairs of this world;
and it is absolutely impossible that the business of society
could have been carried on, if, in this respect, there had
been a fuller revelation of the intentions of providence
[Providence 4 5] than that which has already been
made. That men, however, might never be without a rule to
direct their conduct by, nor without a judge whose authority
should enforce its observation, the author [Author 4 5]
of nature has made man the immediate judge of mankind, and
has, in this respect, as in many others, created him after
his own image, and appointed him his vicegerent upon earth
to superintend the behaviour of his brethren. [bretheren.
draft] They are taught by nature [Nature draft]
to acknowledge that power and jurisdiction which has thus
been conferred upon him, and to tremble and [or draft]
exult according as they imagine that they have either
merited his censure, [censure draft] or deserved his
applause.
But whatever may be the authority of this
inferiour tribunal [inferior tribunal, draft] which
is continually before their eyes, if at any time it should
decide contrary to those principles and rules, [these rules
and principles draft] which nature [Nature 4 5]
has established for regulating its judgments, [judgements,
draft 4] men feel that they may appeal [men appeal
draft] from this unjust decision, and call upon a
superiour [superior draft] tribunal, the tribunal
established in their own breasts, [own minds, draft]
to redress the injustice of this weak or partial judgment.
[judgement. draft]
There are certain principles established
by nature [Nature 4 5] for governing our judgments
[judgements draft judgment 3–5] concerning the
conduct of those we live with. As long as we decide
according to those principles, and neither applaud nor
condemn any thing which nature [Nature 4 5] has not
rendered the proper object of applause or condemnation, nor
any further than she has rendered it such, as our sentence
is, in this case, if I may say so, quite agreeable to law,
it is liable neither to repeal nor to correction of any
kind. The person [than she has rendered them such, the
person, draft] concerning whom we form these
judgments, [judgements draft] must himself
necessarily approve of them. When he puts himself into our
situation, he cannot avoid viewing his own conduct [he
cannot avoid entering into those views of his own conduct
which, he feels, must naturally occur to us, and he is
obliged to consider it himself draft] in the very
same light in which we appear to view it. He is sensible,
that to us, and to every impartial spectator, he must
necessarily appear the natural and proper object of those
sentiments which we express with regard to him. Those [same
light in which we represent it. Our draft]
sentiments, therefore, must necessarily produce their full
effect upon him, and he cannot fail [faill draft] to
conceive all the triumph of self–approbation [self
approbation draft] from, what appears to him, [from
what appears to him draft 5] such merited applause,
as well as all the horrors of shame from, [from draft 5]
what, he is sensible, is such deserved condemnation. [Draft
runs on.]
But it is otherwise, [otherwise draft]
if we have either applauded or condemned him, contrary to
those principles and rules which nature [Nature 4 5]
has established for the direction of our judgments
[judgements draft] concerning every thing of this
kind. If we have either applauded or condemned him for what,
when he puts himself into [in draft] our situation,
does not appear to him to be the object either of applause
or condemnation; as in this case [as, in this case, draft]
he cannot enter into our sentiments, provided [if draft]
he has any constancy or firmness, he is but little affected
by them, and can neither be much elevated [be elevated
draft] by the favourable, nor greatly mortified
[favourable nor mortified draft] by the unfavourable
decision. The applause of the whole world will avail but
little, [little draft] if our own conscience condemn
[condemns draft] us; and the disapprobation of all
mankind is not capable of oppressing us, [us draft]
when we are absolved by the tribunal within our own breast,
and when our own mind tells us that mankind are in the
wrong.
But though [tho draft] this
tribunal within the breast be thus the supreme arbiter of
all our actions, though [tho’ draft] it can reverse
the decisions of all mankind with regard to our character
and conduct, and [conduct, tho it can draft] mortify
us amidst the applause, or [applauses and draft]
support us under the censure of the world; yet, [world, yet
draft] if we enquire [inquire 4 5] into the
origin of its institution, its jurisdiction we shall find
[jurisdiction, we shall find, draft] is in a great
measure derived from the authority of that very tribunal,
whose decisions it so often and so justly reverses. [Draft
runs on.]
When we first come into the world, from
the natural desire to please, we accustom ourselves [world,
being desireous to please those we live with, we are
accustomed draft] to consider what behaviour is
likely to be agreeable [agreable draft] to every
person we converse with, to our parents, to our masters, to
our companions. We address ourselves to individuals, and for
some time fondly pursue the impossible and absurd project of
gaining [project of rendering ourselves universally
agreable, and of gaining draft] the good–will [good
will draft] and approbation of every body. We are
soon taught by experience, however, [We soon learn, however,
from experience draft] that this universal
approbation is altogether unattainable. As soon as we come
to have more important interests to manage, we find, that by
pleasing one man, [man draft] we almost certainly
disoblige another, and that by humouring an individual, we
may often irritate a whole people. The fairest and most
equitable conduct must frequently obstruct the interests,
[interests draft] or thwart the inclinations of
particular persons, who will seldom [seldome draft]
have candour enough to enter into the propriety of our
motives, or to see that this [that our draft]
conduct, how disagreeable [disagreable draft] soever
to them, is perfectly suitable to our situation. In order to
defend ourselves from such partial judgments, we soon learn
to set [situation. We soon learn, therefore, to sett
draft] up in our own minds a judge between ourselves and
those we live with. We conceive ourselves as acting in the
presence of a person quite candid and equitable, of one who
has no particular relation [relation, draft] either
to ourselves, or to those whose interests are affected by
our conduct, [conduct; draft] who is neither father,
nor brother, nor friend [friend, draft] either to
them [them, draft] or to us, [us; draft] but
is merely [meerly draft] a man in general, an
impartial spectator who considers our conduct with the same
indifference with which we regard that of other people. If,
[If draft] when we place ourselves in the situation
of such a person, our own actions appear to us under an
agreeable [agreable draft] aspect, if we feel that
such a spectator cannot avoid entering into all the motives
which influenced us, whatever may be the judgments
[judgements draft] of the world, we must still be [we
cannot help being draft] pleased with our own
behaviour, and regard [regarding draft] ourselves, in
spite of the censure of our companions, as the just and
proper objects of approbation. [Draft runs on.]
On the contrary, if the man within
condemns us, the loudest acclamations of mankind appear but
as the noise of ignorance and folly, and whenever we assume
the character of this impartial judge, we cannot avoid
viewing our own actions with his distaste and
dissatisfaction. The weak, the vain, [vain draft] and
the frivolous, indeed, may be mortified by the most
groundless censure, [censure draft] or elated by the
most absurd applause. Such persons are not accustomed to
consult the judge within concerning the opinion [oppinion
draft] which they ought to form of their own conduct.
This inmate of the breast, this abstract man, the
representative of mankind, [mankind draft] and
substitute of the Deity, whom nature [Nature draft 4]
has constituted [has appointed draft] the supreme
judge [supreme arbiter draft] of all their actions,
[actions draft] is seldom [seldome draft]
appealed to by them. They are contented with the decision of
the inferiour [inferior draft] tribunal. The
approbation of their companions, of the particular persons
whom they have lived and conversed with, has generally been
the ultimate object of all their wishes. If they obtain
this, [If they succeed in this draft] their joy is
compleat; [complete; 4 5] and if they fail, [faill
draft] they are entirely disappointed. They never think
of appealing to the superior court. They have seldom
[seldome draft] enquired [inquired 4 5] after
its decisions, [decisions draft] and are altogether
unacquainted with the rules and forms of its procedure. When
the world injures them, therefore, they are incapable of
doing themselves justice, and are, in consequence, [justice
and are in consequence draft] necessarily the slaves
of the world. But it is otherwise with the man who has, upon
all occasions, been accustomed to have recourse to the judge
within, [within draft 3] and to consider, not what
the world approves or disapproves of, but what appears to
this impartial spectator, [spectator draft] the
natural and proper object of approbation or [and draft]
disapprobation. The judgment [judgement draft] of
this supreme arbiter of his conduct, [conduct draft]
is the applause, [applause draft] which he has been
accustomed principally to court, is the censure which he has
been accustomed principally to fear. Compared with this
final decision, the sentiments of all mankind, though [tho’
draft] not altogether indifferent, appear to be but
of small moment; and he is incapable of being either much
elevated by their favourable, or greatly depressed by their
most disadvantageous [disadvantageous, 5] judgment.
[judgement. draft]
The draft and eds. 2–5 then continue as
in III.3.1: It is only by consulting this judge within,
[within draft] . . .
St. James’s Palace. Ambassadors to the United
Kingdom are still said to be accredited to the Court of St.
James.
Jean Baptiste Massillon (1663–1742), Bishop of
Clermont. The passage occurs in ‘Discours prononcé à une
bénédiction des drapeaux du régiment de Catinat’, usually
bound up with ‘Le Petit Carême’; Oeuvres complètes
(Paris 1821), i.273–4.
The English translation is probably
Smith’s own. It departs from the French in certain minor
details: (1) ‘in all the exertions that you have made’ is an
addition in the English version; (2) Massillon twice writes
of ‘le Seigneur’ followed shortly by ‘Jésus–Christ’, and on
both occasions Smith’s English translation is ‘the Lord . .
. Him’; (3) where Smith’s translation has ‘a whole life of
repentance and mortification’, Massillon says simply ‘une
vie entière de pénitence’ (though he does use the word
‘mortifier’ earlier of the monk, as in the English
translation). The first of these changes does not seem
significant; the second and third are.
As regards the third, Smith picks up his
added word ‘mortification’ at the beginning of § 35, ‘the
futile mortifications of a monastery’. The whole of the
present passage was added in ed. 6. Cf. a passage written
earlier in WN V.i.e.29: ‘But when moral, as well as natural
philosophy, came to be taught only as subservient to
theology, . . . heaven was to be earned only by penance and
mortification, by the austerities and abasement of a monk;
not by the liberal, generous, and spirited conduct of a
man.’ Both passages may recall Hume, Enquiry concerning
the Principles of Morals, IX.i; ed. Selby–Bigge, § 219:
‘penance, mortification, . . . and the whole train of
monkish virtues . . . are . . . everywhere rejected by men
of sense’.
The printing of this extract shows that
the compositors followed their copy closely. An initial
capital for ‘He’ and ‘Him’, referring to God, is unusual in
printed texts of this period, and ‘recompence’ is at
variance with the spelling of this word elsewhere in ed. 6.
Smith probably had the translated extract by him from an
earlier date and inserted it into his manuscript of the new
material for ed. 6.
See Voltaire.
- Vous y grillez sage et docte Platon,
- Divin Homere, eloquent Ciceron, etc.
Voltaire, La Pucelle d’Orléans, chant 5;
Oeuvres complètes, ed. Besterman and others (Genève,
1968–), 7.348.
This chapter is not in ed. 1. In eds.
2–6, the latter part of § 1 and §§ 2–5, 7–9,
and 11, with some change, appear as additions to III.2.
Some, but not all, of these additions are included also,
with variation, in the draft revision of 1759. Most of §
4, the whole of §§ 5–9, and the first half of
§ 10 are not in the draft.
∼⁁6 7 Comma added by
present editors; cf. VI. concl. 1, likewise written for ed.
6.
In the draft of 1759 and in eds. 2–5,
the paragraph begins at this point, following the long
passage that is printed in noter at III.2.31.
see whatever draft 2–5
om. draft 2–5
Cf. External Senses, 54: ‘If you shut one eye, and
hold immediately before the other a small circle of plain
glass, of not more than half an inch in diameter, you may
see through that circle the most extensive prospects; lawns
and woods, and arms of the sea, and distant mountains. . . .
If . . . you could conceive a fairy hand and a fairy pencil
to come between your eye and the glass, that pencil could
delineate upon that little glass the outline of all those
extensive lawns and woods, and arms of the sea, and distant
mountains, . . .’
Smith praises and follows Berkeley’s New Theory
of Vision when discussing the sense of seeing in his
essay on the External Senses, § 54 of which is recalled
here.
The comparison between the work of the imagination
in visual perception and in moral judgement is derived from
Hume, Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals,
V.ii; ed. Selby–Bigge, § 185. In §§ 3–4 Smith is recalling
further features of Hume’s ethical theory, and in parts of §
4 he is criticizing Hume’s view that moral judgement is
never an exercise of reason. Smith’s general position here
is nonetheless a development of Hume’s; cf. especially
Treatise of Human Nature, III.iii.1; ed. Selby–Bigge,
580–4.
This is the only station from which both
can be seen at equal distances, or from which any proper
comparison can be made between them. adds draft
to assume this station draft
assume draft (revision, in
Smith’s own hand, of do)
Most of § 4, the whole of §§
5–9, and the first half of § 10 are not in the
draft of 1759, which instead reads here (running on
from preceding sentence):
It is from this station only that we
can see the propriety of generosity and the deformity of
injustice; the propriety of resigning the greatest
interests of our own for the yet more important
interests of others, and the deformity of doing the
smallest injury to another in order to obtain the
greatest benefite to ourselves. The real littleness of
ourselves and of whatever relates to ourselves can be
seen from this station only; and it is here only that we
can learn the great lesson of Stoical magnanimity and
firmness, to be no more affected by what befalls
ourselves than by what befalls our neighbour, or, what
comes to the same thing, than our neighbour is capable
of being affected by what befalls us. ‘When our
neighbour, says Epictetus, . . .
The draft continues as in § 11.
For the first sentence and the first half of the second
sentence in the above passage cf.k–k of the text
of § 4, and for the remainder of the passage cf.x
of § 11.
Perhaps suggested by the great Lisbon earthquake of
1755.
It is significant that for Smith, writing this
passage in 1760, ‘a man of speculation’ would be liable to
reflect on the economic consequences, not the theological
implications, of the disaster.
The example may possibly recall Hume, Treatise,
II.iii.3; ed. Selby–Bigge, 416: ‘’Tis not contrary to reason
to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the
scratching of my finger.’
Hume (Enquiry, IX.i; ed. Selby–Bigge, §§
221–3) contrasts the sentiments of self–love with those of
‘humanity’ and treats the latter as the foundation of
disinterested moral judgement. Smith’s further reference to
‘benevolence’ is probably intended to include Hutcheson with
Hume in the object of his criticism.
See notej above on the
reading of the draft of 1759.
as self–love would suggest to us,
prefer any little interest of our own, to the yet greater
interest of our neighbour. We feel that we should become the
proper objects of the resentment and indignation of our
brethren, and the sense of the impropriety of this affection
is supported and enlivened by the yet stronger sense of the
demerit of the action, which it would in this case give
occasion to. But when the happiness or misery of others in
no respect depends . . . 2–5 See note l–l at
§ 7.
The latter half of § 5 and the
whole of § 6 were added in ed. 6.
. . . But when the happiness or misery
of others 2–5 See note l–l at § 5.
as the sense of demerit does not in
this case interpose, the meer [mere 4 5] sense of
impropriety is seldom able to restrain us from abandoning
ourselves to our natural anxiety about our own affairs, and
to our natural indifference about those of other men.2–5
only, which pretends to correct 2–5
purpose have 2–5
om. 2–5
om. 2–5
2–5 misery*, who 6 7 The note
applies to who, not to misery.
See Thomson’s Seasons, Winter:
‘Ah! little think the gay licentious
proud,’ etc.
See also Pascal.
James Thomson, The Seasons, Winter, 322–8:
- Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,
- Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround—
- They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
- And wanton, often cruel, riot waste—
- Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
- How many feel, this very moment, death
- And all the sad variety of pain;
In his reference to Pascal Smith is
presumably thinking of the Pensées, in which one
leading theme is the wretchedness (la misère) of the
human condition and our readiness to be ‘diverted’ from it
by so–called happiness. This does not, however, properly
illustrate the text, as does the extract from Thomson’s
poem.
hypocritical 2–5
§ 10 was added in ed. 6.
See notef to § 4 on
the reading of the draft of 1759.
Encheiridion, 26. As usual, Smith’s
translation is somewhat free.
At this point the draft of 1759
continues with a short paragraph:
It is not upon all occasions, however,
that we are capable of judging with this perfect
impartiality between ourselves and others. Even the
judge within is often in danger of being corrupted by
the violence and injustice of our selfish passions, and
is often induced to make a report very different from
what the real circumstances of the case are capable of
authorizing.
Ed. 2 revises and expands the paragraph
and precedes it with the addition of several sentences to
what is now the text of § 11. Eds. 3–5 follow ed. 2,
with variants as noted.
How difficult soever it may be to
attain this supreme degree of magnanimity and firmness,
it is by no means either absurd or useless to attempt
it. Though few men have the stoical idea of what this
perfect propriety requires, yet all men endeavour in
some measure to command themselves, and to bring down
their selfish passions to something which their
neighbour can go along with. But this can never be done
so effectually as by viewing whatever befals [befalls
4 5] themselves in the light in which their
neighbours are apt to view it. The stoical philosophy,
in this respect, does little more than unfold our
natural ideas of perfection. There is nothing absurd or
improper, therefore, in aiming at this perfect
self–command. Neither would the attainment of it be
useless, but, on the contrary, the most advantageous of
all things, as establishing our happiness upon the most
solid and secure foundation, a firm confidence in that
wisdom and justice which governs the world, and an
intire [entire 4 5] resignation of ourselves, and
of whatever relates to ourselves [ourselves, 5]
to the all–wise disposal of this ruling principle in
nature.
It scarce ever happens, however, that
we are capable of adjusting our passive feelings to this
perfect propriety. We indulge ourselves, and even the
world indulges us, in some degree of irregularity in
this respect. Though we should be too much affected by
what concerns ourselves, and too little by what concerns
other men, yet, if we always act with impartiality
between ourselves and others, if we never actually
sacrifice any great interest of others, [others 5]
to any little interest of our own, we are easily
pardoned: and it were well, if [if, 4 5] upon all
occasions, those who desire to do their duty [duty, 5]
were capable of maintaining even this [this even 2
corr. 2E] degree of impartiality between themselves
and others. But this is very far from being the case.
Even in good men, the judge within us is often in danger
of being corrupted by the violence and injustice of
their selfish passions, and is often induced to make a
report very different from what the real circumstances
of the case are capable of authorising. [authorizing.
4 5]
The draft and eds. 2–5 next proceed to
what is now III.4.2, reverting there to what was contained
in ed. 1. The last words of the above passage reappear at
the end of III.4.1.
§§ 12–45 were added in ed. 6.
Near the beginning of his lectures on jurisprudence
Smith distinguishes injuries that a man may receive as an
individual, as a member of a family, and as a citizen. He
then specifies the first group as injuries to body,
reputation, or estate. LJ(A) i.10, 12; LJ(B) 6 (Cannan ed.,
5).
The Stoics made a virtue of ‘apathy’ (ἀπάθεια), the
absence of feeling or passion, for the sake of mental
tranquillity.
Samuel Richardson (1689–1761), author of Pamela
and Clarissa. Marivaux (1688–1763), French writer of
comedies and novels, noted for his delicate analysis of
feelings. Marie–Jeanne Riccoboni (1713–92), also a French
author, wrote sentimental novels in the form of letters,
like Richardson; Smith met her in Paris in 1766 (Rae,
Life, 210–12).
All Stoics. Zeno of Citium founded the Stoic school
of philosophy; Chrysippus was its third head.
‘Epitaph on Mrs. Clerke’, but Gray wrote ‘A pang, .
. .’.
I.ii.1
Cf. I.iii.3.1, likewise added in ed. 6. Cf. also
Hume, Treatise of Human Nature, II.ii.5; ed.
Selby–Bigge, 357: ‘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’.
Antonin Nompar de Caumont, Comte (later Duc) de
Lauzun, 1633–1723, was imprisoned in the Bastille for six
months in 1665 for insolence to Louis XIV. He was afterwards
imprisoned for ten years, 1671–81, but in the fortress of
Pignerol, not the Bastille. We cannot trace the source of
Smith’s anecdote.
Plutarch, Lives, Pyrrhus, 14. The king was
Pyrrhus, the favourite Cineas.
7 ∼⁁6
Cf. Dryden, ‘The Dedication of the Aeneis’ (1697):
‘Like him, who being in good Health, lodg’d himself in a
Physician’s House, and was over–perswaded by his Landlord to
take Physick, of which he dyed, for the benefit of his
Doctor. Stavo ben (was written on his Monument)
ma, per star meglio, sto qui.’ Poems of John Dryden,
ed. Kinsley (Oxford, 1958), iii.1013. The Italian epitaph is
quoted also in The Spectator, 25 (29 March 1711),
where it is simply attributed to a valetudinarian.
See Robertson’s Charles V. vol. ii. pp. 14 and 15.
first edition. [William Robertson, History of the Reign
of the Emperor Charles V. The passage comes early in
Book I.]
Cf. I.i.5, especially §§ 1 and 5.
aa–aa judgement 6 7
Probably an inadvertent slip by the printer. Cf. III.4.4 and
11. Elsewhere the spelling judgment is always used.
De Providentia (Dialogues, Book I),
vi.6.
This chapter is a revised version of
what was the latter part of Sect. ii in ed. 1 and Chap. 2 in
eds. 2–5. See notek at III.1.5 and notex
at III.3.11. § 1 is not in ed. 1, but the latter part
of it, from the violence and injustice of our own
selfish passions . . ., is a revision of a passage added
in the draft revision of 1759 and in ed. 2.
om. 1–5
most so, 1–5
∼, 1–7 The semi–colon is an editors’
emendation, required by the correction at e–e in
1E.
1E ∼. The 1–7 The correction
by 1E requires a stronger mark of punctuation than a comma
at d–d, and we have presumed that the MS. had, or
was intended to have, a semicolon there. The apodosis to the
clause, even when . . . appear to him, is the
fury . . . by self–love, and not The violent emotions
. . . views of things, which would make less good sense.
Recherche de la vérité, V.11. Hutcheson also
cites with approval this dictum of Malebranche; Inquiry
concerning Moral Good and Evil, II.4; Raphael,
British Moralists 1650–1800, § 322.
om. 1–5
om. 1–5
and when they are most severely
impartial, can commonly produce 1–5
om. 1–5
1E judgment 1–7
1–5 judgement 6 7 See noteaa–aa
at III.3.43.
A criticism of Hutcheson. Cf. VII.iii.3.5–10.
1–5 judgement, 6 7 See noteaa–aa
at III.3.43.
SECT. III 1 CHAP. III 2–5
chearfully 1 carefully was
probably intended even for ed. 1.
Several phrases in this paragraph recall Bishop
Butler. Cf. Dissertation of the Nature of Virtue,
para. 1; Raphael, British Moralists 1650–1800, § 429:
‘. . . upon supposition of such a moral faculty; whether
called conscience, moral reason, moral sense, or divine
reason; . . .’ Fifteen Sermons, preface, para. 24;
Raphael, § 379: ‘conscience . . . plainly bears upon it
marks of authority over all the rest, and claims the
absolute direction of them all, . . .’ sermon ii, paras.
14–15; Raphael, § 402: ‘you cannot form a notion of this
faculty, conscience, without taking in judgment, direction,
superintendency. . . . This is its right and office. . . .’
The paragraph probably formed part of an
early version of Smith’s lectures, for his statement that
the moral faculties ‘may be considered as a sort of senses’
is not consistent with his criticism of Hutcheson’s moral
sense theory at III.4.5 and VII.iii.3.5–10. Lord Kames, who
readily uses the expression ‘moral sense’, quotes the ‘marks
of authority’ passage from Butler in Essays on the
Principles of Morality and Natural Religion (1751),
I.ii.3; Selby–Bigge, British Moralists, § 931.
1 5 Who 2–4 6 7
Massillon, Sermon pour le lundi de la première
semaine de carême: ‘Sur la vérité d’un avenir’, deuxième
partie; Oeuvres complètes (Paris, 1821), ii.221–2.
The English translation is probably Smith’s own.
1–5 ∼⁁6 7
CHAP. IV 1–5 SECT. IV 1E
5 7 ∼⁁1–4 6
Mahomet was first produced in 1741. The report
in The Bee, iii (11 May 1791), 7, of an interview
with Smith in 1780 says that he regarded Mahomet as
‘the very climax of dramatic excellence’.
om. 1 Consisting of One
Section2–7
SECT. I 1
David Hume. Treatise of Human Nature,
II.ii.5; ed. Selby–Bigge, 363–5: III.iii.1; Selby–Bigge,
576–7: Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals,
V.ii; ed. Selby–Bigge, § 179. Section V of the Enquiry
is entitled ‘Why Utility pleases’, but Smith seems to be
thinking more of Treatise, II.ii.5.
Smith sets great store by this observation not only
for its originality but also because it forms a link, in his
view, between ethics and political economy, as may be seen
from §§ 8–11, especially § 10. See also Introduction, 14.
Presumably a box of wares carried by a Jewish
pedlar.
could 1–3
Probably recalls ‘operose Contrivances’ in
Mandeville, Fable of the Bees, Remark (L) on luxury;
ed. F. B. Kaye, i.119.
Recalls Smith’s translation, in his ‘Letter to the
Editors of the Edinburgh Review’ (now published in
EPS), 13, of a passage from Rousseau, Discours sur
l’origine de l’inégalité: ‘and the vast forrests of
nature were changed into agreeable plains’. Rousseau’s own
words were: ‘les vastes forêts se changèrent en des
campagnes riantes’. Smith’s repetition of the phrase here
may be mere coincidence, but it is also possible (as was
suggested to us by H. B. Acton) that Smith is implicitly
contesting Rousseau’s view that the acquisition of property
causes inequality. The phrase about the forests is preceded,
in the translation from Rousseau, by ‘. . . equality
disappeared, property was introduced, labour became
necessary, . . .’ In the present paragraph of TMS Smith
proceeds to argue that the rich are led by an invisible hand
to make a distribution of necessities that is nearly the
same as would exist in a state of natural equality. In the
‘Letter’ Smith introduced Rousseau as a critic of
Mandeville, and he may well have both writers in mind here
also (cf. preceding note).
Cf. WN I.xi.c.7: ‘The rich man consumes no more food
than his poor neighbour. . . . The desire of food is limited
in every man by the narrow capacity of the human stomach;
but the desire of the conveniencies and ornaments . . .
seems to have no limit or certain boundary.’ See A. L.
Macfie, Individual in Society,iii–vi,
for relation of TMS to WN.
The phrase recurs in WN IV.ii.9: ‘every individual
necessarily labours to render the annual revenue of the
society as great as he can. He generally, indeed, neither
intends to promote the public interest, nor knows how much
he is promoting it. . . . he intends only his own gain, and
he is . . . led by an invisible hand to promote an end which
was no part of his intention.’ In both places Smith says
that the end unintentionally promoted is the interest of
society, but there is a difference: the TMS passage refers
to the distribution of means to happiness, the WN passage to
maximization.
Smith first used the expression ‘invisible
hand’ in Astronomy, III.2, when writing of early religious
thought, in which only irregular events were attributed to
supernatural agency. ‘Fire burns, and water refreshes; heavy
bodies descend, and lighter substances fly upwards, by the
necessity of their own nature; nor was the invisible hand of
Jupiter ever apprehended to be employed in those matters.’
See A. L. Macfie, ‘The Invisible Hand of Jupiter’,
Journal of the History of Ideas, xxxii (1971), 595–9.
Peter the Great.
SECT. II 1
Hume, Treatise of Human Nature, III.iii.1;
ed. Selby–Bigge, 591: Enquiry concerning the Principles
of Morals, especially IX.i; ed. Selby–Bigge, §§ 217,
219, 226.
Hume must have had an objection of this character
put to him, for he attempts to reply to it in a footnote
appended to Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals,
V.i, first paragraph; ed. Selby–Bigge, § 172. The footnote
is in all editions of the Enquiry, including the
first (1751).
I.i.4.4. The word ‘occasion’ is a relic of the
original lecture form of Smith’s material. Cf. § 9 below and
VII.iii.1.2.
I.i.3.1. The word ‘occasion’ again shows the
original lecture form of the material (cf. § 7 above and
VII.iii.1.2), but in the lecture the next word ‘where’ will
have been ‘when’.
Raro mulieres donare solent.
We are advised by Professor Peter Stein that
although this phrase does not occur in the Corpus Iuris
Civilis, it was a maxim coined by later commentators in
the light of passages on the miserly character of women to
be found in the Great Gloss of Accursius (thirteenth
century), which came to be regarded as an authoritative part
of the civil law. The phrase is given in S. Daoyz, Iuris
Civilis Summa seu Index (1742), under mulier.
5 ∼, 1–4 6 7
2 ∼⁁∼, 1 3 4 6 7
∼⁁∼⁁5
Smith is doubtless referring to the ignominious
failure of Admiral Byng in May 1756 to defeat the French
fleet blockading Minorca, then a British possession.
Lucius Junius Brutus is called the founder of the
Roman Republic because he led the Romans in the expulsion of
their tyrannical king Tarquinius Superbus. Brutus was then
elected consul in 509 b.c. Tradition
has it that he condemned his two sons to death for joining a
conspiracy to restore the Tarquins.
1–5 7 he 6
1 2E his 2–7
om. 1 Consisting of one Section
2 3 Consisting of one Section4
5
SECT. I 1
1 2E or 2–7
e.g. Aristotle, Poetics, 1459b31–1460a4;
Horace, Ars Poetica, 73–98. Smith’s subsequent
remarks about ‘the heroic verse’ suggest that he has in mind
especially Aristotle’s statement that it would be ‘improper’
to compose an epic poem in any metre other than ‘the
heroic’, which is ‘the most grave and weighty’ of metres,
while the iambic and the trochaic are ‘lively’.
om. 1–5
Thus said to my lady the knight full
of care. 1–5
The plays of Racine and the Henriade of
Voltaire are both written in Alexandrines, i.e. lines of
twelve syllables. The earlier and the later variants of the
line of English verse are, respectively, the first and the
second line of a burlesque poem of 1729 by Swift, ‘The Grand
Question debated. Whether Hamilton’s Bawn should be
turned into a Barrack or a Malt–House.’ By
‘the burlesque verse in French’ Smith means the line of ten
syllables, which was in fact little used in the eighteenth
century except by Voltaire in his comedies and in his
mock–heroic poem La Pucelle d’Orléans, and by J.–B.
Rousseau in his Épîtres. Smith is undoubtedly
thinking of its use by Voltaire; cf. the close of III.2,
where he quotes a couplet from La Pucelle. By ‘the
heroic verse of ten syllables in English’ Smith means
Miltonic blank verse.
Smith’s comparison between French and
English verses here depends entirely on counting the number
of syllables in a line, a criterion that is appropriate for
French verse but quite inappropriate for English. (Eckstein,
i.575, observes that Smith’s replacement in ed. 6 of the
first by the second line of Swift’s poem must have been
because he noticed that the first line has only eleven
syllables. Hence also the insertion of ‘nearly’ in ed. 6.)
Smith is equally mistaken in supposing that the French
necessarily associate the Alexandrine with ‘the ideas of
gravity, sublimity, and seriousness’. From Corneille onwards
it has been the standard line also for verse comedy.
In English and Italian Verses, Smith
compares ‘English heroic verse’ with Italian. He again
writes of the number of syllables in a line, but recognizes
in the last paragraph that this is less significant than the
number of feet.
Cf. Institutio Oratoria, X.i.125–31.
Samuel Butler, author of Hudibras.
Claude Buffier, Traité des premières vérités et
de la source de nos jugements, Part I, ch. 13.
PART VI/SECTION II 1 PART V . .
. 1E
great, 6
1 2E these 2–7
perfectly 1
1–5 Yet, 6 7
is 1 2
is 1 2
By a pleasant irony of fate Smith himself came to
wear this well–fitting cap. Eckstein (ii.576) aptly recalls
Rae, Life, 374: ‘One of the duties of a citizen which
he undertook will perhaps occasion surprise—he became a
Captain of the City Guard. He was made Honorary Captain of
the Trained Bands of Edinburgh—the City Guard—on the 4th of
June 1781 . . .’ The passage in the text was written long
before that, for edition 1.
1 ∼, 2–7 The comma makes the
sense unnecessarily doubtful.
om. 1 2
Jean–Baptiste (l’Abbé) Du Bos discusses differences
of national character in Réflexions critiques sur la
poésie et sur la peinture, Part II, sect. 15, but we
cannot trace, either there or elsewhere in his writings, the
statement attributed to him by Smith.
The most illustrious of the Scipios were Publius
Cornelius Scipio Africanus (236–184/3 b.c.)
and his grandson by adoption, Publius Cornelius Scipio
Aemilianus Numantinus (185/4–129 b.c.).
The latter was noted for his stern character. Gaius Laelius
the elder was a friend of Scipio Africanus; his son, Gaius
Laelius Sapiens, was a friend of Scipio Aemilianus and is
the central character in Cicero’s De Amicitia. Marcus
Porcius Cato the elder (234–149 b.c.)
became known as ‘Censorius’ for his severity as censor in
184 b.c.
Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus (tribune of the
plebs in 133 b.c.), his brother
Gaius (tribune in 123 and 122), Lucius Licinius Crassus
(140–91), and Publius Sulpicius Rufus (124–88) all appear in
Cicero’s account of earlier orators in Brutus. Cicero
admired Crassus especially for his gravitas and says
(lv. 203) that Sulpicius, who took Crassus as his model,
furnished the best example of the grand style in oratory.
Politics, 1335b20–1.
Republic, 460 c, 461 c.
Part VI was added in ed. 6.
SECT. I/Of...Prudence 6 7
conveniences 6 7 See Introduction,
50.
conveniences 6 7
I.iii.1.8. For the economic implications of
prudence, cf. WN II. iii, note 22.
Aristippus of Cyrene, a companion of Socrates, noted
for a combination of sensuality and self–control. He is
often said to be the founder of the Cyrenaic philosophy of
hedonism, but modern scholars think this is probably a
confusion with his grandson of the same name.
Platonic or Aristotelian.
Two were strangled at Senigallia on the night of
their arrival, 31 December 1502; the other two at the castle
of Pieve on 18 January 1503.
Machiavelli, Descrizione del modo tenuto dal duca
Valentino nello ammazzare Vitellozzo Vitelli, Oliverotto da
Fermo, il signor Pagolo e il duca di Gravina Orsini.
III.3.13
In WN V.i.f.36 (written before Part VI of TMS) Smith
is equally critical of foreign travel as a substitute for
university education.
The Latin word means (1) necessity or need, (2)
close connection or relationship.
convenience 6 7 See Introduction,
50.
L’Orphelin de la Chine, produced in 1755.
Smith praises it also in his ‘Letter to the Editors of the
Edinburgh Review’ (now published in EPS), 17.
Plutarch, Lives, Marcus Cato (Cato the
Elder), 27, reports the practice both of Cato and of Scipio.
Plutarch, Lives, Marcus Cato (Cato the
Elder), 27, reports the practice both of Cato and of Scipio.
Here and in § 11 Smith may possibly be criticizing
Richard Price’s celebrated sermon on ‘The Love of our
Country’, preached on 4 November 1789, welcoming the French
Revolution. See note to § 12 below. In Letter 251 addressed
to George Chalmers, dated 22 December 1785, Smith wrote of
Price: ‘I have always considered him as a factious citizen,
a most superficial Philosopher and by no means an able
calculator.’
In WN V.ii.k.78 (published in 1776) Smith cites the
Abbé Expilly and Necker for an estimate of the population of
France as 23 or 24 million, ‘three times the number perhaps
contained in Great Britain’. Richard Price, in an appendix
to his sermon, calculated the population of France as 30
million, a figure that others thought too high. Modern
scholars estimate the population of France in 1789 as about
27 million and that of Great Britain about 9 million.
Mémoires, under September 1650: Pléiade ed.
(Paris, 1956), 370 (372 in recent printings); Oeuvres,
ed. A. Feillet and others (Paris, 1870–1920), iii.104. The
Peace of Westphalia was concluded by treaties signed at
Münster and Osnabrück on 24 October 1648.
William of Orange, both before and after he came to
the British throne, fostered a grand alliance of European
states against Louis XIV of France. The policy was
maintained in the first years of Queen Anne’s reign by
continuing the War of the Spanish Succession under the
leadership of the Duke of Marlborough.
It seems likely that Smith had the French Revolution
in mind when writing this and the succeeding paragraphs. His
remarks in §§ 15 and 17 about a ‘spirit of system’ and ‘the
man of system’ may refer to the constitution–makers of 1789,
or perhaps to the rationalist philosopher Richard Price
again (cf. editorial note 2 to § 4 above), especially if
Smith is echoing d’Alembert’s disparaging use of the phrase
‘the spirit of system’ to describe rationalism in the
Preliminary Discourse of the Encyclopédie. In Letter
287 addressed to Thomas Cadell, dated 31 March 1789, Smith
says he has written a complete new Part VI for TMS; but
since, according to Stewart, V.9, the manuscript was sent to
the press at ‘the beginning of the [following] winter’,
Smith doubtless made changes after March.
inconveniences 6 7 See Introduction,
50.
inconveniences 6 7
inconveniences 6 7
inconveniences 6 7
Plato’s maxim is in Crito, 51 c. Cicero cites
it in Epistulae ad Familiares, I.ix.18, ‘vim neque
parenti neque patriae afferri oportere’, but does not call
it ‘divine’. Earlier in the same letter, I.ix.12, Cicero
uses the word ‘divinitus’ of another maxim of Plato, ‘Quales
in republics principes essent, tales reliquos solere esse
cives’ (usually taken, with some hesitation, to be a very
free rendering of a passage in Plato, Laws, 711 c).
Smith refers again to ‘the divine maxim of Plato’ in § 18
below, and Eckstein (ii.579) thinks that there he apparently
has in mind the maxim about leaders and citizens. It seems
to us more probable that Smith is still thinking of the use
of violence. In LJ(A) v.124 and LJ(B) 15 (Cannan ed., 11)
Smith says that the Tory principle of authority equates
rebellion against government with rebellion against a parent
(‘father’ in LJ(A)).
inconveniences 6 7
Plutarch, Lives, Solon, 15.
7 chess board 6 Cf. the two
preceding instances.
See § 16 above.
Marcus Aurelius.
In a letter reported by Vulcacius Gallicanus,
Life of Avidius Cassius, xiv.5 (in Scriptores
Historiae Augustae). Smith gives a paraphrase, not a
translation; the letter says nothing of ‘the prosperity of
the universe’.
Smith is thinking of a book of engravings with some
letterpress: Thomas Birch, The Heads of Illustrious
Persons of Great Britain, engraven by Mr. Houbraken, and Mr.
Vertue. With their Lives and Characters (1743).
Sir Thomas More was beheaded in 1535, having been
declared guilty of high treason; Sir Walter Raleigh in 1618,
having been condemned to death in 1603 on a charge of
conspiracy against James I; William, Lord Russell, and
Algernon Sidney (or Sydney), both in 1683 for complicity in
the Rye House plot.
The pirates who operated off the Spanish Main in the
seventeenth century.
Demosthenes’ speeches urging the Athenians to resist
Philip of Macedon.
Cicero’s speeches accusing Catiline of conspiracy in
63 b.c.
7 sufffer 6
Enrico Caterino Davila, Historia delle guerre
civili di Francia (1630). Smith’s copy of this work was
of an edition published in London in 1755 (Bonar,
Catalogue 2, 54). In that edition see e.g. vol. i, 66–7,
99, 641–2.
Edward Hyde, 1st Earl of Clarendon, History of
the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England; e.g. Book IV,
§§ 127, 154–5, 193.
John Locke, ‘Memoirs relating to the Life of
Anthony, first Earl of Shaftesbury’; Works (London,
1777), iv.233–43.
Smith is referring to De Officiis,
I.xxx.107–9, where Cicero, discussing general and particular
propriety, distinguishes between universal and individual
human characters. Listing types of individual character,
Cicero writes of shrewdness with an ability to conceal and
dissimulate, citing Themistocles among his examples. He then
speaks of a more extreme craftiness, with Marcus Crassus and
Lysander as two of his examples. Cicero does not cite
Ulysses in this chapter, though in xxxi.113 he describes
Ulysses as an example of endurance. In III.xxvi.97, however,
he refers to the dissimulation of Ulysses in feigning
madness to escape military service. Smith, writing from
memory, has probably confused this last with what Cicero
says, at I.xxx.108, of Solon, who is classed with
Themistocles and is called ‘especially crafty and shrewd in
having feigned madness in order to save his life’ and serve
the state.
Cf. Hume, Enquiry concerning the Principles of
Morals, VII; ed. Selby–Bigge, § 208.
That 6 7
Jean de Santeul (1630–97) had some reputation in
his own day as a writer of liturgical hymns and other sacred
poems in Latin. He appears as a character in Boileau’s
Dialogue des poètes, which makes fun of French authors
who write in Latin. We cannot trace the source of Smith’s
anecdote.
Quintus Curtius, History of Alexander,
IX.vi.26, reports Alexander as asking his friends to
‘consecrate’ Olympias ‘to immortality’ if he himself should
die before doing so. This was not on his death–bed, however,
but after recovery from a wound that had led to reports of
his death.
Cf. Plato, Apology of Socrates, 21 a.
Socrates often spoke of his δαιμόνιον, a divine
sign or voice that warned him not to do certain actions.
Cf. Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars, I.78.
Smith presumably has in mind the ten years of
Britain’s participation in the War of the Spanish
Succession, 1702–12, though the Duke of Marlborough was
deprived of his offices at the end of 1711.
Prince Eugène of Savoy (1663–1736), commander of
the Austrian army in the War of the Spanish Succession.
Frederick the Great, who died in 1786, about three
years before Smith composed this passage for ed. 6.
Louis II de Bourbon, Prince of Condé (1621–86),
known as ‘the Great Condé’, victor at the battles of Rocroy
(1643) and Lens (1648).
King of Sweden, 1611–32, commander of the
Protestant forces in the Thirty Years’ War.
Henri de La Tour d’Auvergne, Vicomte de Turenne
(1611–75), marshal of France, rival of Condé, noted for his
simple, honest character as well as for his military genius.
Caesar’s defeat of Pompey at the battle of
Pharsalus (48 b.c.) decided the
outcome of the Civil War.
The conspiracy of Catiline in 63
b.c., shown up by Cicero, met with universal
reprobation.
7 ∼⁁6
Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis (95–46
b.c.), a leader of the aristocratic
party, consistently opposed Caesar.
Cf. the final words of II.iii.3.2 above.
7 ear 6
Genghis Khan.
Smith’s memory has misled him. Cicero, Brutus,
li.91, tells the story about Antimachus reading a long poem
before an audience that eventually consisted only of Plato.
The philosopher Parmenides (even if in his old age he met
the young Socrates, as Plato’s dialogue Parmenides
supposes) must have died before Plato was born.
7 om. 6
Alexander killed Cleitus at a banquet in 328
b.c., when both were the worse for
drink. Callisthenes died of torture or disease after being
imprisoned in 327 b.c. for alleged
complicity in a plot to assassinate Alexander. Parmenion’s
son Philotas was accused in 330 b.c.
of conspiring against Alexander, and under torture he
implicated his father also, whereupon Alexander had both of
them put to death.
Plutarch, Apophthegmata (Moralia,
Book III), 177 c.
Smith’s memory has misled him. He seems to be
conflating two similar remarks made by Philip, not about
Parmenion, but about another of his generals, Antipater. One
is reported by Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae, 435 d: ‘We
must drink; it is enough that Antipater is sober.’ The other
by Plutarch, Apophthegmata, 179 b: ‘I was asleep with
safety, for Antipater was awake.’
Presumably a reference to the exaggerated comment
of Quintus Curtius, History of Alexander, VII.ii.33:
‘Multa sine rege prospere, rex sine illo nihil magnae rei
gesserat.’
ital. 6 7 Probably an error in the
MS.
Clarendon, History of the Rebellion and Civil
Wars in England, Book I, § 119.
Cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1125a13–14,
1124b7–8.
Smith is misquoting from memory. It is the Ghost,
not Hamlet, who speaks thus of his own death:
- Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
- Unhousell’d, disappointed, unaneled;
- No reckoning made, but sent to my account
- With all my imperfections on my head:
- (Hamlet,i.v.76–9.)
Of the questions . . . theory of moral
sentiments 1–5 Of the Questions which ought to be
examined in a Theory of Moral Sentiments 6 7
It seems likely that the first version of Smith’s
lectures on ethics began at this point, with a systematic
survey of earlier theories before developing Smith’s own
views in the light of his criticisms of Hutcheson and Hume.
Francis Hutcheson (1694–1746), Professor of Moral
Philosophy at the University of Glasgow, 1730–46. For his
view that virtue consists essentially in benevolence, see
especially Inquiry concerning Moral Good and Evil,
III.i; Raphael, British Moralists 1650–1800, § 328.
Samuel Clarke, 1675–1729. For his view that right or
obligatory action (rather than virtue) is acting suitably to
the different relations of things, see Discourse of
Natural Religion, I; Raphael, British Moralists,
§§ 225–6, 230–2.
Of . . . accounts . . . nature of
virtue 1–5 Of the different Accounts which have been
given of the Nature of Virtue 6 7
violence 1
See Plato de Rep. lib iv.
Smith is here translating the word σοϕία, usually
rendered ‘wisdom’.
σωϕροσύνη. For the doctrine described here, cf.
Plato, Republic, 430 e, 442 c–d.
δικαιοσύνη. Its different meanings are discussed by
Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, V.i–ii.
Cf. II.ii.1.5 above.
De Jure Belli ac Pacis, I.i.8.
The distributive justice of Aristotle is somewhat
different. It consists in the proper distribution of rewards
from the public stock of a community. See Aristotle Ethic.
Nic. l.5.c.2 [1130b31–2].
See Aristotle Ethic. Nic. l.2.c.5. et seq. et
l.3.c.5. et seq.
The definition quoted by Smith comes at
Nicomachean Ethics, II.vi.15 (1106b36–1107a1).
Smith’s rendering, ‘the habit of mediocrity’, is a little
misleading, perhaps more so than the earlier version of ed.
1. It would be more accurate to say: ‘Virtue is a
disposition (or state of character), concerned with choice,
consisting of a mean that is determined by reason.’
habitual mediocrity of the affections
1
See Aristotle Ethic. Nic. lib. ii. ch. 1, 2, 3, and
4.
See Aristotle Mag. Mor. lib. i. ch. 1.
i.e. exact knowledge.
See Cicero de finibus, lib. iii.; also Diogenes
Laertius in Zenone, lib. vii. segment 84[f].
1–5 7 conveniences 6
1–5 inconveniences 6 7
want of authority. 1–5
The followers of Aristotle.
At this point, eds. 1–5 continue with a
short passage that was withdrawn in ed. 6 We give the text
of ed. 1 with the variants of eds. 2–5 below. The first part
of the passage runs on from § 17, and the second
part, beginning a fresh paragraph, runs on into § 18.
What chiefly distinguished those two
systems from one another was the different degrees of
self–command which they required. The peripatetics
[Peripatetics 5] allowed of some degree of
perturbation as suitable to the weakness of human nature,
and as useful to so imperfect a creature as man. If his own
misfortunes [1E 2–5 misfortune 1] excited no
passionate grief, if his own injuries called forth no
violent [lively 2–5] resentment, reason, or a regard
to the general rules which determined what was right and fit
to be done, would commonly, they thought, be too weak to
prompt him to avoid the one or to beat off the other. The
Stoics, on the contrary, demanded the most perfect apathy,
and regarded every emotion that [which 2–5] could in
the smallest degree disturb the tranquility [tranquillity
5] of the mind, as the effect of levity and folly. The
Peripatetics seem to have thought that no passion exceeded
the bounds of propriety as long as the spectator, by the
utmost effort of humanity, could sympathize with it. The
stoics, [Stoics, 2–5] on the contrary, appear to have
regarded every passion as improper, which made any demand
upon the sympathy of the spectator, or required him to alter
in any respect the natural and ordinary state of his mind,
in order to keep time with the vehemence of its [his 5 an
error, not a correction] emotions. A man of virtue, they
seem to have thought, ought not to depend upon the
generosity of those he lives with for pardon or approbation.
According to the stoics [Stocis, 2–5]
every event ought, to a wise man, to [event should, to a
wise man, 2–5] appear indifferent, and what for its
own sake could be the object neither of desire, [desire 5]
nor aversion, neither of joy, [joy 5] nor sorrow. If
he preferred some events to others, if some situations were
the objects of his choice, and others of his rejection
, it was not, because he regarded the one as [as, 2–5]
in themselves, in any respect better than the other, or
thought that his own happiness would be more compleat
[complete 4 5] in what is called [in, what is called,
2–5] the fortunate, than in what is commonly regarded
as the distressful situation; but because the propriety of
action, the rule which the gods had given him for the
direction of his conduct, required him to choose and reject
in this manner. Among the primary objects of natural
inclination, or among those things which nature had
originally recommended to us as eligible, . . .
Some of these expressions sound a little aukward
[awkward 5] in the English language: they are literal
translations of the [translations of 2 3] technical
terms of the stoics. [Stoics. 2–5]
. . . Among the primary objects of
natural inclination, or among those things which nature had
originally recommended 1–5
choice, and even of our desire, 1–5
om. 1–5
No new paragraph in eds. 1–5
Discourses, II.v.24–6.
Arrian. lib. ii.c.5. [Arrian’s Discourses of
Epictetus.]
At this point, eds. 1–5 contain a
further paragraph, withdrawn in ed. 6. We give the text of
ed. 1 with the variants of eds. 2–5 below.
The footnote at the end of § 19,
giving the reference to Arrian, appeared in eds. 1–5 but was
omitted in ed. 6 (and therefore in ed. 7 also).
This omission was no doubt inadvertent. When revising a copy
of ed. 4 for the preparation of ed. 6, Smith presumably
cancelled the paragraph to be withdrawn, and failed to
notice that the footnote, appearing at the bottom of the
relevant page, ought to be retained as belonging to the
preceding paragraph.
This submission to the order of the
universe, this entire indifference with regard to whatever
concerns ourselves, when put into the balance with the
interest of the whole, could derive its propriety, it is
evident, from no other principle besides that [that, 4]
upon which I have endeavoured to show that the [show, the
4 show the 5] propriety of justice was founded.
As long as we view our own interests with our own eyes, it
is scarce possible that we should willingly acquiesce in
their being thus sacrificed to the interests of the whole.
It is only when we view those opposite interests with the
eyes of others [others, 4 5] that what concerns
ourselves can appear to be so contemptible in the
comparison, as to be resigned without any reluctance. To
every body but the person principally concerned [concerned,
4 5] nothing can appear more agreeable to reason and
propriety [propriety, 5] than that the part should
give place to the whole. But what is agreeable to the reason
of all other men, ought not to appear contrary to his. He
himself therefore ought to approve of this sacrifice
[sacrifice, 2–5] and acknowledge its conformity to
reason. But all the affections of a wise man, according to
the stoics, [Stoics, 5] are perfectly agreeable to
reason and propriety, and of their own accord coincide with
whatever these ruling principles prescribe. A wise man,
therefore, could never feel any reluctance to comply with
this disposition of things.
Eds. 1–5 then proceed to VII.ii.1.48:
IV. Besides these ancient, . . .
§ 20 (with He in place
of A wise man) appears in eds. 1–5 as the latter part
of a paragraph in a special chapter on the Stoical
Philosophy. In ed. 1 this is Part I, sect. iv, chap. 3, and
in eds. 2–5 it is Part I, sect. iii, chap. 3. See what is
now I.iii.2.9, textual notec–c and editorial note
7. See also VII.ii.1.23, textual noter, below.
himself, according to what self–love
would suggest, 1–5
stoical philosopher, 1–5
As Eckstein (ii.586) suggests, Smith is probably
referring to a statement of Demetrius the Cynic, reported by
Seneca De Providentia (Dialogues, Book I),
v.5: ‘I have only one complaint to make of you, immortal
gods, that you did not make your will known to me before;
for I should then have come the sooner to the state in which
I now am after summons.’ Seneca was a close friend and warm
admirer of Demetrius, who lived in Rome under the emperors
Gaius, Nero, and Vespasian. When Smith wrote ‘a stoical
philosopher’ for ed. 1, he will have recalled simply that
the passage was quoted by the Stoic Seneca and illustrated
Stoic attitudes. His revision in ed. 6 is a correct
statement of Demetrius’ position.
Cf. Discourses, II.v.10–14. Smith’s words
here are a paraphrase rather than a translation.
At this point, eds. 1–5 proceed with a
fresh paragraph, Such was the philosophy of the stories
. . ., which leads into what is now the second sentence
of I.iii.2.9. See the final part of the variant printed in
notec–c at that place.
§§ 21–2 were added in ed. 6. They
replace the first part of the second paragraph
(beginning It was upon this account that, according to the
stoical philosophy, . . .) of the chapter on the Stoical
Philosophy in eds. 1–5. See notec–c at I.iii.2.9.
§ 23, apart from the last sentence,
which was added in ed. 6, is a revision of a passage which,
in eds. 1–5, formed the latter part of the second paragraph
in the chapter on the Stoical Philosophy. There it began
(see notec–c at I.iii.2.9):
. . . To a wise man, on the contrary, to
one whose passions were all brought under perfect subjection
to the ruling principles of his nature, to reason and the
love of propriety, to act so as to deserve approbation was
equally easy upon all occasions.
At this point, eds. 1–5 proceed,
without a fresh paragraph, He never complains of the
destiny of providence, . . . and continue as in
VII.ii.1.20 above. The last sentence of § 23, and the
whole of §§ 24–47, were added in ed. 6.
Discourses, I.xxv.18–21. Smith has put
together two remarks about smoke that are separated in the
original. See also editorial note 38 below.
Cf. Discourses, I.xxv.15–17. The latter part
of Smith’s quotation is a paraphrase rather than a
translation.
See Cicero de finibus, lib. 3.
Olivet’s edition.
c.13. 6 7 Misprint
The first sentence of § 27 is a translation of a
sentence in Cicero, De Finibus, III.xviii.60. The
misprint of ‘13’ for ‘18’ was undetected by Smith and even
by Eckstein, who notes (ii.587) that the reference seems
irrelevant.
Cf. V.2.9 above.
The followers of Plato and Aristotle respectively.
Cf. ‘whining and melancholy moralists’, III.3.9
above; also Letter 163 addressed to Alexander Wedderburn,
dated 14 August 1776, in which Smith says that Hume is
facing death ‘with more real resignation . . .than any
Whining Christian ever dyed with pretended resignation to
the will of God’.
Paradise Lost, 11.568–9.
The suicide of Cleomenes, King of Sparta, in 220/19
b.c. is described by Plutarch,
Lives, Cleomenes, 37.
Smith has confused Aristomenes with Aristodemus,
both legendary heroes of Messene. Aristodemus fought in the
first war against Sparta (eighth century
b.c.), Aristomenes in the second war (seventh
century). Pausanias, IV.13, writes of the suicide of
Aristodemus; in IV.24 he mentions the death of Aristomenes
as a natural event following illness.
Ajax, son of Telamon, one of the leaders of the
Greeks in Homer’s Iliad. Later poets tell the story
that he went mad, killed a flock of sheep thinking they were
his enemies, and then killed himself.
Athenian statesman, commander of the flect that
defeated the Persians at the battle of Salamis, 480
b.c. In later political dispute
Themistocles was exiled from Athens and died in Asia Minor.
Thucydides, I.138, says his death was the result of illness
but also reports a tale of suicide.
All three were sentenced to death at Athens, where
capital punishment took the form of drinking hemlock.
Theramenes, one of the ‘Thirty Tyrants’ of 404
b.c., was charged with treason.
Socrates was charged in 399 with impiety and corrupting the
youth. Phocion, general and statesman who favoured
collaboration with the Macedonians, was sentenced in 317 on
a charge of treason.
Eumenes and Antigonus governed parts of Asia after
the death of Alexander the Great. Antigonus defeated Eumenes
and had him put to death in 316 b.c.
Smith is referring to Plutarch, Lives, Eumenes,
17–19, but has forgotten that, after being starved, Eumenes
was in the end forcibly killed.
Philopoemen of Megalopolis, eight times general of
the Achaean Confederacy, was captured by the Messenians in
182 b.c. and given poison to drink.
Smith is referring to Plutarch, Lives, Philopoemen,
18–20.
Diogenes Laertius, VII.28, but the end of the story
is that Zeno throttled (not hanged) himself. The lost play
Niobe, from which Zeno quotes, was probably by
Timotheus (Nauck, Trag. Graec. Fragmenta, 51), not
Euripides.
Lucian, Macrobioi, 19; cf. Diogenes
Laertius, VII.31.
Persaeus is reported by Diogenes Laertius, VII.28,
to say simply that Zeno came to Athens at the age of 22 and
died at 72.
Diogenes Laertius reports Apollonius as saying that
Zeno presided over his school for 58 years (in contrast to
the figures given by Persaeus), but does not explicitly
attribute to Apollonius the account of Zeno’s death at 98.
Lucian, Macrobioi, 19, supports the story of
self–starvation at 98, not that of a ‘violent’ death.
Lactantius, Institutes, III.18, and Epitome,
34(39), includes Zeno in a list of ancient philosophers who
committed suicide; he says nothing about age and his words
do not necessarily imply violent death.
Marcus Atilius Regulus, commander of the Roman army
against Carthage in the First Punic War. After striking
successes he was defeated and taken prisoner in 255
b.c. According to a dubious later
tradition, he was sent to Rome by the Carthaginians in 250
to propose terms for peace or the exchange of prisoners, but
he dissuaded the Senate from accepting the proposals and
voluntarily returned to Carthage, where he was tortured and
killed.
Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis (95–46
b.c.) committed suicide after the
defeat by Julius Caesar of the republican forces in Africa.
Cicero wrote a eulogy in his pamphlet Cato, and
Caesar replied with his Anticato.
Smith is mistaken; de Retz did not say this, though
he did make several other observations (some not altogether
unlike this one, others tending to contradict it) about
parties and their heads.
Seneca, De Tranquillitate Animi (Dialogues,
Book IX), xvii.9.
Pliny writes in Letters, I.12, of Corellius
Rufus, who committed suicide when suffering from an
incurable disease; in III.16, of Arria, who, when her
husband Paetus had been condemned to death, stabbed herself
and urged him to follow her, saying ‘Paetus, it does not
hurt’; and in VI.24, of an aged couple who drowned
themselves at the instigation of the wife because the
husband was afflicted with ulcers in his private parts.
Eckstein (ii.589) cites these passages as possible
references but thinks that they do not fit Smith’s
disparaging comments. Smith is certainly referring to at
least the last two instances; hence his remark about ‘the
ladies’ in the next sentence. He is quite likely to think
that none of these suicides had ‘proper or necessary’
reasons and that Arria’s famous last words were ‘vanity and
ostentation’. Some of Pliny’s own comments on the first two
instances can be taken to imply a view not altogether
dissimilar.
Probably a reference to Hume’s essay Of Suicide,
published after his death in unauthorized editions,
anonymously in 1777 and with ascription to Hume in 1784 and
1789. Smith’s discussion of suicide in this chapter was
written for ed. 6 of TMS. Bonar, Catalogue 1, 53
(repeated in Catalogue 2, 90), suggests, and
Eckstein, ii.589, firmly endorses, a description of it as a
‘reply’ to Hume. This is true of Smith’s denial that suicide
may be praiseworthy, but not otherwise. Smith is following
Hume when he says that suicide is commonly due to melancholy
and when he urges (contrary to contemporary opinion and
practice, as Eckstein notes) that suicide should not be
considered criminal.
Marcus Aurelius.
Epictetus was the slave, then the freedman, of
Epaphroditus, freedman and secretary of Nero. In writing of
‘a brutal master’ (which need not necessarily refer to
Epaphroditus), Smith is thinking of the (dubious) tale of
Celsus (Origen, Against Celsus, VII.53) that
Epictetus had his leg broken by his master. When the emperor
Domitian banished the philosophers from Rome in
a.d. 89, Epictetus went to live in
Nicopolis (Aulus Gellius, XV.11). There is no reason to
think that he was ‘obliged’ to live there, was banished from
Athens as well as Rome, or was in danger of being sent to
Gyaros (an island used by the Roman emperors as a place of
banishment). Smith is reading too much into the quotation
from Epictetus at § 25 above.
7 acordingly; 6
Cf. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, III.2,
IX.3.
V.8
IV.23
Athens, said to have been founded by Cecrops.
Essay on Man, 1.90.
Cleanthes succeeded Zeno as head of the Stoic
school of philosophy.
The third head of the Stoic school.
De Officiis.
Marcus Junius Brutus, who joined in the murder of
Julius Caesar, is reported by Seneca, Epistles (Book
XV), 95.45, to have written a book entitled περὶ καθήκοντος
(‘On Propriety’). Two later grammarians, Charisius and
Priscianus, cite it by the Latin equivalent, De Officiis.
Ed. 6 here reverts to the text of eds.
1–5. See notek at the end of VII.ii.1.19.
Samuel Clarke; see VII.i.3, note 3.
William Wollaston (1660–1724), Religion of
Nature delineated, I; Raphael, British Moralists
1650–1800, §§ 274–90.
Anthony Ashley Cooper, 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury
(1671–1713). His account specifically of virtue is given in
Inquiry concerning Virtue, I.ii.3; Raphael,
British Moralists, §§ 200–2. Smith’s interpretation of
Shaftesbury’s view is questionable. It is perhaps due to a
misunderstanding of Shaftesbury’s formal definition of
virtue at Inquiry, I.iii.1, as ‘a certain just
disposition, or proportionable affection of a rational
creature towards the moral objects of right and wrong’. Here
‘proportionable affection’ means an affection proportionable
or suitable to the moral objects, but Smith may have taken
it to refer to a balance of one affection to others.
om. 1–5
7 even to pretend to 6
virtue 1–5
Founder of the Cyrenaic school of philosophy, which
regarded pleasure as the sole end of action.
See Cicero de finibus, lib. i. Diogenes Laert. l. x.
5 this 1–4 6 7 The revision in
ed. 5 was probably made by the author, chiefly in order to
avoid the repetition of this situation at the end of
§ 7.
Smith is presumably recalling a report of Xenophon,
Memorabilia, I.7, but the supposed quotation (not
printed as such in eds. 1–5) is a very free paraphrase, not
a translation.
1–5 om. 6 7 Printer’s error
Prima naturae.
In a note to Ancient Logics, 3, Smith writes
similarly of ‘that eclectic philosophy, from which the later
Platonists arose’. But it is hard to say what writers he has
in mind in §§ 1–2 of the present chapter. Later Stoics
such as Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, stressed
benevolence. The Neoplatonists advocated an imitation of God
but did not associate this with love or benevolence. Smith
may be reading back into them the doctrines of Christian
thinkers who were influenced by Neoplatonism in other
respects.
All three were members of the group of
seventeenth–century philosophers known as the Cambridge
Platonists. The main ethical work of Ralph Cudworth
(1617–88) is Treatise concerning Eternal and Immutable
Morality; of Henry More (1614–87), Enchiridion
Ethicum, translated into English by Edward Southwell as
An Account of Virtue; and of John Smith (1618–52),
Select Discourses.
Francis Hutcheson (1694–1746) was Professor of Moral
Philosophy at the University of Glasgow from 1730 to 1746
and so Adam Smith’s teacher. His most important works on
ethics are Inquiry concerning Moral Good and Evil
(Treatise II of Inquiry into Beauty and Virtue);
Essay on the Passions and Affections. With Illustrations on
the Moral Sense; and System of Moral Philosophy.
Smith eulogizes him again in Letter 274 addressed to
Archibald Davidson, Principal of Glasgow University, dated
16 November 1787, accepting the office of Lord Rector. Smith
there writes of having been appointed to the Chair of Moral
Philosophy, ‘to which the abilities and Virtues of the never
to be forgotten Dr Hutcheson had given a superior degree of
illustration’.
See Inquiry concerning Virtue, sect. 1. and 2. [The
reference is presumably to Sect. II.iii; Raphael, British
Moralists 1650–1800, §§ 318–19.]
Cf. Hutcheson, Inquiry concerning Moral Good and
Evil (or Inquiry concerning . . . Virtue . . .),
III.iii; Selby–Bigge, British Moralists, § 112.
Inquiry concerning virtue, sect. 2. art. 4. also
Illustrations on the moral sense, sect. 5. last paragraph.
Hutcheson does not in fact say that it diminishes
merit. In Inquiry, II.iv (Raphael, British
Moralists 1650–1800, § 322), he says that a virtuous
benevolence cannot be produced by the desire for
self–approbation; and in Illustrations, V, last
paragraph, he says that the pleasure of self–approbation
helps us to be constant in virtue but does not add to merit.
The view expressed in the last clause of this
sentence is an unusual one for an opponent of utilitarianism
to accept.
The following sentence shows that Smith has Hume in
mind. Cf. IV.2.3 above.
om. 1–3
1–5 lawful 6 7
worst 1–5
There are, however, some other systems
which seem 1–5
the systems of the duke of
Rochefaucault [Rochefoucault 4 5] and Dr. Mandeville.
Tho’ [Though 2–5] the notions of both these authors
1–5
These, first slightly sketched out with
the elegance and delicate precision of the duke of
Rochefaucault, [Rochefoucault, 4 5] and afterwards
more fully represented with the lively and humourous, tho’
[humorous, though 2–5] coarse and rustic eloquence of
Dr. Mandeville, have thrown upon their doctrines 1–5
Smith’s omission in ed. 6 of the references to La
Rochefoucauld was a result of correspondence with Louis
Alexandre, Duc de La Rochefoucauld d’Anville (1743–92), whom
Smith had met in 1765 at Geneva. In Letter 194 from the
Duke, dated 3 March 1778, there is a mild protest about ‘le
mal que vous avez dit’ of his ancestor. Letter 199 from the
Duke, dated 6 August 1779, shows that Smith had written on
15 May and had mentioned a new edition of TMS, presumably
adding that it would revise or omit the statements about La
Rochefoucauld. (Smith may or may not have meant ed. 5, which
appeared in 1781, but this in fact contained only very minor
revision.) In Letter 248 addressed to the Duke, dated 1
November 1785, Smith repeats his ‘promise’ relating to a new
edition of TMS, which he hopes ‘to execute before the end of
the ensuing winter’. He also commissioned Dugald Stewart (Works,
vi.256, x.46), when visiting Paris in 1789, to express to
the Duke ‘his sincere regret for having introduced the name
of his ancestor and that of Dr. Mandeville in the same
sentence’ and to say that this would be remedied ‘in the
future editions of his Theory’. Ed. 6 appeared in
1790. Smith has inadvertently left unaltered, in the title
of the chapter, the plural term ‘Systems’.
Although Smith coupled La Rochefoucauld
with Mandeville in the general remarks of § 6, the specific
criticisms made in the remainder of the chapter were
confined, even in the original version, to tenets of
Mandeville.
Dr. Mandeville, the most methodical of
those two authors, 1–5
5 this 1–4 6 7 The revision in
ed. 5 was probably a correction (it is certainly an
improvement) made by the author, and overlooked in
the preparation of ed. 6 from the pages of ed. 4.
5 ∼⁁1–4 6 7 See
preceding note
5 ∼⁁1–4 6 7
‘. . . the Moral Virtues are the Political Offspring
which Flattery begot upon Pride.’ Mandeville, Enquiry
into the Origin of Moral Virtue; in Fable of the
Bees, ed. Kaye, i.51.
5 of 1–4 6 7
Rae, Life, 32–3, 63–5, 269–70, discusses,
with justified scepticism, reports of Smith’s fear of
plagiarism. There is no reason to suppose that in the
present passage (written for ed. 1) Smith has stronger
feelings about the plagiary than about the coxcomb or the
liar.
Luxury and lust.
Fable of the Bees.
The full title of Mandeville’s work is The Fable
of the Bees: or, Private Vices, Publick Benefits.
Smith discusses Descartes’s theory of vortices at
some length in Astronomy, IV.61–6.
Puffendorff, Mandeville.
IV.2.1–2 above. For Smith’s use of the word
‘occasion’ here and later in the paragraph, cf. IV.2.7 and
9.
IV.1.2
1–5 7 othet, 6
1–5 ∼⁁6 7
Immutable Morality, l.1.
Smith has in mind Treatise concerning Eternal and
Immutable Morality, I.ii.3–4; Raphael, British
Moralists 1650–1800, §§ 122–3. Cudworth’s argument is
not quite as Smith represents it, but in principle Smith’s
view of Cudworth’s position is sound enough.
The phrase recalls Hume: ‘All morality depends upon
our sentiments; and when any action, or quality of the mind,
pleases us after a certain manner, we say it is
virtuous; . . .’ Treatise of Human Nature, III.ii.5;
ed. Selby–Bigge, 517. The argument of the latter part of the
paragraph is derived from Treatise, III.i.1–2.
I–IV
2–5 7 ∼⁁1
unaswerably, 6
Inquiry concerning Virtue.
Treatise of the Passions.
Smith’s memory has misled him. Hutcheson’s
distinction between ‘direct and antecedent’
perceptions and ‘reflex or subsequent’
perceptions is not in the Essay on the . . . Passions and
Affections (to which Smith’s note refers), but in a
later work, Short Introduction to Moral Philosophy
(or, in its original Latin form, Philosophiae Moralis
Institutio Compendiaria), I.i.3.
Consequently not analogous to the external senses,
as Smith has suggested in § 5 above.
Illustrations upon the Moral Sense, sect. 1. p. 237,
et seq.; third edition [Raphael, British Moralists
1650–1800, § 364].
§§ 9–10 above.
2E or to 1 to 2–7
∼. 1–7
IV.2.3 ff. The ‘system’ referred to is that of Hume.
Smith’s distinction between the type of sympathy that enters
into Hume’s ethics and the two types that he himself has
used is entirely just.
III.6.9–11
Cf. Nicomachean Ethics, IV.1–3, 5, 8.
Cicero, De Officiis, I.x.32; III.xxix.107.
Samuel Pufendorf, De Jure Naturae et Gentium,
III.vi.11–13; IV.ii.8: De Officio Hominis et Civis,
I.ix.15.3. Jean Barbeyrac, French translator and editor of
Pufendorf, agrees with the latter’s view in notes to the
first two of the passages cited, especially the second,
where Barbeyrac also opposes the contrary opinion of Jean La
Placette, a French Protestant theologian and moralist, as
given in Traité du serment (1701), II.21. Francis
Hutcheson, Philosophiae Moralis Institutio Compendiaria
(English version, Short Introduction to Moral Philosophy),
II.ix.9: System of Moral Philosophy, II.ix.5.
St. Augustine, La Placette.
Cf. St. Augustine, Letters, 125.3. For La
Placette see preceding note.
1–5 ∼⁁6 7
At this point, eds. 1–5 continue,
without a fresh paragraph, The great pleasure of
conversation, and indeed of society, arises from . . .,
and then proceed as in § 28. §§ 23–7, and the
beginning of § 28, were added in ed. 6.
The great pleasure of conversation, and
indeed of society, arises 1–5 Ed. 6 has here rejoined the
text of the earlier editions. See noteb at §
22 above.
At this point, eds. 1–5 continue the
paragraph with four further sentences, withdrawn in ed. 6.
We give the text of ed. 1 with the variants of eds. 2–5
below.
If to conceal is so disagreeable, to
attempt to deceive us is still more disgusting, even tho’
[though 2–5] we could possibly suffer nothing by the
success of the fraud. If we see that our companion wants to
impose upon us, if the sentiments and opinions which he
utters appear evidently not to be his own, let them be ever
so fine, we can derive no sort of entertainment from them;
and if something of human nature did not now and then
transpire through all the covers which falshood [falsehood
4 5] and affectation are capable of wraping [wrapping
4 5] around it, a puppet of wood would be altogether
as pleasant a companion as a person who never spoke as he
was affected. No man ever deceives, with regard to the most
insignificant matters, who is not conscious of doing
something like an injury to those he converses with; and who
does not inwardly blush and shrink back with shame and
confusion even at the secret thought of a detection. Breach
of veracity, therefore, being always attended with some
degree of remorse and self–condemnation, naturally fell
under the cognizance of the casuists.
§§ 29–31 were added in ed. 6.
Cf. II.iii.4–5, a passage likewise added in ed. 6.
Cf. LJ(B) 1 (Cannan ed., 1): ‘Jurisprudence is that
science which inquires into the general principles which
ought to be the foundation of the laws of all nations.’ See
note 9 below.
i.e. Plato’s Laws and Cicero’s De Legibus.
For Smith’s distinction between justice and ‘police’
cf. LJ(A) I.1–4, VI.1–2; LJ(B) 5, 203 (Cannan ed., 3, 154);
especially the last passage, where Smith explains that the
function of police in relation to security is ‘the execution
of justice, so far as it regards regulations for preventing
crimes, or the method of keeping a city guard’. In the
present context he is evidently distinguishing between
general principles of justice and detailed laws and
institutions for giving effect to those principles.
Cf. LJ(B) 1 (Cannan ed., 1): ‘Grotius seems to have
been the first who attempted to give the world any thing
like a regular system of natural jurisprudence, and his
treatise on the laws of war and peace, with all its
imperfections, is perhaps at this day the most compleat work
on this subject.’ The correspondence here and at note 6
above is so close as to suggest that the form of LJ(B)
represents Smith’s draft of a version of his jurisprudence
lectures that would be fit for publication.
Cf. § 2 of the Advertisement with which ed. 6
begins.
The word ‘with’ has presumably been omitted.
In the final word of this clause, the amanuensis
appears to have begun to write ‘th’ (i.e. ‘them’?) and then
changed it to ‘h’.
Perhaps Smith in fact said ‘sleeping at’ and was
misheard by the student whose report is copied in LJ(B). The
sentinel would have been more culpable if he had
deliberately left his post.
Ronald L. Meek and Andrew S. Skinner, ‘The
Development of Adam Smith’s Ideas on the Division of
Labour’, Economic Journal, lxxxiii (1973), 1094–1116
(especially 1104–6), give reasons for assigning these two
fragments to an even later period, the 1760s.
The draft revision of 1759, sent to Sir Gilbert
Elliot, is in the hand of an amanuensis.