The theory of moral sentiments: By Adam Smith, ...

CHAP. II. Of the sense of justice, of remorse, and of the consciousness of merit.

THERE 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 in|dignation for evil which that other has done to us. To disturb his happiness meerly because it stands in the way of our own, to take from him what is of real use to him meerly 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 specta|tor can go along with. Every man, is no doubt, by nature first, and principally re|commended 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 connection, 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 tho' 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. Tho' 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. Tho' 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. Tho' it may be true, therefore, that every individual, in his own breast, na|turally prefers himself to all mankind, yet he dares not look mankind in the face, and avow that he acts according to this princi|ple. 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 extrava|gant 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 bet|ter than any other in it. If he would act so as that the impartial spectator may en|ter 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 some|thing 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 happi|ness

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 compe|titors. But if he should justle, or throw down any of them, the indulgence of the spectators is entirely at an end. It is a vio|lation of fair play, which they cannot ad|mit of. This man is to them, in every re|spect, as good as he: they do not enter into that self-love by which he prefers him|self 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 injur|ed, and the offender becomes the object of their hatred and indignation. He is sen|sible that he becomes so, and feels that those sentiments are ready to burst out from all sides against him.

As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the resentment of the sufferers 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 indivi|duals only, in the sight both of mankind, and of the person who has committed it. To be deprived of that which we are pos|sessed of, is a greater evil than to be disap|pointed of what we have only the expecta|tion. 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 vio|lation 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 pro|mi••es of others.

The violator of the more sacred laws of justice can never reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with re|gard

to him, without feeling all the ago|nies of shame and horror, and consterna|tion. When his passion is gratified, and he begins coolly to reflect on his past con|duct, he can enter into none of the mo|tives 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 ha|tred 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 pro|per object of the resentment and indigna|tion of mankind, and of what is the na|tural consequence of resentment, venge|ance 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 ima|gines himself as it were rejected, and thrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot hope for the consolation of sym|pathy in this his greatest, and most dread|ful

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 hos|tile, 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 soli|tude is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts can present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate, and disastrous, the melancholy forebod|ings of incomprehensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back in|to society, and he comes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before them, loaded with shame and dis|tracted 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 sen|timents 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 resent|ment of all rational creatures.

The 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 sur|vey 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 chearfulness, serenity, and composure. He is in friendship and har|mony with all mankind, and looks upon his fellow-creatures with confidence and

benevolent satisfaction, secure that he has rendered himself worthy of their most fa|vourable regards. In the combination of all these sentiments consists the conscious|ness of merit, or of deserved reward.