Part II, Section II, Chapter III, 2

But although it generally takes little discernment to recognize how destructive unrestrained wrongdoing is to society's welfare, that recognition is rarely what first stirs our opposition. Everyone, even the dullest and most thoughtless, abhors fraud, betrayal, and injustice, and is pleased to see them punished. Yet few have reflected on how necessary justice is to society's existence, however obvious that necessity may seem.

Many familiar considerations show that concern for preserving society is not what first interests us in punishing crimes against individuals. In ordinary circumstances, our concern for the fortunes and happiness of individuals does not arise from our concern for the fortunes and happiness of society. We do not care about the loss of one person because he is a part of society and we would care about society's destruction any more than we care about losing a single guinea because it forms part of a thousand guineas and we would care about losing the entire sum. Neither our concern for individual people nor our concern for individual coins derives from our concern for the whole; in each case, our concern for the whole is composed of our separate concerns for its individual parts. When a small amount of money is unjustly taken from us, we pursue the wrong not so much out of concern to preserve our whole fortune as out of concern for that particular sum. Likewise, when one person is injured or killed, we demand punishment not so much from concern for society's general interest as from concern for the very person who was harmed. It should be noted, however, that this concern need not involve any of the tender feelings called love, esteem, and affection, which we reserve for our particular friends and acquaintances. All that is required is the general fellow feeling we have for any person simply because he is a fellow human being. We sympathize even with the resentment of someone we dislike when he has been injured by people he never provoked. Our disapproval of his usual character and conduct does not altogether prevent us from sharing his natural indignation in this case, though it often weakens that sympathy in those who are neither exceptionally fair-minded nor practiced in correcting and regulating their natural feelings by general rules.

On some occasions, admittedly, we both punish and approve of punishment solely for the sake of society's general interest, which we believe cannot otherwise be secured. Such are all punishments for breaches of what is called civil policing or military discipline. These offenses do not immediately or directly injure any particular person; but their more distant consequences, it is thought, do cause or might cause serious inconvenience or great disorder in society. A sentry who falls asleep on watch, for example, is put to death under military law because such carelessness might endanger an entire army. This severity may often seem necessary and, for that reason, just and proper. When saving one person conflicts with the safety of many, nothing is more just than preferring the many to the one. Yet this punishment, however necessary, always seems excessively severe. The offense seems naturally so slight, and the penalty so great, that our hearts can scarcely reconcile themselves to it. Though such carelessness seems highly blameworthy, thinking of it does not naturally stir the kind of resentment that would urge us to take so dreadful a revenge. A humane person must collect himself, make an effort, and summon all his firmness and resolution before he can either impose such a penalty or approve its imposition by others. He does not regard the just punishment of an ungrateful murderer or someone who murders a parent in this way. In that case, his heart warmly, even passionately, applauds the just retaliation due to such detestable crimes; if the offenders happened to escape, he would feel intense anger and disappointment. The spectator's sharply different feelings toward the two punishments show that he approves them on very different grounds. He regards the sentry as an unfortunate victim who must indeed be sacrificed for the safety of many, but whom in his heart he would gladly save; he is sorry only that the interest of the many stands in the way. If the murderer escaped punishment, however, he would feel the strongest indignation and call upon God to avenge in another world the crime that human injustice had failed to punish on earth.

Indeed, it is worth noticing that we are so far from thinking injustice deserves punishment in this life merely because social order cannot otherwise be maintained that nature teaches us to hope, and religion, we believe, entitles us to expect, its punishment even in a life to come. Our sense that it deserves punishment follows it, so to speak, beyond the grave, though punishment there cannot deter other people from similar acts here: they cannot see or know of it. We nevertheless think God's justice demands that he ultimately avenge the injuries done to widows and the fatherless, who are so often wronged with impunity in this world.

It is not untaught nature but an elaborate refinement of reason and philosophy that teaches that God loves virtue and hates vice only for their effects, as a pleasure-seeking man loves wealth and hates poverty; that God loves virtue only because it promotes society's happiness, which his benevolence desires, and hates vice only because it brings humanity misery, which that same divine quality abhors. Our natural, untaught feelings all lead us to believe that, just as perfect virtue must appear to God, as it appears to us, intrinsically and without regard to any further end, a natural and proper object of love and reward, so vice must appear an object of hatred and punishment. That the gods neither resent nor harm was a general principle of every school of ancient philosophy. If by resentment they meant the violent and disorderly disturbance that so often distracts and confounds the human heart, or by harm they meant wanton injury inflicted without regard for propriety or justice, such weakness is certainly unworthy of divine perfection. But if they meant that God does not find vice inherently abhorrent, intrinsically deserving of punishment, the truth of their principle seems to conflict with very natural feelings. When we consult those feelings, we are even inclined to fear that before the holiness of God vice may seem more deserving of punishment than the frailty and imperfection of human virtue can ever seem deserving of reward. A person about to appear before a Being of infinite perfection can have little confidence in his own merit or the imperfect propriety of his conduct. Before other people he may rightly hold his head high and often have good reason to think well of his character and conduct compared with their still greater shortcomings. But matters are altogether different when he is about to appear before his infinite Creator. He fears that to such a Being his smallness and weakness can scarcely ever seem fitting objects of either esteem or reward. He can readily imagine, however, how his countless failures in duty might make him a fitting object of aversion and punishment; he sees no reason why divine indignation should not be unleashed without restraint upon so vile an insect as he imagines himself to appear. If he still hopes for happiness, he suspects he cannot claim it from God's justice but must beg it from God's mercy. Repentance, sorrow, humility, and contrition over his past conduct therefore seem the feelings appropriate to him, and the only means left him of appeasing the wrath he knows he has justly provoked. He even doubts that these will be enough and naturally fears that God's wisdom will not, like human weakness, be persuaded to spare a crime by the culprit's most insistent lamentations. He imagines that some further intercession, some further sacrifice, some further atonement, beyond anything he himself can make, must be offered for him before the purity of divine justice can be reconciled with his many offenses. The teachings of revelation agree in every respect with these first intuitions of nature: they teach us how little we may rely on our own imperfect virtue, while also showing us that the most powerful intercession has been made, and the most dreadful atonement paid, for our many transgressions and offenses.

It usually takes little insight to see that unrestrained wrongdoing harms society. But that is rarely what first turns us against it. Everyone, even the least thoughtful people, hates fraud, betrayal, and injustice, and is pleased to see them punished. Yet few people have considered how necessary justice is for society to exist, however obvious that necessity may seem.

Several simple observations show that our first reason for caring about the punishment of crimes against individuals is not concern for society's survival. Our concern for an individual's fate and happiness does not ordinarily come from our concern for society's fate and happiness. We do not care about a single person's death or loss because that person is part of society and we would care if society were destroyed. That is no more the reason than our concern over losing a single guinea is due to its being part of a thousand guineas and our concern over losing the entire sum. In neither case does our concern for each individual come from concern for the whole. Instead, our concern for the whole grows out of our separate concerns for the individuals who make it up. When someone wrongfully takes a small sum from us, we seek redress less because our entire fortune needs protection than because we care about the particular sum we lost. Likewise, when one person is injured or killed, we demand punishment for the wrong less out of concern for society's general interest than out of concern for that particular injured person. This concern, however, does not have to include the especially strong feelings called love, esteem, and affection that we have for our friends and acquaintances. All that is needed is the general fellow-feeling we have for every person simply because they are human like us. We share even an unpleasant person's resentment when someone they have not provoked injures them. Our disapproval of that person's usual character and behavior does not entirely prevent us from sharing their natural anger. Still, it often weakens that sympathy in people who are not especially fair-minded or have not learned to guide and correct their natural feelings by general rules.

On some occasions we do punish people, and approve of punishment, solely because we think society's general interest cannot otherwise be protected. Penalties for violations of what is called civil policing or military discipline fall into this category. Such offenses do not immediately or directly hurt any particular person. But they are thought to have consequences that cause, or could cause, serious inconvenience or major disorder in society. For example, the laws of war put a sentry to death for falling asleep on watch, because that carelessness could endanger the whole army. Such severity may often be necessary and therefore just and proper. When saving one person is incompatible with the safety of many, it is only right to put the many first. Yet this punishment always seems extremely harsh, however necessary it may be. The offense itself seems so slight and the penalty so great that we have great difficulty accepting it emotionally. We blame the sentry's carelessness, but thinking about it does not naturally provoke the kind of resentment that would move us to such terrible revenge. A humane person must stop and gather his strength. He must make a real effort and summon all his resolve before he can either impose the penalty or approve when others impose it. This is not how he regards the deserved punishment of an ungrateful murderer or someone who kills a parent. In that case, his heart passionately, even joyfully, approves of the just retaliation these dreadful crimes seem to deserve. If by chance the criminals escaped, he would be deeply angry and disappointed. The spectator's very different responses to the two punishments show that his approval of one does not rest on the same grounds as his approval of the other. He sees the sentry as an unfortunate victim who must indeed be sacrificed for the safety of many and ought to be, but whom he would nevertheless like to save. He is sorry only that the interests of the many stand in the way. If the murderer escapes punishment, however, the spectator feels the deepest outrage. He appeals to God to avenge in another world a crime that human injustice has failed to punish in this one.

Indeed, there is an important point to notice. We do not think injustice deserves punishment in this life only to preserve the social order, even though that order could not otherwise be maintained. Nature leads us to hope, and religion, we suppose, gives us reason to expect, that injustice will be punished even in a future life. Our sense that it deserves punishment follows it, so to speak, beyond the grave. Yet punishment there cannot discourage other people from committing similar wrongs here, because they neither see nor know about it. Even so, we believe that God's justice requires him eventually to avenge the injuries done to widows and children without fathers, who are so often wronged here without consequences for their oppressors.

The following idea is not a teaching of our untutored nature. It is a product of elaborate philosophical reasoning: that God loves virtue and hates vice the way a pleasure-loving man loves wealth and hates poverty, not for what they are in themselves but only for their effects. On this view, God loves virtue only because it promotes the happiness of society, which his benevolence makes him want. He hates vice only because it makes people miserable, which the same divine benevolence makes him dislike. Our natural, untutored feelings all lead us to believe something else. We think that perfect virtue must appear to God, as it does to us, worthy of love and reward in itself, without regard to any further result. Vice must likewise appear worthy of hatred and punishment in itself. All the different schools of ancient philosophy generally held that the gods neither feel resentment nor do harm. If resentment means the violent, uncontrolled disturbance that often overwhelms the human heart, or if doing harm means causing injury on a whim without regard for propriety or justice, such weaknesses certainly have no place in divine perfection. But suppose the claim means that God does not see vice as hateful in itself, or as something that ought in itself to be punished. That claim seems to conflict with some very natural feelings. When we consult those feelings, we may even fear that, before the holiness of God, vice appears far more deserving of punishment than weak and imperfect human virtue could ever appear deserving of reward. When a person is about to appear before a Being of infinite perfection, he can have little confidence in his own merit or the imperfect propriety of his conduct. Among other people, he may rightly hold his head high and have good reason to think well of his character and actions compared with their still greater imperfections. Facing his infinite Creator is quite another matter. He fears that such a Being could hardly regard his smallness and weakness as deserving either esteem or reward. Yet he can easily understand how his countless failures to do his duty could make him deserving of disgust and punishment. He sees no reason why divine anger should not be unleashed without restraint on someone who, in his own imagination, must look like such a vile insect to God. If he still hopes for happiness, he suspects that he cannot claim it as a matter of God's justice. He must beg for God's mercy instead. Repentance, sorrow, humility, and deep regret for his past conduct seem to be the feelings that suit his situation. They seem to be his only remaining means of calming the anger he knows he has rightly aroused. He even doubts that these feelings will work. He naturally fears that God's wisdom, unlike human weakness, will not let the criminal's most desperate pleas persuade him to overlook the crime. He imagines that some other intercession, sacrifice, or atonement, beyond anything he can offer himself, must be made on his behalf before divine justice in its purity can be reconciled to his many offenses. The teachings of revelation agree in every respect with these first expectations of our nature. They teach us how little we can rely on our own imperfect virtue. At the same time, they show us that the most powerful intercession has been made and the most dreadful atonement has been paid for our many offenses and wrongs.