The Theory of Moral Sentiments

what manner our own judgments refer to what ought to be the judgments of others: and of the origin of general rules.

A great part, perhaps the greatest part, 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

either to what are, or to what upon a certain

condition would be, or to what we imagine ought to

be the sentiments of others. We examine it as we

imagine an impartial spectator 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.

Was 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; and with regard to which he

181is provided with no mirror which can present them

to his view. 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.

Our 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,

182that 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 own 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 insupportable to one

who is really deformed. It is evident, however,

that we are anxious about our own beauty and deformity

only on account of its effect upon others. If

we had no connexion with society, we should be altogether

indifferent about either.

In 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

others 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

183us 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 others,

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 others; secure

that, however misunderstood or misrepresented, we

are the natural and proper objects of approbation.

On the contrary, if we are displeased with 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.

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 pannel. But that

the judge should, in every respect, be the same

184with the pannel, is as impossible, as that the cause

should, in every respect, be the same with the effect.

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?

Man is considered as a moral, because he is regarded

as an accountable being. But an accountable

being, as the word expresses, is a being that

must give an account of its actions to some other,

and that consequently must regulate them according

to the good liking of this other. Man is accountable

to God and his fellow-creatures. But

though he is, no doubt, principally accountable to

God; in the order of time, he must necessarily conceive

himself as accountable to his fellow-creatures,

before he can form any idea of the Deity, or of the

rules by which that divine being will judge of his

conduct. A child surely conceives itself as accountable

to its parents, and is elevated or cast down by

185the 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 will judge of its conduct.

The great judge of the world, has, for the wisest

reasons, thought proper to interpose, between the

weak eye of human reason, and the throne of his

eternal justice, a degree of obscurity and darkness,

which though it does not entirely 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 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 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

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

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. They are

taught by nature to acknowledge that power and

186jurisdiction which has thus been conferred upon him,

and to tremble and exult according as they imagine

that they have either merited his censure, or deserved

his applause.

But whatever may be the authority of this inferior

tribunal which is continually before their eyes, if at

any time it should decide contrary to those principles

and rules, which Nature has established for regulating

its judgments, men feel that they may appeal

from this unjust decision, and call upon a superior

tribunal, the tribunal established in their own

breasts, to redress the injustice of this weak or partial

judgment.

There are certain principles established by Nature

for governing our judgment 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 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 concerning whom we form

these judgments, must himself necessarily approve of

them. When he puts himself into our situation, he

cannot avoid viewing his own conduct 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 sentiments, therefore, must necessarily

produce their full effect upon him, and he cannot

fail to conceive all the triumph of self-approbation

187from, what appears to him, such merited applause,

as well as all the horrors of shame from, what, he

is sensible, is such deserved condemnation.

But it is otherwise, if we have either applauded or

condemned him, contrary to those principles and

rules which Nature has established for the direction

of our judgments concerning every thing of this

kind. If we have either applauded or condemned

him for what, when he put himself into our situation,

does not appear to him to be the object either of applause

or condemnation; as in this case he cannot

enter into our sentiments, provided he has any constancy

or firmness, he is but little affected by them,

and can neither be much elevated by the favourable,

nor greatly mortified by the unfavourable decision.

The applause of the whole world will avail but little,

if our own conscience condemn us; and the disapprobation

of all mankind is not capable of oppressing

us, 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 this tribunal within the breast be thus

the supreme arbiter of all our actions, though it can

reverse the decisions of all mankind with regard to

our character and conduct, and mortify us amidst

the applause, or support us under the censure of the

world; yet, if we inquire into the origin of its institution,

its jurisdiction we shall find is in a great

measure derived from the authority of that very tribunal,

whose decisions it so often and so justly reverses.

When we first come into the world, from the natural

desire to please, we accustom ourselves to consider

188what behaviour is likely to be agreeable 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 the good-will

and approbation of every body. We are soon

taught by experience, however, 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, 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, or thwart the

inclinations of particular persons, who will seldom

have candour enough to enter into the propriety of our

motives, or to see that this conduct, how disagreeable

soever to them, is perfectly suitable to our situation.

In order to defend ourselves from such partial judgments,

we soon learn to set 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 either to ourselves, or to those

whose interests are affected by our conduct, who is

neither father, nor brother, nor friend either to them

or to us, but is merely a man in general, an impartial

spectator who considers our conduct with the

same indifference with which we regard that of other

people. If, when we place ourselves in the situation

of such a person, our own actions appear to us under

an agreeable aspect, if we feel that such a spectator

cannot avoid entering into all the motives which

189influenced us, whatever may be the judgments of the

world, we must still be pleased with our own behaviour,

and regard ourselves, in spite of the censure

of our companions, as the just and proper objects of

approbation.

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 this distaste

and dissatisfaction. The weak, the vain, and the frivolous,

indeed, may be mortified by the most groundless

censure, or elated by the most absurd applause.

Such persons are not accustomed to consult the judge

within concerning the opinion which they ought to

form of their own conduct. This inmate of the

breast, this abstract man, the representative of mankind,

and substitute of the Deity, whom Nature has

constituted the supreme judge of all their actions, is

seldom appealed to by them. They are contented

with the decision of the inferior 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, their joy is complete; and if they

fail, they are entirely disappointed. They never

think of appealing to the superior court. They have

seldom inquired after its decisions, 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, necessarily the slaves of the

190world. But it is otherwise with the man who has,

upon all occasions, been accustomed to have recourse

to the judge within, and to consider, not what the

world approves or disapproves of, but what appears

to this impartial spectator, the natural and proper

object of approbation or disapprobation. The judgment

of this supreme arbiter of his conduct, is the

applause, 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 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 judgment.

It is only by consulting this judge within, that we

can see whatever 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 men.

As 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

191transporting 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.

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 to do this so

easily and so readily, that we are scarce sensible that

we do 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

192greatest 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.

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 tranquility, 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 paultry

misfortune of his own. To prevent therefore, this

193paultry 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 from him only that we

learn the real littleness of ourselves, and of whatever

relates to ourselves, and the natural misrepresentations

of self-love can be corrected only by the eye of

194this impartial spectator. It is he who shows us

the propriety of generality and the deformity of injustice;

the propriety of resigning the greatest interests

of our own, for the yet greater interests

of others, and the deformity of doing the

smallest injury to another, in order to obtain the

greatest benefit to ourselves. 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.

When the happiness or misery of others depends

in any respect upon our conduct, we dare not, 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 upon our

conduct, when our own interests are altogether separated

and detached from theirs, so that there is neither

connexion nor competition between them, as

the sense of demerit does not in this case interpose,

the mere 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. The most vulgar

education teaches us to act, upon all important

occasions, with some sort of impartiality between

195ourselves 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 only, which

pretends to correct the inequalities of our passive

feelings, and we must for this purpose have recourse

to the severest, as well as to the profoundest philosophy.

Two 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.

The first are those melancholy moralists, who are

perpetually reproaching us with our happiness, while

so many of our brethren are in misery,[6] who 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 infecting

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

196misfortunes, 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 hypocritical sadness, which, without reaching

the heart, serves only to render the countenance and

convocation 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 was possessed of 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.

6. See Thomson’s Seasons, Winter:

“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,” &c.

See also Pascal.

197Among 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.” 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

198to 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 befalls 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 entire

resignation of ourselves, and of whatever relates to

ourselves 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, to

any little interest of our own, we are easily pardoned:

and it were well, if, upon all occasions, those

who desire to do their duty were capable of maintaining

even this degree of impartiality between

themselves and others. But this is very far from

being the case. Even in good men, the judge within

is often in danger of being corrupted by the violence

and injustice of their selfish passions, and is

199often induced to make a report very different from

what the real circumstances of the case are capable

of authorizing.

There 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 most so, when it

is of most importance that they should be otherwise.

When 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 things, 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 him.

The 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

200reasonable, and proportioned to their objects, as

long as we continue to feel them.

When the action is over, indeed, and the passions

which prompted it have subsided, we can enter more

coolly into 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, compared to what they were before;

and when they are most severely impartial, can commonly

produce nothing but vain regret, and unavailing

repentance, without securing us from the

like errors for the future. 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 judgment 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 judgment 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,

201and because we are ashamed and afraid to see

that we were so.

So 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.

This 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.

Nature, 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

202their 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.

It 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

203unjust 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.

When 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.

An amiable action, a respectable action, an horrid

action, are all of them actions which naturally

excite the love, the respect, or the horror of the

204spectator, for the person who performs them. 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.

When 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 judgment, 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.

Those general rules of conduct, when they have

been fixed in our mind by habitual reflection, are of

great use in correcting 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

205upon 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

206to 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.

207