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

CHAP. IV. In what cases the sense of duty ought to be the sole principle of our conduct; and in what cases it ought to concur with other motives.

RELIGION affords such strong mo|tives to the practice of virtue, and guards us by such powerful restraints from the temptations of vice, that many have been led to suppose, that religious princi|ples were the sole laudable motives of ac|tion. We ought neither, they said, to reward from gratitude, nor punish from resentment; we ought neither to protect the helplessness of our children, nor af|ford support to the infirmities of our pa|rents, from natural affection. All affec|tions for particular objects, ought to be extinguished in our breast, and one great affection take the place of all others, the love of the Deity, the desire of ren|dering ourselves agreeable to him, and of directing our conduct in every respect ac|cording to his will. We ought not to be grateful from gratitude, we ought not to

be charitable from humanity, we ought not to be public spirited from the love of our country, nor generous and just from the love of mankind. The sole principle and motive of our conduct in the perform|ance of all those different duties, ought to be a sense that God has commanded us to perform them. I shall not at present take time to examine this opinion particularly; I shall only observe, that we should not have expected to have found it entertained by any sect, who professed themselves of a religion in which, as it is the first precept to love the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our strength, so it is the second to love our neighbour as we love ourselves; and we love ourselves surely for our own sakes, and not merely because we are commanded to do so. That the sense of duty should be the sole prin|ciple of our conduct, is no where the pre|cept of Christianity; but that it should be the ruling and the governing one, as phi|losophy, and as, indeed, common sense di|rects. It may be a question, however, in what cases our actions ought to arise chief|ly or entirely from a sense of duty, or from

a regard to general rules; and in what cases some other sentiment or affection ought to concur, and have a principal in|fluence.

The decision of this question, which cannot, perhaps, be given with any very great accuracy, will depend upon two dif|ferent circumstances; first, upon the na|tural agreeableness or deformity of the sen|timent or affection which would prompt us to any action independent of all regard to general rules; and secondly, upon the precision and exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy of the general rules them|selves.

I. First, I say, it will depend upon the natural agreeableness or deformity of the affection itself, how far our actions should arise from it, or entirely proceed from a regard to the general rule.

All those graceful and admired actions, ••o which the benevolent affections would prompt us, ought to proceed as much from the passions themselves, as from any regard to the general rules of conduct. A benefactor thinks himself but ill requit|ed, if the person upon whom he has be|••towed his good offices, repays them merely

from a cold sense of duty, and without any affection to his person. A husband is dissatisfied with the most obedient wife, when he imagines her conduct is animated by no other principle besides her regard to what the relation she stands in requires. Tho' a son should fail in none of the offi|ces of filial duty, yet if he wants that af|fectionate reverence which it so well be|comes him to feel, the parent may justly complain of his indifference. Nor could a son be quite satisfied with a parent who, tho' he performed all the duties of his si|tuation, had nothing of that fatherly fond|ness which might have been expected from him. With regard to all such benevolent and social affections, it is agreeable to see the sense of duty employed rather to re|strain than to enliven them, rather to hin|der us from doing too much, than to prompt us to do what we ought. It gives us pleasure to see a father obliged to check his own fondness, a friend obliged to set bounds to his natural generosity, a person who has received a benefit, obliged to re|strain the too sanguine gratitude of his own temper.

The contrary maxim takes place with regard to the malevolent and unsocial pas|sions. We ought to reward from the gra|titude and generosity of our own hearts, without any reluctance, and without be|ing obliged to reflect how great the pro|priety of rewarding: but we ought al|ways to punish with reluctance, and more from a sense of the propriety of punish|ing, than from any savage disposition to revenge. Nothing is more graceful than the behaviour of the man who appears to ••resent the greatest injuries, more from a sense that they deserve, and are the proper objects of resentment, than from feeling himself the furies of that disagreeable pas|sion; who, like a judge, considers only ••he general rule, which determines what vengeance is due for each particular of|fence; who, in executing that rule, feels ••ess for what himself has suffered, than for what the offender is about to suffer; who, ••ho' in wrath remembers mercy, and is disposed to interpret the rule in the most gentle and favourable manner, and to al|••ow of all the alleviations which the most ••andid humanity could, consistently with good sense, admit of.

As the selfish passions, according to what has formerly been observed, hold in other respects a sort of middle place, between the social and unsocial affections, so do they likewise in this. The pursuit of the objects of private interest, in all common, little, and ordinary cases, ought to flow rather from a regard to the general rules which prescribe such conduct, than from any passion for the objects themselves; but upon more important and extraordi|nary occasions, we should be aukward, insipid, and ungraceful, if the objects themselves did not appear to animate us with a considerable degree of passion. To be anxious, or to be laying a plot either to gain or to save a single shilling, would degrade the most vulgar tradesman in the opinion of all his neighbours. Let his circumstances be ever so mean, no atten|tion to any such small matters, for the sake of the things themselves, must appear in his conduct. His situation may require the most severe oeconomy, and the mo•••• exact assiduity: but each particular exer|tion of that oeconomy and assiduity must proceed not so much from a regard for that particular saving or gain, as for the gene|ral

rule which to him prescribes, with the utmost rigour, such a tenor of conduct. His parsimony to day must not arise from •• desire of the particular three pence which ••e will save by it, nor his attendance in ••is shop from a passion for the particular 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pence which he will acquire by it: ••oth the one and the other ought to pro|••eed solely from a regard to the general ••ule, which prescribes, with the most un|••elenting severity, this plan of conduct to ••ll persons in his way of life. In this con|••••sts the difference between the character of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 miser and that of a person of exact oeco|••omy and assiduity. The one is anxious ••••out small matters for their own sake: 〈◊〉〈◊〉 other attends to them only in conse|••••ence of the scheme of life which he has 〈◊〉〈◊〉 down to himself.

It is quite otherwise with regard to the ••ore extraordinary and important objects ••f self-interest. A person appears mean-••••irited, who does not pursue these with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 degree of earnestness for their own 〈◊〉〈◊〉. We should despise a prince who was ••ot anxious about conquering or defend|••••g a province. We should have little re|••••ect for a private gentleman who did not

exert himself to gain an estate, or even a considerable office, when he could acquire them without either meanness or injustice. A member of parliament who shews no keenness about his own election, is aban|doned by his friends, as altogether unwor|thy of their attachment. Even a trades|man is thought a poor-spirited fellow a|mong his neighbours, who does not bestir himself to get what they call an extraor|dinary job, or some uncommon advantage. This spirit and keenness constitutes the dif|ference betwixt the man of enterprize and the man of dull regularity. Those great objects of self-interest, of which the loss or acquisition quite changes the rank of the person, are the objects of the passion properly called ambition; a passion, which when it keeps within the bounds of pru|dence and justice, is always admired in the world, and has even sometimes a certain irregular greatness, which dazzles the ima|gination, when it passes the limits of both these virtues, and is not only unjust but extravagant. Hence the general admira|tion for Heroes and Conquerors, and even for Statesmen, whose projects have been

••ery daring and extensive, tho' altogether ••evoid of justice. Such as those of the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. The ••bjects of avarice and ambition differ only in their greatness. A miser is as ••urious about a halfpenny, as a man of ambition about the conquest of a king|••om.

II. Secondly, I say, it will depend part|••y upon the precision and exactness, or ••he looseness and inaccuracy of the gene|••al rules themselves, how far our conduct ought to proceed entirely from a regard to them.

The general rules of almost all the virtues, the general rules which determine what are the offices of prudence, of cha|rity, of generosity, of gratitude, of friend|ship, are in many respects loose and in|accurate, admit of many exceptions, and require so many modifications, that it is scarce possible to regulate our conduct en|••irely by a regard to them. The common proverbial maxims of prudence, being founded in universal experience, are per|haps the best general rules which can be given about it. To affect, however, a

very strict and literal adherence to them would evidently be the most absurd and ridiculous pedantry. Of all the virtues I have just now mentioned, gratitude is that, perhaps, of which the rules are the most precise, and admit of the few|est exceptions. That as soon as we can we should make a return of equal, and if possible of superior value to the ser|vices we have received, would seem to be a pretty plain rule, and one which admitted of scarce any exceptions. Upon the most superficial examination, how|ever, this rule will appear to be in the highest degree loose and inaccurate, and to admit of ten thousand exceptions. If your benefactor attended you in your sick|ness, ought you to attend him in his? or can you fulfil the obligation of gra|titude, by making a return of a differ|ent kind? If you ought to attend him, how long ought you to attend him? The same time which he attended you, or longer, and how much longer? If your friend lent you money in your distress, ought you to lend him money in his? How much ought you to lend him? When

ought you to lend it him? Now, or to|morrow, or next month? And for how long a time? It is evident, that no ge|neral rule can be laid down, by which a precise answer can, in all cases, be given to any of these questions. The differ|ence between his character and your's, be|tween his circumstances and your's, may be such, that you may be perfectly grateful, and justly refuse to lend him a halfpenny: and, on the contrary, you may be wil|ling to lend, or even to give him ten times the sum which he lent you, and yet justly be accused of the blackest in|gratitude, and of not having fulfilled the hundredth part of the obligation you lie under. As the duties of gratitude, how|ever, are perhaps the most sacred of all those which the beneficent virtues pre|scribe to us, so the general rules which determine them are, as I said before, the most accurate. Those which ascertain the actions required by friendship, hu|manity, hospitality, generosity, are still more vague and indeterminate.

There is, however, one virtue of which the general rules determine with the great|est

exactness every external action which it requires. This virtue is justice. The rules of justice are accurate in the highest degree, and admit of no exceptions or modifications, but such as may be ascer|tained as accurately as the rules them|selves, and which generally, indeed, flow from the very same principles with them. If I owe a man ten pounds, justice requires that I should precisely pay him ten pounds, either at the time agreed upon, or when he demands it. What I ought to per|form, how much I ought to perform, when and where I ought to perform it, the whole nature and circumstances of the action prescribed, are all of them pre|cisely fixt and determined. Tho' it may be aukward and pedantic, therefore, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 affect too strict an adherence to the com|mon rules of prudence or generosity, there is no pedantry in sticking fast by the rule•• of justice. On the contrary, the most sacred regard is due to them; and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 actions which this virtue requires are ne|ver so properly performed, as when the chief motive for performing them is a re|verential and religious regard to thos••

general rules which require them. In the practice of the other virtues, our conduct should rather be directed by a certain idea of propriety, by a certain taste for a par|ticular tenor of conduct, than by any re|gard to a precise maxim or rule; and we should consider the end and foundation of the rule, more than the rule itself. But it is otherwise with regard to justice: the man who in that refines the least, and adheres with the most obstinate stedfast|ness, to the general rules themselves, is the most commendable, and the most to be depended upon. Tho' the end of the rules of justice be, to hinder us from hurt|ing our neighbour, it may frequently be a crime to violate them, tho' we could pretend, with some pretext of reason, that this particular violation could do no hurt. A man often becomes a villain the moment he begins, even in his own heart, to chi|cane in this manner. The moment he thinks of departing from the most staunch and positive adherence to what those in|violable precepts prescribe to him, he is no longer to be trusted, and no man can say what degree of guilt he may not arrive

at. The thief imagines he does no evil▪ when he steals from the rich, what he supposes they may easily want, and what possibly they may never even know has been stolen from them. The adulterer imagines he does no evil, when he cor|rupts the wife of his friend, provided he covers his intrigue from the suspicion of the husband, and does not disturb the peace of the family. When once we begin to give way to such refinements, there is no enormity so gross of which we may not be capable.

The rules of justice may be compared to the rules of grammar; the rules of the other virtues, to the rules which criticks lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and elegant in composition. The one, are precise, accurate, and indispen|sible. The other, are loose, vague, and indeterminate, and present us rather with a general idea of the perfection we ought to aim at, than afford us any certain and infallible directions for acquiring it. A man may learn to write grammatically by rule, with the most absolute infallibility; and so, perhaps, he may be taught to act justly.

But there are no rules whose observance will infallibly lead us to the attainment of elegance or sublimity in writing, tho' there are some which may help us, in some mea|sure, to correct and ascertain the vague ideas which we might otherwise have en|tertained of those perfections: and there are no rules by the knowledge of which we can infallibly be taught to act upon all occasions with prudence, with just magnanimity, or proper beneficence. Tho' there are some which may enable us to correct and ascertain, in several respects, the imperfect ideas which we might other|wise have entertained of those virtues.

It may sometimes happen, that with the most serious and earnest desire of acting so as to deserve approbation, we may mistake the proper rules of conduct, and thus be misled by that very principle which ought to direct us. It is in vain to expect, that in this case mankind should entirely approve of our behaviour. They cannot enter into that absurd idea of duty which influenced us, nor go along with any of the actions which follow from it. There is still, however, something respect|able

in the character and behaviour of one who is thus betrayed into vice, by a wrong sense of duty, or by what is called an erroneous conscience. How fatally so|ever he may be misled by it, he is still, with the generous and humane, more the object of commiseration than of hatred or resentment. They lament the weak|ness of human nature, which exposes us to such unhappy delusions, even while we are most sincerely labouring after perfec|tion, and endeavouring to act according to the best principle which can possibly direct us. False notions of religion are almost the only causes which can occasion any very gross perversion of our natural sentiments in this way; and that prin|ciple which gives the greatest authority to the rules of duty, is alone capable of distorting our ideas of them in any con|siderable degree. In all other cases com|mon sense is sufficient to direct us, if not to the most exquisite propriety of co••|duct, yet to something which is not very far from it; and provided we are in ear|nest desirous to do well, our behaviour will always, upon the whole, be praise-worthy. That to obey the will of the

Deity, is the first rule of duty, all men are agreed. But concerning the particu|lar commandments which that will may impose upon us, they differ widely from one another. In this, therefore, the great|est mutual forbearance and toleration is due; and tho' the defence of society re|quires that crimes should be punished, from whatever motives they proceed, yet a good man will always punish them with reluctance, when they evidently proceed from false notions of religious duty. He will never feel against those who commit them that indignation which he feels against other criminals, but will rather re|gret, and sometimes even admire their un|fortunate firmness and magnanimity, at the very time that he punishes their crime. In the tragedy of Mahomet, one of the finest of Mr. Voltaire's, it is well repre|sented, what ought to be our sentiments for crimes which proceed from such mo|••••ves. In that tragedy, two young peo|ple of different sexes, of the most inno|cent and virtuous dispositions, and with|out any other weakness except what en|dears them the more to us, a mutual fondness for one another, are instigated

by the strongest motives of a false religion, to commit a horrid murder, that shocks all the principles of human nature: a venerable old man, who had expressed the most tender affection for them both, for whom, notwithstanding he was the avow|ed enemy of their religion, they had both conceived the highest reverence and esteem, and who was in reality their father, tho' they did not know him to be such, is pointed out to them as a sacrifice which God had expressly required at their hands, and they are commanded to kill him. While they are about executing this crime, they are tortured with all the agonies which can arise from the struggle between the idea of the indispensibleness of religi|ous duty on the one side, and compassion, gratitude, reverence for the age, and love for the humanity and virtue of the per|son whom they are going to destroy, on the other. The representation of this ex|hibits one of the most interesting, and perhaps the most instructive spectacle that was ever introduced upon any theatre. The sense of duty, however, at last pre|vails over all the amiable weaknesses of human nature. They execute the crime

imposed upon them; but immediately dis|cover their error▪ and the fraud which had deceived them, and are distracted with horror, remorse, and resentment. Such as are our sentiments for the unhappy Seid and Palmira, such ought we to feel for every person who is in this manner misled by religion, when we are sure that it is really religion which misleads him, and not the pretence of it, which is made a cover to some of the worst of human passions.

As a person may act wrong by following a wrong sense of duty, so nature may some|times prevail, and lead him to act right in opposition to it. We cannot in this case be displeased to see that motive prevail, which we think ought to prevail, tho' the person himself is so weak as to think otherwise. As his conduct, however, is the effect of weak|ness, not principle, we are far from bestow|ing upon it any thing that approaches to compleat approbation. A bigotted Roman Catholic, who, during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, had been so overcome by compassion, as to save some unhappy pro|testants, whom he thought it his duty to destroy, would not seem to be entitled to

that high applause which we should have bestowed upon him, had he exerted the same generosity with compleat self-appro|bation. We might be pleased with the humanity of his temper, but we should still regard him with a sort of pity which is altogether inconsistent with the admira|tion that is due to perfect virtue. It is the same case with all the other passions. We do not dislike to see them exert them|selves properly, even when a false notion of duty would direct the person to restrain them. A very devout Quaker, who upon being struck upon one cheek, instead of turning up the other, should so far forget his literal interpretation of our Saviour's precept, as to bestow some good discipline upon the brute that insulted him, would not be disagreeable to us. We should laugh, and be diverted with his spirit, and rather like him the better for it. But we should by no means regard him with that respect and esteem which would seem due to one who, upon a like occasion, had acted properly, from a just sense of what was proper to be done. No action can pro|perly be called virtuous, which is not ac|companied with the sentiment of self-ap|probation.