The Theory of Moral Sentiments

f the influence of custom and fashion upon moral sentiments.

Since 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,

272are 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.

But though the influence of custom and fashion,

upon moral sentiments, is not altogether so great,

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.

273Fashion 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 superiour

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.

The 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 procession,

274a 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 these peculiarities

which belong to it. The flirting levity of

youth, and the immoveable 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,

275which are indulged in youth, render old age contemptible.

The 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

properly adjusted to all the circumstances of his situation:

yet, 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

276as 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, seems to be the messenger of tidings,

which cannot, in propriety, be delivered either

with levity or indifference. His mind is supposed to

be 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.

The 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

277freedom, 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

278danger, 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.

The 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

279degree of each quality, that is either blameable,

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, perhaps, 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.

Among 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

280its natural inclinations in all those particular respects.

Among 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

self-command, 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

281fortune, 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 controul. 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

282with 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

283too often 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.

This 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

284other. 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

285birth of Cicero, by the two Gracchi, by Crassus, and

by Sulpitius. This animated eloquence, which has

been long practiced, 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.

This 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

286tranquillity 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

passions 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.

All 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.

The 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

287of 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 œconomy

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.

It is not therefore in the general style of conduct

or behaviour that custom authorizes 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.

288Can 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 newborn

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

289dying 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 authorized 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 authorize. 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.

There 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

290never can be any such custom. No society could

subsist a moment, in which the usual strain of mens

conduct and behaviour was of a piece with the horrible

practice I just now mentioned.

291

PART VI.

Of Systems of Moral Philosophy.

CONSISTING OF FOUR SECTIONS.

SECTION I.

Of the questions which ought to be examined in a theory of moral sentiments.

If 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

292and imperfect view of nature, there are many of

them too in some respects in the wrong.

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?

We 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.

We 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,

293called 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.

I 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.

294

SECTION II.

Of the different accounts which have been given of the nature of virtue.

INTRODUCTION.

The 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 vehemence with which they pursue them.

According to these authors, therefore, virtue consists

in propriety.

According 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.

Another 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

295is the only motive which can stamp upon any action

the character of virtue.

The 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 shew hereafter how all the other accounts,

which are seemingly different from any of these,

coincide at bottom with some one or other of them.