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

PART III. Of the foundation of our judgments concerning our own sentiments and conduct, and of the sense of duty.

SECT. I. Of the consciousness of merited praise or blame.

IN the two foregoing parts of this dis|course, I have chiefly considered the origin and foundation of our judgments concerning the sentiments and conduct of others. I come now to consider the ori|gin of those concerning our own.

The desire of the approbation and esteem of those we live with, which is of so much importance to our happiness, cannot be fully and intirely contented but by render|ing ourselves the just and proper objects of those sentiments, and by adjusting our own character and conduct according to those measures and rules by which esteem and approbation are naturally bestowed. It is

not sufficient, that from ignorance or mis|take, esteem and approbation should some way or other be bestowed upon us. If we are conscious that we do not deserve to be so favourably thought of, and that, if the truth was known, we should be regarded with very opposite sentiments, our satisfac|tion is far from being complete. The man who applauds us either for actions which we did not perform, or for motives which had no sort of influence upon our conduct, applauds not us, but another person. We can derive no sort of satisfaction from his praises. To us they should be more mor|tifying than any censure, and should per|petually call to our minds, the most hum|bling of all reflexions, the reflexion upon what we ought to be, but what we are not. A woman who paints to conceal her ugli|ness, could derive, one should imagine, but little vanity from the compliments that are paid to her beauty. These, we should ex|pect, ought rather to put her in mind of the sentiments which her real complexion would excite, and mortify her the more by the contrast. To be pleased with such ground|less applause is a proof of the most super|ficial levity and weakness. It is what is

properly called vanity, and is the founda|tion of the most ridiculous and contempti|ble vices, the vices of affectation and com|mon lying; follies which, if experience did not teach us how common they are, one should imagine the least spark of com|mon sense would save us from. The fool|ish lyar, who endeavours to excite the ad|miration of the company by the relation of adventures which never had any exis|tence, the important coxcomb who gives himself airs of rank and distinction which he well knows he has no just pretensions to, are both of them, no doubt, pleased with the applause which they fancy they meet with. But their vanity arises from so gross an illusion of the imagination, that it is diffi|cult to conceive how any rational creature should be imposed upon by it. When they place themselves in the situation of those whom they fancy they have deceived, they are struck with the highest admiration for their own persons. They look upon themselves, not in that light in which, they know, they ought to appear to their companions, but in that in which they believe their compa|nions actually look upon them. Their su|perficial weakness and trivial folly hinder

them from ever turning their eyes inwards, or from seeing themselves in that despi|cable point of view in which their own consciences should tell them that they would appear to every body, if the real truth should ever come to be known.

As ignorant and groundless praise can give no solid joy, no satisfaction that will bear any serious examination, so, on the contrary, it often gives real comfort to re|flect, that tho' no praise should actually be bestowed upon us, our conduct, however, has been such as to deserve it, and has been in every respect suitable to those mea|sures and rules by which praise and appro|bation are naturally and commonly bestow|ed. We are pleased not only with praise, but with having done what is praise-worthy. We are pleased to think that we have rendered ourselves the natural objects of approbation, though no approbation should ever actually be bestowed upon us: and we are mortified to reflect that we have justly incurred the blame of those we live with, though that sentiment should never actually be exerted against us. The man who is conscious to himself that he has exactly observed those measures of

conduct which experience informs him are generally agreeable, reflects with satisfac|tion on the propriety of his own behaviour; when he views it in the light in which the impartial spectator would view it, he thoroughly enters into all the motives which influenced it; he looks back upon every part of it with pleasure and approbation, and tho' mankind should never be acquaint|ed with what he has done, he regards him|self not so much according to the light in which they actually regard him, as accord|ing to that, in which they would regard him if they were better informed. He an|ticipates the applause and admiration which in this case would be bestowed upon him, and he applauds and admires himself by sympathy with sentiments which do not indeed actually take place, but which the ignorance of the public alone hinders from taking place, which he knows are the na|tural and ordinary effects of such conduct, which his imagination strongly connects with it, and which he has acquired a habit of conceiving as something that naturally and in propriety ought to flow from it. Men have often volun|tarily thrown away life to acquire after

death a renown which they could no longer enjoy. Their imagination, in the mean time, anticipated that fame which was thereafter to be bestowed upon them. Those applauses which they were never to hear rung in their ears. The thoughts of that admiration, whose effects they were never to feel, played about their hearts, banished from their breasts the strongest of all natu|ral fears, and transported them to perform actions which seem almost beyond the reach of human nature. But in point of reality there is surely no great difference between that approbation which is not to be be|stowed till we can no longer enjoy it, and that which indeed is never to be bestowed, but which would be bestowed if the world was ever made to understand properly the real circumstances of our behaviour. If the one often produces such violent effects, we cannot wonder that the other should always be highly regarded.

On the contrary, the man who has broke thro' all those measures of conduct, which can alone render him agreeable to man|kind, tho' he should have the most perfect assurance that what he had done was for|ever to be concealed from every human eye,

it is all to no purpose. When he looks back upon it, and views it in the light in which the impartial spectator would view it, he finds that he can enter into none of the motives which influenced it. He is abashed and confounded at the thoughts of it, and ne|cessarily feels a very high degree of that shame which he would be exposed to, if his actions should ever come to be generally known. His imagination, in this case too, anticipates the contempt and derision from which nothing saves him but the ignorance of those he lives with. He still feels that he is the natural object of these sentiments, and still trembles at the thought of what he would suffer if they were ever actually exerted against him. But if what he had been guilty of was not meerly one of those improprieties which are the objects of sim|ple disapprobation, but one of those enor|mous crimes which excite detestation and resentment, he could never think of it, as long as he had any sensibility left, without feeling all the agony of horror and remorse; and tho' he could be assured that no man was ever to know it, and could even bring himself to believe that there was no God to

revenge it, he would still feel enough of both these sentiments to embitter the whole of his life: He would still regard himself as the natural object of the hatred and indig|nation of all his fellow-creatures; and if his heart was not grown callous by the ha|bit of crimes, he could not think without terror and astonishment even of the man|ner, in which mankind would look upon him, of what would be the expression of their countenance and of their eyes, if the dreadful truth should ever come to be known. These natural pangs of an afrighted conscience are the daemons, the avenging fu|ries which in this life haunt the guilty, which allow them neither quiet nor repose, which often drive them to despair and distraction, from which no assurance of secrecy can protect them, from which no principles of irreligion can entirely deliver them, and from which nothing can free them but the vilest and most abject of all states, a com|pleat insensibility to honour and infamy, to vice and virtue. Men of the most detest|able characters, who, in the execution of the most dreadful crimes, had taken their measures so coolly as to avoid even the sus|picion of guilt, have sometimes been driven

by the horror of their situation, to discover of their own accord, what no human saga|city could ever have investigated. By ac|knowledging their guilt, by submitting themselves to the resentment of their of|fended citizens, and by thus satiating that vengeance of which they were sensible that they were become the proper objects, they hoped by their death to reconcile themselves, at least in their own imagination, to the natural sentiments of mankind, to be able to consider themselves as less worthy of hatred and resentment, to attone in some measure for their crimes, and, if possible, to die in peace and with the forgiveness of all their fellow-creatures. Compared to what they felt before the discovery, even the thought of this, it seems, was happi|ness.

SECT. II. In what manner our own judgments re|fer 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 dis|approbation

which we feel from the conside|ration 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 ap|probation of this supposed equitable judge. If otherwise, we enter into his disapproba|tion 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 upon which he is provided with no mirror to enable him to turn his eyes. Bring him into society, and he is imme|diately

provided with the mirror which he wanted before. It is placed in the coun|tenance and behaviour of those he lives with, which always mark when they enter into, and when they disapprove of his senti|ments; and it is here that he first views the propriety and impropriety of his own pas|sions, 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, tho' of all things the most immediately present to him, could scarce ever be the objects of his thoughts. The idea of them could never in|terest him so much as to call upon his atten|tive consideration. The consideration of his ••oy could in him excite no new joy, nor that of his sorrow any new sorrow, tho' the con|sideration of the causes of those passions might often excite both. Bring him into society, and all his own passions will im|mediately become the causes of new pas|sions. He will observe that mankind ap|••rove of some of them and are disgusted

by others. He will be elevated in the one case, and cast down in the other; his de|sires 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 in|terest him deeply, and often call upon his most attentive consideration.

To be amiable and to be meritorious, that is, to deserve love and to deserve re|ward, are the great characters of virtue, and the contrary of vice. But both these cha|racters 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 conscious|ness that it is the object of such favourable regards is the source of that inward tran|quillity 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?

To judge or ourselves as we judge of others, to approve and condemn in our|selves what we approve and condemn in others, is the greatest exertion of candour and impartiality. In order to do this, we must look at ourselves with the same eyes with which we look at others: we must imagine ourselves not the actors, but the spectators of our own character and con|duct, and consider how these would affect us when viewed from this new station, in which their excellencies and imperfections can alone be discovered. We must enter, in short, either into what are, or into what ought to be, or into what, if the whole circumstances of our conduct were known, we imagine would be the sentiments of others, before we can either applaud or condemn it.

A moral being is an accountable being. An accountable being, as the word ex|presses, is a being that must give an ac|count of its actions to some other, and that consequently must regulate them ac|cording to the good-liking of this other. Man is accountable to God and his fellow creatures. But tho' he is, no doubt, prin|cipally accountable to God, in the order of

time, he must necessarily conceive himself as accountable to his fellow creatures, be|fore he can form any idea of the Deity, or of the rules by which that Divine Be|ing will judge of his conduct. A child surely conceives itself as accountable to its parents, and is elevated or cast down by the thought of their merited approbation or disapprobation, long before it forms any idea of its accountableness to the Dei|ty, or of the rules by which that Divine Being will judge of its conduct.

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, that others exercise the same criticism upon us. We are pleased when they approve of our figure, and are disobliged when they seem to be disgusted. We become anxious to know how far our appearance deserves ei|ther their blame or approbation. We exa|mine our own persons limb by limb, and by placing ourselves before a looking-glass▪ or by some such expedient, endeavour, a•• much as possible, to view ourselves at th•• distance and with the eyes of other people▪ If after this examination we are satisfie••

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 ob|jects of distaste, every appearance of their disapprobation mortifies us beyond all mea|sure. A man who is tolerably handsome, will allow you to laugh at any little irregu|larity in his person; but all such jokes are commonly insupportable to one who is real|ly deformed. It is evident, however, that we are anxious about our own beauty and deformity, only upon account of its effect upon others. If we had no connection with society, we should be altogether in|different about either.

In the same manner our first moral cri|ticisms 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 consi|dering how they would appear to us if in their situation. We suppose ourselves the spectators of our own behaviour, and en|deavour 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 con|duct. If in this view it pleases us, we are tolerably satisfied. We can be more in|different about the applause, and, in some measure, despise the censure of others; secure that however misunderstood or mis|represented, 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.

Unfortunately this moral looking-glass is not always a very good one. Common looking-glasses, it is said, are extremely

deceitful, and by the glare which they throw over the face, conceal from the par|tial eyes of the person many deformities which are obvious to every body besides. But there is not in the world such a smooth|er of wrinkles as is every man's imagina|tion, with regard to the blemishes of his own character.

There are two different occasions when we examine our own conduct, and endea|vour 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 en|deavouring to place ourselves in the situa|tion of another, and to regard the objects that interest us, in the light which they will naturally appear to him. The fury of our own passions constantly calls us back

to our own place, where every thing ap|pears magnified and misrepresented by self-love. Of the manner in which those ob|jects would appear to another, of the view which he would take of them we can ob|tain, if I may say so, but instantaneous glimpses, which vanish in a moment, and which even while they last are not altoge|ther just. We cannot even for that mo|ment divest ourselves entirely of the heat and keenness with which our peculiar si|tuation inspires us, nor consider what we are about to do with the compleat impar|tiality of an equitable judge. The pas|sions, upon this account, as father Male-branch says, all justify themselves, and seem reasonable, 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 sub|sided, we can enter more coolly into the sentiments of the indifferent spectator. What before interested us, is now become almost as indifferent to us as it always was to him, and we can now examine our own conduct with his candour and impartiality. But our judgments now are of little im|portance,

compared to what they were be|fore; and when they are most severely im|partial, can commonly produce nothing but vain regret, and unavailing repent|ance, without securing us from the like er|rors 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 our|selves, 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-delu|sion, which covers from his view the de|formities of his own conduct. Rather than see our own behaviour under so disa|greeable 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 be|cause we once were unjust, and 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 con|duct, 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 spec|tator 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 par|ticular power of perception, which distin|guished the beauty or deformity of passi|ons 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 con|cerning 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 disor|ders 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 unavoid|able. We could not otherwise endure the sight.

Nature, however, has not left this weak|ness, which is of so much importance, al|together without a remedy; nor has she abandoned us entirely to the delusions of self-love. Our continual observations up|on 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 ac|tions shock all our natural sentiments. We hear every body about us express the like detestation against them. This still further confirms, and even exasperates our natural sense of their deformity. It satis|fies 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 a|round us express the same favourable opi|nion concerning them. Every body is ea|ger 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 man|kind. We become ambitious of perform|ing 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 mo|rality are formed. They are ultimately founded upon experience of what, in par|ticular instances, our moral faculties, our natural sense of merit and propriety, ap|prove, or disapprove of. We do not ori|ginally approve or condemn particular ac|tions; 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 man|ner, are approved or disapproved of. To

the man who first saw an inhuman mur|der, committed from avarice, envy, or un|just resentment, and upon one too that loved and trusted the murderer, who be|held the last agonies of the dying person, who heard him, with his expiring breath, complain more of the perfidy and ingra|titude of his false friend, than of the vio|lence 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 per|son, that this was a plain violation of that rule, and consequently a very blameable 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 detesta|tion 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 con|ceive for the one, and the contempt which we feel for the other, neither of them arise from reflecting that there are certain gene|ral 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 pro|duce 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 spectator, for the per|son 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 actu|ally and in fact excite them.

When these general rules, indeed, have been formed, when they are universally acknowleged and established, by the con|curring sentiments of mankind, we fre|quently appeal to them as to the standards of judgment, in debating concerning the de|gree

of praise or blame that is due to cer|tain 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 con|duct; 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 consi|deration fell properly within its compre|hension.

Those general rules of conduct, when they have been fixed in our mind by habi|tual reflection, are of great use in correct|ing the misrepresentations of self-love con|cerning 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 re|gard the death of his enemy, as but a small compensation for the wrong, he imagines, he has received; which, however, may be no more than a very slight provocation.

But his observations upon the conduct of others, have taught him how horrible all such sanguinary revenges appear. Unless his education has been very singular, he has laid it down to himself as an inviolable rule, to abstain from them upon all occa|sions. 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 un|doubtedly have determined it to be quite just and proper, and what every impartial spectator would approve of. But that re|verence for the rule which past experience has impressed upon him, checks the impe|tuosity 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 trans|ported by passion as to violate this rule yet even in this case, he cannot throw of altogether the awe and respect with which he has been accustomed to regard it. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the very time of acting, at the moment i•• which passion mounts the highest, he hesi|tates

and trembles at the thought of what he is about to do: he is secretly conscious to himself, that he is breaking thro' 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 for|bodes, must soon render him the object of the same disagreeable sentiments. Before he can take the last fatal resolution, he is tormented with all the agonies of doubt and uncertainty; he is terrified at the thought of violating so sacred a rule, and at the same time is urged and goaded on by the fury of his desires to violate it. He changes his purpose every moment; some|times he resolves to adhere to his principle, and not indulge a passion which may cor|rupt 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 meet|ing with more certain destruction than from any thing that pursues him from behind. Such are his sentiments even at the time of acting; tho' he is then, no doubt, less sen|sible of the impropriety of his own con|duct 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 imper|fectly before, the stings of remorse and repentance begin to agitate and torment him.

SECT. III. Of the influence and authority of the ge|neral rules of morality, and that they are justly regarded as the laws of the Deity.

THE regard to those general rules of conduct, is what is properly called a sense of duty, a principle of the greatest consequence in human life, and the only principle by which the bulk of mankind ••re capable of directing their actions. Many men behave very decently, and thro' ••he whole of their lives avoid any consi|••erable degree of blame, who yet, per|••aps, never felt the sentiment upon the ••ropriety of which we found our appro|••ation of their conduct, but acted merely ••rom a regard to what they saw were the ••stablished rules of behaviour. The man ••ho has received great benefits from ano|••her person, may, by the natural coldness ••f his temper, feel but a very small degree ••f the sentiment of gratitude. If he has

been virtuously educated, however, he will often have been made to observe how odi|ous those actions appear which denote a want of this sentiment, and how amiable the contrary. Tho' his heart therefore is not warmed with any grateful affection, he will strive to act as if it was, and will endeavour to pay all those regards and at|tentions to his patron which the liveliest gratitude could suggest. He will visit him regularly; he will behave to him respect|fully; he will never talk of him but with expressions of the highest esteem, and of the many obligations which he owes to him. And what is more, he will chearfully em|brace every opportunity of making a pro|per return for past services. He may do all this too without any hypocrisy or blame|able dissimulation, without any selfish in|tention of obtaining new favours, and without any design of imposing either up|on his benefactor or the public. The mo|tive of his actions may be no other tha•• a reverence for the established rule of duty a serious and earnest desire of acting, i•• every respect, according to the law of gra••titude. A wife, in the same manner, ma•• sometimes not feel that tender regard 〈◊〉〈◊〉

her husband which is suitable to the rela|tion that subsists between them. If she has been virtuously educated, however, she will endeavour to act as if she felt it, to be careful, officious, faithful▪ and sincere, and to be deficient in none of those attentions which the sentiment of conjugal affection could have prompted her to perform. Such a friend, and such a wife, are neither of them, undoubtedly, the very best of their kinds; and tho' both of them may have the most serious and earnest desire to fulfil every part of their duty, yet they will fail ••n many nice and delicate regards, they will miss many opportunities of obliging, which they could never have overlooked if ••hey had possessed the sentiment that is pro|••••er to their situation. Tho' not the very first of their kinds, however, they are per|haps the second; and if the regard to the general rules of conduct has been very ••trongly impressed upon them, neither of ••hem will fail in any very essential part of ••heir duty. None but those of the hap|••iest mold are capable of suiting with ••xact justness, their sentiments and beha|••iour to the smallest difference of situation, ••nd of acting upon all occasions with the

most delicate and accurate propriety. The coarse clay of which the bulk of mankind are formed, cannot be wrought up to such perfection. There is scarce any man, how|ever, who by discipline, education, and example, may not be so impressed with a regard to general rules, as to act upon al|most every occasion with tolerable decency, and thro' the whole of his life avoid any considerable degree of blame.

Without this sacred regard to general rules, there is no man whose conduct can be much depended upon. It is this which constitutes the most essential difference be|tween a man of principle and honour and a worthless fellow. The one adheres, up|on all occasions, steadily and resolutely to his maxims, and preserves thro' the whole of his life one even tenor of conduct. The other, acts variously and accidentally, as humour, inclination, or interest chance to be uppermost. Nay, such are the ine|qualities of humour to which all men ar•• subject, that without this principle, th•• man who, in all his cool hours, had th•• most delicate sensibility to the propriety o•• conduct, might often be led to act ab••surdly

upon the most frivolous occasions, and when it was scarce possible to assign any serious motive for his behaving in this manner. Your friend makes you a visit when you happen to be in a humour which makes it disagreeable to receive him: in your present mood his civility is very apt to appear an impertinent intrusion; and if you was to give way to the views of things which at this time occur, tho' civil in your temper, you would behave to him with coldness and contempt. What ren|ders you incapable of such a rudeness, is nothing but a regard to the general rules of civility and hospitality, which prohibit it. That habitual reverence which your former experience has taught you for these, enables you to act, upon all such occasions, with nearly equal propriety, and hinders those inequalities of temper, to which all men are subject, from influencing your conduct in any very sensible degree. But if without regard to these general rules, even the duties of politeness, which are so easily observed, and which one can scarce have any serious motive to violate, would yet be so frequently violated, what would become of the duties of justice, of truth,

of chastity, of fidelity, which it is often so difficult to observe, and which there may be so many strong motives to violate? But upon the tolerable observance of these duties, depends the very existence of hu|man society, which would crumble into nothing if mankind were not generally im|pressed with a reverence for those impor|tant rules of conduct.

This reverence is still further enhanced by an opinion which is first impressed by nature, and afterwards confirmed by rea|soning and philosophy, that those impor|tant rules of morality, are the commands and laws of the Deity, who will finally re|ward the obedient, and punish the trans|gressors of their duty.

This opinion or apprehension, I say, seems first to be impressed by nature. Men are naturally led to ascribe to those myste|rious beings, whatever they are, which happen in any country, to be the object of religious fear, all their own sentiments and passions. They have no other, they can conceive no other to ascribe to them. Those unknown intelligences which they imagine but see not, must necessarily be formed with some sort of resemblance to

those intelligences of which they have ex|perience. During the ignorance and dark|ness of pagan superstition, mankind seem to have formed the ideas of their divinities with so little delicacy, that they ascribed to them, indiscriminately, all the passi|ons of human nature, those not excepted which do the least honour to our species, such as lust, hunger, avarice, envy, re|venge. They could not fail, therefore, to ascribe to those beings, for the excellence of whose nature they still conceived the highest admiration, those sentiments and qualities which are the great ornaments of humanity, and which seem to raise it to a resemblance to divine perfection, the love of virtue and beneficence, and the abhor|rence of vice and injustice. The man who was injured, called upon Jupiter to be wit|ness of the wrong that was done to him, and could not doubt, but that divine be|ing would behold it with the same indig|nation which would animate the meanest of mankind, who looked on when injus|tice was committed. The man who did the injury, felt himself to be the proper object of the detestation and resentment of mankind; and his natural fears led

him to impute the same sentiments to those awful beings, whose presence he could not avoid, and whose power he could not re|sist. These natural hopes and fears, and suspicions, were propagated by sympathy, and confirmed by education; and the Gods were universally represented and believed to be the rewarders of humanity and mer|cy, and the avengers of perfidy and in|justice. And thus religion, even in its rudest form, gave a sanction to the rules of morality, long before the age of artifi|cial reasoning and philosophy. That the terrors of religion should thus enforce the natural sense of duty, was of too much importance to the happiness of mankind, for nature to leave it dependent upon the slowness and uncertainty of philosophical researches.

These researches, however, when they came to take place, confirmed those ori|ginal anticipations of nature. Upon what|ever we suppose that our moral faculties are founded, whether upon a certain mo|dification of reason, upon an original in|stinct, called a moral sense, or upon some other principle of our nature, it cannot

be doubted, that they were given us for the direction of our conduct in this life. They carry along with them the most evident badges of this authority, which denote that they were set up within us to be the supreme arbiters of all our actions, to su|perintend all our senses, passions, and ap|petites, and to judge how far each of them was either to be indulged or restrained. Our moral faculties are by no means, as some have pretended, upon a level in this respect with the other faculties and appe|tites of our nature, endowed with no more right to restrain these last, than these last are to restrain them. No other faculty or principle of action judges of any other. Love does not judge of resentment, nor resentment of love. Those two passions may be opposite to one another, but can|not, with any propriety, be said to approve or disapprove of one another. But it is the peculiar office of those faculties now under our consideration to judge, to be|stow censure or applause upon all the other principles of our nature. They may be considered as a sort of senses of which those principles are the objects. Every sense is supreme over its own objects.

There is no appeal from the eye with re|gard to the beauty of colours, nor from the ear with regard to the harmony of sounds, nor from the taste with regard to the agreeableness of flavours. Each of those senses judges in the last resort of its own objects. Whatever gratifies the taste is sweet, whatever pleases the eye is beau|tiful, whatever sooths the ear is harmoni|ous. The very essence of each of those qualities consists in its being fitted to please the sense to which it is addressed. It be|longs to our moral faculties, in the same manner to determine when the ear ought to be soothed, when the eye ought to be indulged, when the taste ought to be gra|tified, when and how far every other prin|ciple of our nature ought either to be in|dulged or restrained. What is agreeable to our moral faculties, is fit and right, and proper to be done; the contrary, wrong, unfit and improper. The sentiments which they approve of, are graceful and becom|ing: the contrary, ungraceful and unbe|coming. The very words right, wrong, fit, improper, graceful, unbecoming, mean only what pleases or displeases those fa|culties.

Since these, therefore, were plainly in|tended to be the governing principles of human nature, the rules which they pre|scribe, are to be regarded as the commands and laws of the Deity, promulgated by those vicegerents which he has thus set up within us. All general rules are common|ly denominated laws: thus the general rules which bodies observe in the commu|nication of motion, are called the laws of motion. But those general rules which our moral faculties observe in approving or condemning whatever sentiment or ac|tion is subjected to their examination, may much more justly be denominated such. They have a much greater resemblance to what are properly called laws, those gene|ral rules which the sovereign lays down to direct the conduct of his subjects. Like ••hem they are rules to direct the free ac|••ions of men; they are prescribed most ••urely by a lawful superior, and are at|••ended too with the sanction of rewards ••nd punishments. Those vicegerents of God within us, never fail to punish the ••iolation of them, by the torments of in|ward shame, and self-condemnation; and ••n the contrary always reward obedience

with tranquility of mind, with content|ment, and self-satisfaction.

There are innumerable other considera|tions which serve to confirm the same con|clusion. The happiness of mankind, as well as of all other rational creatures, seems to have been the original purpose intended by the Author of Nature, when he brought them into existence. No other end seems worthy of that supreme wisdom and di|vine benignity which we necessarily ascribe to him; and this opinion, which we are led to by the abstract consideration of his infinite perfections, is still more confirmed by the examination of the works of na|ture, which seem all intended to promote happiness, and to guard against misery. But by acting according to the dictates of our moral faculties, we necessarily pursue the most effectual means for promoting the happiness of mankind, and may therefore be said, in some sense, to co-operate with the Deity, and to advance as far as in our power the plan of Providence. By acting otherways, on the contrary, we seem to obstruct, in some measure, the scheme which the Author of Nature has establish|ed for the happiness and perfection of the

world, and to declare ourselves, if I may say so, in some measure the enemies of God. Hence we are naturally encouraged to hope for his extraordinary favour and reward in the one case, and to dread his vengeance and punishment in the other.

There are besides many other reasons, and many other natural principles, which all tend to confirm and inculcate the same salutary doctrine. If we consider the ge|neral rules by which external prosperity and adversity are commonly distributed in this life, we shall find, that notwithstand|ing the disorder in which all things appear to be in this world, yet even here every virtue naturally meets with its proper re|ward, with the recompense which is most fit to encourage and promote it; and this too so surely, that it requires a very extra|ordinary concurrence of circumstances en|tirely to disappoint it. What is the reward most proper for encouraging industry, pru|dence, and circumspection? Success in every sort of business. And is it possible that in the whole of life these virtues should fail of attaining it? Wealth and external honours are their proper recompence, and

the recompence which they can seldom fail of acquiring. What reward is most pro|per for promoting the practice of truth, justice, and humanity? The confidence, the esteem, and love of those we live with. Humanity does not desire to be great, but to be beloved. It is not in being rich that truth and justice would rejoice, but in be|ing trusted and believed, recompences which those virtues must almost always acquire. By some very extraordinary and unlucky circumstance, a good man may come to be suspected of a crime of which he was altogether incapable, and upon that account be most unjustly exposed for the remaining part of his life to the horror and aversion of mankind. By an accident of this kind he may be said to lose his all, notwithstanding his integrity and justice; in the same manner as a cautious man, notwithstanding his utmost circumspection, may be ruined by an earthquake or an in|undation. Accidents of the first kind, however, are perhaps still more rare, and still more contrary to the common course of things than those of the second; and it still remains true, that the practice of truth, justice, and humanity, is a certain

and almost infallible method of acquiring what those virtues chiefly aim at, the con|fidence and love of those we live with. A person may be very easily misrepresented with regard to a particular action; but it is scarce possible that he should be so with regard to the general tenor of his conduct. An innocent man may be believed to have done wrong: this, however, will rarely happen. On the contrary, the established opinion of the innocence of his manners, will often lead us to absolve him where he has really been in the fault, notwithstand|ing very strong presumptions. A knave, in the same manner may escape censure, or even meet with applause, for a particular knave|ry, in which his conduct is not under|stood. But no man was ever habitually such, without being almost universally known to be so, and without being even frequently suspected of guilt, when he was in reality perfectly innocent. And so far as vice and virtue can be either punished or rewarded by the sentiments and opinions of mankind, they both, according to the common course of things, meet even here with something more than exact and im|partial justice.

But tho' the general rules by which pros|perity and adversity are commonly distri|buted, when considered in this cool and philosophical light, appear to be perfectly suited to the situation of mankind in this life, yet they are by no means suited to some of our natural sentiments. Our na|tural love and admiration for some virtues is such, that we should wish to bestow on them all sorts of honours and rewards, even those which we must acknowledge to be the proper recompences of other quali|ties with which those virtues are not al|ways accompanied. Our detestation, on the contrary, for some vices is such, that we should desire to heap upon them every sort of disgrace and disaster, those not ex|cepted which are the natural consequences of very different qualities. Magnanimity, generosity, and justice command so high a degree of admiration, that we desire to see them crowned with wealth, and power, and honours of every kind, the natural consequences of prudence, industry, and application; qualities with which those virtues are not inseparably connected. Fraud, falsehood, brutality, and violence,

on the other hand, excite in every human breast such scorn and abhorrence, that our indignation rouzes to see them possess those advantages which they may in some sense be said to have merited, by the diligence and industry with which they are some|times attended. The industrious knave cultivates the soil; the indolent good man leaves it uncultivated. Who ought to reap the harvest? who starve, and who live in plenty? The natural course of things de|cides it in favour of the knave: the natu|ral sentiments of mankind in favour of the man of virtue. Man judges, that the good qualities of the one are greatly over-re|compensed by those advantages which they tend to procure him, and that the omissions of the other are by far too severely punish|ed by the distress which they naturally bring upon him; and human laws, the consequences of human sentiments, for|feit the life and the estate of the industri|ous and cautious traitour, and reward, by extraordinary recompenses, the fidelity and public spirit of the improvident and care|less good citizen. Thus man is by nature directed to correct, in some measure, that distribution of things which she herself

would otherwise have made. The rules which for this purpose she prompts him to follow, are different from those which she herself observes. She bestows upon every virtue, and upon every vice, that precise reward or punishment which is best fitted to encourage the one, or to restrain the other. She is directed by this sole consi|deration, and pays little regard to the dif|ferent degrees of merit and demerit, which they may seem to possess in the sentiments and passions of man. Man, on the con|trary, pays regard to this only, and would endeavour to render the state of every vir|tue precisely proportioned to that degree of love and esteem, and of every vice to that degree of contempt and abhorrence which he himself conceives for it. The rules which she follows are fit for her, those which he follows for him: but both are calculated to promote the same great end, the order of the world, and the perfection and happiness of human nature.

But tho' man is thus employed to alter that distribution of things which natural events would make, if left to themselves; tho', like the Gods of the poets, he is per|petually interposing, by extraordinary

means, in favour of virtue, and in oppo|sition to vice, and like them, endeavours to turn away the arrow that is aimed at the head of the righteous, but accelerates the sword of destruction that is lifted up against the wicked; yet he is by no means able to render the fortune of either quite suitable to his own sentiments and wishes. The natural course of things cannot be entirely controuled by the impotent endea|vours of man: the current is too rapid and too strong for him to stop it; and tho' the rules which direct it appear to have been established for the wisest and best purposes, they sometimes produce ef|fects which shock all his natural senti|ments. That a great combination of men, should prevail over a small one; that those who engage in an enterprize with fore|thought and all necessary preparation, should prevail over such as oppose them without any; and that every end should be acquired by those means only which na|ture has established for acquiring it, seems to be a rule not only necessary and una|voidable in itself, but even useful and pro|per for rouzing the industry and attention of mankind. Yet, when in consequence

of this rule, violence and artifice prevail over sincerity and justice, What indig|nation does it not excite in the breast of every human spectator? What sorrow and compassion for the sufferings of the innocent, and what furious resentment against the success of the oppressor? We are equally grieved and enraged, at the wrong that is done, but often find it al|together out of our power to redress it▪ When we thus despair of finding any force upon earth which can check the triumph of injustice, we naturally appeal to hea|ven, and hope, that the great author of our nature will himself execute hereafter, what all the principles which he has given us, for the direction of our conduct, prompt us to attempt even here; that he will compleat the plan which he himself has thus taught us to begin; and will, in a life to come, render to every one accord|ing to the works which he has performed in this world. And thus we are led to the belief of a future state, not only by the weaknesses, by the hopes and fears of hu|man nature, but by the noblest and best principles which belong to it, by the love

of virtue, and by the abhorrence of vice and injustice.

"Does it suit the greatness of God," says the eloquent and philosophical bishop of Clermont, with that passionate and ex|aggerating force of imagination, which seems sometimes to exceed the bounds of decorum;

does it suit the greatness of God, to leave the world which he has created in so universal a disorder? To see the wicked prevail almost always over the just; the innocent dethroned by the usurper; the father become the victim of the ambition of an unnatural son; the husband expiring under the stroak of a barbarous and faithless wife? From the height of his greatness ought God to behold those melancholy events as a fantastical amusement, without taking any share in them? Because he is great, should he be weak, or unjust, or barbarous? Because men are little, ought they to be allowed either to be dissolute without punishment, or vir|tuous without reward? O God! if this is the character of your Supreme Being; if it is you whom we adore un|der such dreadful ideas; can I 〈◊〉〈◊〉

longer acknowledge you for my father, for my protector, for the comforter of my sorrow, the support of my weak|ness, the rewarder of my fidelity? You would then be no more but an indolent and fantastical tyrant, who sacrifices mankind to his insolent vanity, and who has brought them out of nothing, only to make them serve for the sport of his leisure, and of his caprice.

When the general rules which deter|mine the merit and demerit of actions, come thus to be regarded, as the laws of an All-powerful Being, who watches over our conduct, and who, in a life to come, will reward the observance, and punish the breach of them; they necessarily ac|quire a new sacredness from this consi|deration. That our regard to the will of the Deity, ought to be the supreme rule of our conduct, can be doubted of by no body who believes his existence. The very thought of disobedience appears to involve in it the most shocking impro|priety. How vain, how absurd would it be for man, either to oppose or to neglect the commands that were laid upon him

by Infinite Wisdom, and Infinite Power! How unnatural, how impiously ungrate|ful not to reverence the precepts that were prescribed to him by the infinite goodness of his Creator, even tho' no punishment was to follow their violation. The sense of propriety too is here well supported by the strongest motives of self-interest. The idea that, however, we may escape the observation of man, or be placed above the reach of human punishment, yet we are always acting under the eye, and ex|posed to the punishment of God, the great avenger of injustice, is a motive capable of restraining the most headstrong passions, with those at least who, by constant re|flection, have rendered it familiar to them.

It is in this manner that religion en|forces the natural sense of duty: and hence it is, that mankind are generally disposed to place great confidence in the probity of those who seem deeply impress|ed with religious sentiments. Such persons, they imagine, act under an additional tye, besides those which regulate the conduct of other men. The regard to the propriety of action as well as to reputation, the

regard to the applause of his own breast, as well as to that of others, are motives which they suppose have the same influ|ence over the religious man, as over the man of the world. But the former lies under another restraint, and never acts deliberately but as in the presence of that Great Superior who is finally to recom|pense him according to his deeds. A greater trust is reposed, upon this account, in the regularity and exactness of his con|duct. And wherever the natural princi|ples of religion are not corrupted by the factious and party zeal of some worthless cabal; wherever the first duty which it re|quires, is to fulfil all the obligations of morality; wherever men are not taught to regard frivolous observances, as more immediate duties of religion, than acts of justice and beneficence; and to imagine, that by sacrifices and ceremonies, and vain supplications, they can bargain with the Deity for fraud, and perfidy, and violence, the world undoubtedly judges right in this respect, and justly places a double confi|dence in the rectitude of the religious man's behaviour.

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.