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Part II, Section II, Chapter II
Part II, Section II, Chapter II of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Of the sense of justice, of remorse, and of the consciousness of merit.
There can be no proper motive for hurting our neighbour, there can be no incitement to do evil to another, which mankind will go along with, except just indignation for evil which that other has done to us. To disturb his happiness merely because it stands in the way of our own, to take from him what is of real use to him merely because it may be of equal or more use to us, or to indulge, in this manner, at the expence of other people, the natural preference which every man has for his own happiness above that of other people, is what no impartial spectator can go along with. Every man is, no doubt, by nature, first and principally recommended to his own care; and as he is fitter to take care of himself than of any other person, it is fit and right that it should be so. Every man, therefore, is much more deeply interested in whatever immediately concerns himself, than in what concerns any other man: and to hear, perhaps, of the death of another person, with whom we have no particular connexion, will give us less concern, will spoil our stomach, or break our rest much less than a very insignificant disaster which has befallen ourselves. But though the ruin of our neighbour may affect us much less than a very small misfortune of our own, we must not ruin him to prevent that small misfortune, nor even to prevent our own ruin. We must, here, as in all other cases, view ourselves not so much according to that light in which we may naturally appear to ourselves, as according to that in which we naturally appear to others. Though every man may, according to the proverb, be the whole world to himself, to the rest of mankind he is a most insignificant part of it. Though his own happiness may be of more importance to him than that of all the world besides, to every other person it is of no more consequence than that of any other man. Though it may be true, therefore, that every individual, in his own breast, naturally prefers himself to all mankind, yet he dares not look mankind in the face, and avow that he acts according to this principle. He feels that in this preference they can never go along with him, and that how natural soever it may be to him, it must always appear excessive and extravagant to them. When he views himself in the light in which he is conscious that others will view him, he sees that to them he is but one of the multitude in no respect better than any other in it. If he would act so as that the impartial spectator may enter into the principles of his conduct, which is what of all things he has the greatest desire to do, he must, upon this, as upon all other occasions, humble the arrogance of his self-love, and bring it down to something which other men can go along with. They will indulge it so far as to allow him to be more anxious about, and to pursue with more earnest assiduity, his own happiness than that of any other person. Thus far, whenever they place themselves in his situation, they will readily go along with him. In the race for wealth and honours, and preferments, he may run as hard as he can, and strain every nerve and every muscle, in order to outstrip all his competitors. But if he should justle, or throw down any of them, the indulgence of the spectators is entirely at an end. It is a violation of fair play, which they cannot admit of. This man is to them, in every respect, as good as he: they do not enter into that self-love by which he prefers himself so much to this other, and cannot go along with the motive from which he hurt him. They readily, therefore, sympathize with the natural resentment of the injured, and the offender becomes the object of their hatred and indignation. He is sensible that he becomes so, and feels that those sentiments are ready to burst out from all sides against him.
As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the resentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher, so does likewise the sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as the sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which one man can inflict upon another, and excites the highest degree of resentment in those who are immediately connected with the slain. Murder, therefore, is the most atrocious of all crimes which affect individuals only, in the sight both of mankind, and of the person who has committed it. To be deprived of that which we are possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed of what we have only the expectation. Breach of property, therefore, theft and robbery, which take from us what we are possessed of, are greater crimes than breach of contract, which only disappoints us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, therefore, those whose violation seems to call the loudest for vengeance and punishment, are the laws which guard the life and person of our neighbour; the next are those which guard his property and possessions; and last of all come those which guard what are called his personal rights, or what is due to him from the promises of others.
The violator of the more sacred laws of justice can never reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with regard to him, without feeling all the agonies of shame, and horror, and consternation. When his passion is gratified, and he begins coolly to reflect upon his conduct, he can enter into none of the motives which influenced it. They appear now as detestable to him as they did always to other people. By sympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence which other men must entertain for him, he becomes in some measure the object of his own hatred and abhorrence. The situation of the person, who suffered by his injustice, now calls upon his pity. He is grieved at the thought of it; regrets the unhappy effects of his own conduct, and feels at the same time that they have rendered him the proper object of the resentment and indignation of mankind, and of what is the natural consequence of resentment, vengeance and punishment. The thought of this perpetually haunts him, and fills him with terror and amazement. He dares no longer look society in the face, but imagines himself as it were rejected, and thrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot hope for the consolation of sympathy in this his greatest, and most dreadful distress. The remembrance of his crimes has shut out all fellow-feelings with him from the hearts of his fellow-creatures. The sentiments which they entertain with regard to him, are the very thing which he is most afraid of. Every thing seems hostile, and he would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert, where he might never more behold the face of a human creature, nor read in the countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But solitude is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts can present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate, and disastrous, the melancholy forebodings of incomprehensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back into society, and he comes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before them, loaded with shame and distracted with fear, in order to supplicate some little protection from the countenance of those very judges, who he knows have already all unanimously condemned him. Such is the nature of that sentiment, which is properly called remorse; of all the sentiments which can enter the human breast the most dreadful. It is made up of shame from the sense of the impropriety of past conduct; of grief for the effects of it; of pity for those who suffer by it; and of the dread and terror of punishment from the consciousness of the justly provoked resentment of all rational creatures.
The opposite behaviour naturally inspires the opposite sentiment. The man who, not from frivolous fancy, but from proper motives, has performed a generous action, when he looks forward to those whom he has served, feels himself to be the natural object of their love and gratitude, and, by sympathy with them, of the esteem and approbation of all mankind. And when he looks backward to the motive from which he acted, and surveys it in the light in which the indifferent spectator will survey it, he still continues to enter into it, and applauds himself by sympathy with the approbation of this supposed impartial judge. In both these points of view his own conduct appears to him every way agreeable. His mind, at the thought of it, is filled with chearfulness, serenity, and composure. He is in friendship and harmony with all mankind, and looks upon his fellow-creatures with confidence and benevolent satisfaction, secure that he has rendered himself worthy of their most favourable regards. In the combination of all these sentiments consists the consciousness of merit, or of deserved reward.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
On the sense of justice, remorse, and the consciousness of merit.
There can be no proper motive for hurting our neighbor, no inducement to wrong another with which mankind can sympathize, except just indignation at a wrong that person has done to us. No impartial spectator can sympathize with disturbing another's happiness merely because it obstructs our own, taking from him something genuinely useful merely because it might be equally or more useful to us, or thus indulging, at others' expense, the natural preference each of us has for his own happiness. Each person is undoubtedly entrusted by nature first and foremost to his own care; since he is better suited to care for himself than anyone else is, this is right and fitting. Accordingly, each person is much more deeply concerned with what directly affects him than with what affects anyone else. Hearing of the death of a person to whom we have no particular connection will perhaps trouble us, spoil our appetite, or disturb our sleep far less than a very minor misfortune of our own. Yet although the ruin of our neighbor may move us far less than a small misfortune of our own, we must not ruin him to prevent that misfortune, or even to prevent our own ruin. Here, as everywhere, we must see ourselves not chiefly as we naturally appear to ourselves but as we naturally appear to others. Though each person may, as the proverb has it, be the whole world to himself, to the rest of humanity he is a most insignificant part of it. Though his happiness may matter more to him than the happiness of the rest of the world, to every other person it matters no more than anyone else's. Even if each person naturally prefers himself to all humanity in his own heart, he does not dare face humanity and openly admit to acting on that principle. He feels that no one else can share this preference and that, however natural it is to him, it must appear excessive and extravagant to them. Seeing himself as he knows others will see him, he recognizes that in their eyes he is only one among the multitude, no better in any respect than anyone else. If he wants the impartial spectator to sympathize with the principles of his conduct—and he wants nothing more—he must, here as elsewhere, humble the arrogance of his self-love until others can sympathize with it. They will indulge it enough to let him care more anxiously and strive more earnestly for his own happiness than for another's. Putting themselves in his position, they will readily sympathize to that extent. In the race for wealth, honors, and advancement, he may run as hard as he can, straining every nerve and muscle to outstrip his competitors. But if he jostles or knocks any one of them down, the spectators' indulgence ends at once. This breaks the rules of fair play, and they cannot accept it. To them, the other man is every bit as good as he is: they do not share the self-love that makes him prefer himself so greatly to that man, and they cannot sympathize with the motive that led him to harm him. They therefore readily sympathize with the injured man's natural resentment, and the offender becomes the object of their hatred and indignation. He knows he has become so and feels those sentiments ready to break out against him on every side.
The greater and less reparable the harm done, the more intense the sufferer's resentment; so too the spectator's sympathetic indignation and the offender's sense of guilt. Death is the greatest harm one person can inflict on another and arouses the strongest resentment among those closely connected to the victim. Murder is therefore the most atrocious crime affecting individuals alone, in the eyes both of mankind and of the murderer himself. To lose what we already possess is worse than to be disappointed of something we merely expected. Violations of property, therefore—theft and robbery, which deprive us of what we possess—are graver crimes than breaches of contract, which merely deprive us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, whose violation most urgently calls for vengeance and punishment, are thus those protecting our neighbor's life and person; next come those protecting his property and possessions; last come those protecting his so-called personal rights, or what others owe him under their promises.
A violator of the more sacred laws of justice cannot reflect on what mankind must feel toward him without suffering every agony of shame, horror, and dismay. Once his passion is satisfied and he begins to reflect calmly on what he has done, he can no longer sympathize with any motive that moved him. Those motives now look as detestable to him as they always looked to others. Sympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence others must feel for him, he becomes to some extent an object of his own hatred and abhorrence. The plight of the person hurt by his injustice now stirs his pity. The thought grieves him; he regrets the unhappy consequences of his conduct, while feeling that those consequences have made him a proper object of mankind's resentment and indignation, and of their natural result, vengeance and punishment. This thought haunts him continually and fills him with terror and astonishment. He no longer dares face society, but imagines himself cast out of the affections of all humanity. In this, his greatest and most dreadful distress, he cannot hope for the comfort of sympathy. The memory of his crimes has closed his fellow creatures' hearts to fellow feeling with him. Their feelings toward him are precisely what he fears most. Everything seems hostile; he longs to flee to some desolate wilderness where he need never again see another human face or read the condemnation of his crimes in anyone's expression. Yet solitude is even more dreadful than society. His own thoughts offer only dark, unhappy, and disastrous visions, gloomy forebodings of unfathomable misery and ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back among people. He comes again before them, astonished that he can even appear there, weighed down with shame and distracted by fear, begging some small measure of protection from the very judges who, as he knows, have already unanimously condemned him. Such is the feeling properly called remorse, the most dreadful feeling the human heart can know. It consists of shame at the impropriety of past conduct, grief for its effects, pity for those made to suffer by it, and dread and terror of punishment in the knowledge that one has justly provoked the resentment of all rational beings.
The opposite conduct naturally gives rise to the opposite feeling. A man who has performed a generous act from proper motives, rather than from some frivolous whim, looks toward those he has served and feels himself the natural object of their love and gratitude and, through sympathy with them, of the esteem and approval of all mankind. Looking back at the motive for his action, and considering it as a disinterested spectator would, he still sympathizes with it and applauds himself by sympathizing with the approval of this imagined impartial judge. From both perspectives his conduct appears wholly pleasing to him. Thinking of it fills his mind with cheerfulness, serenity, and composure. He is at peace and in harmony with all humanity and looks on his fellow creatures with confidence and benevolent satisfaction, assured that he has made himself worthy of their warmest regard. The consciousness of merit, or of deserved reward, consists in the combination of all these feelings.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included).
On the sense of justice, remorse, and the awareness of merit.
There is no proper reason to hurt our neighbor, and no motive for doing wrong to another person that people can share, except justified anger over a wrong that person has done to us. No impartial spectator can approve of disturbing another person's happiness simply because it gets in the way of our own. Nor can they approve of taking something useful to that person simply because it would be just as useful, or more useful, to us. We cannot indulge our natural preference for our own happiness at another person's expense. Each of us is naturally entrusted, first and foremost, with looking after ourselves. Since we are better able to do that than to look after anyone else, this is right and proper. So we care much more deeply about what directly affects us than about what affects another person. Hearing of the death of a stranger may upset us, spoil our appetite, or disturb our sleep far less than a very minor misfortune of our own. But although the ruin of our neighbor may affect us less than a small misfortune of our own, we must not ruin him to avoid that misfortune. We must not ruin him even to avoid our own ruin. Here, as in every other case, we must see ourselves not only as we naturally appear to ourselves but as we naturally appear to others. As the saying goes, each person may be the whole world to himself. To everyone else, he is one tiny part of the world. His own happiness may matter more to him than everyone else's happiness put together. But to anyone else, it matters no more than the happiness of any other individual. Each of us may naturally put ourselves before all humanity in our own hearts. Yet we dare not look humanity in the face and admit that we act on that principle. We know others can never share that preference. However natural it feels to us, it will always look excessive and unreasonable to them. When a man sees himself as he knows others see him, he recognizes that he is one person among many and no better than anyone else. Above all, he wants the impartial spectator to understand and approve of the reasons for his conduct. To achieve this, he must restrain his arrogant self-love, as he must on every other occasion, and reduce it to a level others can accept. They will allow him to care more about his own happiness and to pursue it more eagerly and persistently than anyone else's. If they imagine themselves in his position, they readily understand that much. In the race for wealth, honors, and advancement, he may run as hard as he likes and use every ounce of effort to get ahead of his competitors. But if he jostles or knocks one of them down, the spectators' tolerance ends at once. That breaks the rules of fair play, and they cannot accept it. To them his competitor is every bit as good as he is. They do not share the self-love that makes him favor himself so strongly over that other person. They cannot share his reason for hurting him. Instead, they readily share the injured person's natural resentment, and the offender earns their hatred and anger. He knows it and feels those emotions ready to break out against him on every side.
The greater and less repairable the harm, the stronger the injured person's resentment becomes. The spectator's shared anger and the offender's sense of guilt grow in the same way. Death is the worst harm one person can inflict on another. It provokes the deepest resentment in those close to the person killed. Murder is therefore the most terrible crime against an individual, both to the public and to the murderer himself. Losing something we already possess is worse than failing to receive something we merely expected. So theft and robbery, which take away our possessions, are worse crimes than breaking a contract, which deprives us of something expected. The most sacred rules of justice, whose violation calls most urgently for punishment and vengeance, protect our neighbor's life and person. Next come rules protecting property and possessions. Last come rules protecting what are called personal rights: what others owe a person under their promises.
A person who breaks the most sacred rules of justice cannot think about how others must feel toward him without suffering terrible shame, horror, and fear. Once his passion has been satisfied and he considers his conduct calmly, he can no longer understand or approve of any of the motives that drove him. They now seem as hateful to him as they always seemed to others. He shares the hatred and disgust others must feel toward him and, to some extent, comes to hate and loathe himself. Now he pities the person who suffered from his injustice. He grieves over that person's situation and regrets the miserable results of his own actions. At the same time, he feels he deserves everyone's resentment and anger, along with the vengeance and punishment that naturally follow resentment. This thought haunts him constantly and fills him with terror and dismay. He can no longer face society. He imagines himself cast out of everyone's affection. In this worst and most frightening distress, he cannot hope for the comfort of anyone's sympathy. The memory of his crimes has closed other people's hearts to fellow-feeling for him. What they think of him is the very thing he most fears. Everything seems hostile. He longs to escape to an empty desert where he will never again see another human face or read condemnation of his crimes in anyone's expression. But solitude is more frightening still. His own thoughts show him nothing but darkness, misfortune, and disaster, along with dreadful fears of suffering and ruin beyond his understanding. The horror of being alone drives him back into society. He returns to other people, astonished at his own nerve in appearing before them. Burdened with shame and frantic with fear, he begs for some small sign of protection from the very judges he knows have already condemned him unanimously. This is the feeling properly called remorse, the most terrible feeling a person can have. It combines shame at the impropriety of past conduct, grief over its effects, pity for those who suffered from it, and fear and terror of punishment. That last fear comes from knowing that all reasonable beings have good reason to resent what he did.
The opposite kind of conduct naturally gives rise to the opposite feeling. Consider a man who has acted generously from proper motives, not on a passing whim. When he thinks about the people he has helped, he knows that they naturally love him and feel grateful to him. By sharing their feelings, he also senses the esteem and approval of everyone else. When he looks back at the reason for his action and considers it as a detached spectator would, he still approves of that reason. Sharing the approval of this imagined impartial judge, he praises himself. From both points of view, everything about his action pleases him. Thinking of it fills him with cheerfulness, peace, and calm. He feels friendship and harmony with all people. He looks on others with confidence and warm satisfaction, sure that he deserves their highest regard. This combination of feelings is the awareness of merit, or of deserving a reward.