Adam Smith · Complete work
Part II, Section III, Chapter III
Part II, Section III, Chapter III of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Of the final cause of this irregularity of sentiments.
Such is the effect of the good or bad consequence of actions upon the sentiments both of the person who performs them, and of others; and thus, Fortune, which governs the world, has some influence where we should be least willing to allow her any, and directs in some measure the sentiments of mankind, with regard to the character and conduct both of themselves and others. That the world judges by the event, and not by the design, has been in all ages the complaint, and is the great discouragement of virtue. Every body agrees to the general maxim, that as the event does not depend on the agent, it ought to have no influence upon your sentiments, with regard to the merit or propriety of his conduct. But when we come to particulars, we find that our sentiments are scarce in any one instance exactly conformable to what this equitable maxim would direct. The happy or unprosperous event of any action, is not only apt to give us a good or bad opinion of the prudence with which it was conducted, but almost always too animates our gratitude or resentment, our sense of the merit or demerit of the design.
Nature, however, when the implanted the seeds of this irregularity in the human breast, seems, as upon all other occasions, to have intended the happiness and perfection of the species. If the hurtfulness of the design, if the malevolence of the affection, were alone the causes which excited our resentment, we should feel all the furies of that passion against any person in whose breast we suspected or believed such designs or affections were harboured, though they had never broke out into any actions. Sentiments, thoughts, intentions, would become the objects of punishment; and if the indignation of mankind ran as high against them as against actions; if the baseness of the thought which had given birth to no action, seemed in the eyes of the world as much to call aloud for vengeance as the baseness of the action, every court of judicature would become a real inquisition. There would be no safety for the most innocent and circumspect conduct. Bad wishes, bad views, bad designs, might still be suspected; and while these excited the same indignation with bad conduct, while bad intentions were as much resented as bad actions, they would equally expose the person to punishment and resentment. Actions therefore which either produce actual evil, or attempt to produce it, and thereby put us in the immediate fear of it, are by the Author of nature rendered the only proper and approved objects of human punishment and resentment. Sentiments, designs, affections, though it is from these that according to cool reason human actions derive their whole merit or demerit, are placed by the great Judge of hearts beyond the limits of every human jurisdiction, and are reserved for the cognizance of his own unerring tribunal. That necessary rule of justice, therefore, that men in this life are liable to punishment for their actions only, not for their designs and intentions, is founded upon this salutary and useful irregularity in human sentiments concerning merit or demerit, which at first sight appears so absurd and unaccountable. But every part of nature, when attentively surveyed, equally demonstrates the providential care of its Author, and we may admire the wisdom and goodness of God even in the weakness and folly of men.
Nor is that irregularity of sentiments altogether without its utility, by which the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to serve, and much more that of mere good inclinations and kind wishes, appears to be imperfect. Man was made for action, and to promote by the exertion of his faculties such changes in the external circumstances both of himself and others, as may seem most favourable to the happiness of all. He must not be satisfied with indolent benevolence, nor fancy himself the friend of mankind, because in his heart he wishes well to the prosperity of the world. That he may call forth the whole vigour of his soul, and strain every nerve, in order to produce those ends which it is the purpose of his being to advance, Nature has taught him, that neither himself nor mankind can be fully satisfied with his conduct, nor bestow upon it the full measure of applause, unless he has actually produced them. He is made to know, that the praise of good intentions, without the merit of good offices, will be but of little avail to excite either the loudest acclamations of the world, or even the highest degree of self-applause. The man who has performed no single action of importance, but whose whole conversation and deportment express the justest, the noblest, and most generous sentiments, can be entitled to demand no very high reward, even though his inutility should be owing to nothing but the want of an opportunity to serve. We can still refuse it him without blame. We can still ask him, what have you done? What actual service can you produce, to entitle you to so great a recompense? We esteem you, and love you; but we owe you nothing. To reward indeed that latent virtue which has been useless only for want of an opportunity to serve, to bestow upon it those honours and preferments, which, though in some measure it may be said to deserve them, it could not with propriety have insisted upon, is the effect of the most divine benevolence. To punish, on the contrary, for the affections of the heart only, where no crime has been committed, is the most insolent and barbarous tyranny. The benevolent affections seem to deserve most praise, when they do not wait till it becomes almost a crime for them not to exert themselves. The malevolent, on the contrary, can scarce be too tardy, too slow, or deliberate.
It is even of use that the evil which is done without design should be regarded as a misfortune to the doer as well as to the sufferer. Man is thereby taught to reverence the happiness of his brethren, to tremble lest he should, even unknowingly, do any thing that can hurt them, and to dread that animal resentment which he feels is ready to burst out against him, if he should without design be the unhappy instrument of their calamity.
Notwithstanding, however, all these seeming irregularities of sentiment, if man should unfortunately either give occasion to those evils which he did not intend, or fail in producing that good which he intended, nature has not left his innocence altogether without consolation, nor his virtue altogether without reward. He then calls to his assistance that just and equitable maxim, that those events which did not depend upon our conduct ought not to diminish the esteem that is due to us. He summons up his whole magnanimity and firmness of soul, and strives to regard himself, not in the light in which he at present appears, but in that in which he ought to appear, in which he would have appeared had his generous designs been crowned with success, and in which he would still appear, notwithstanding their miscarriage, if the sentiments of mankind were either altogether candid and equitable, or even perfectly consistent with themselves. The more candid and humane part of mankind entirely go along with the efforts which he thus makes to support himself in his own opinion. They exert their whole generosity and greatness of mind, to correct in themselves this irregularity of human nature, and endeavour to regard his unfortunate magnanimity in the same light in which, had it been successful, they would, without any such generous exertion, have naturally been disposed to consider it.
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 final cause of this irregularity of feeling.
Such is the effect that good or bad consequences have on the feelings of both those who act and those who observe them. Fortune, which rules the world, thus wields some influence where we would be least willing to concede it: to some extent she directs our judgments of our own character and conduct, and those of others. That the world judges actions by their outcomes rather than their designs has been the complaint of every age and a great discouragement to virtue. Everyone agrees with the general principle that, because the outcome does not depend on the agent, it ought not to affect our judgment of the merit or propriety of his conduct. Yet when we consider particular cases, our feelings hardly ever conform exactly to the dictates of this fair principle. A fortunate or unfortunate outcome not only inclines us to judge the prudence of an action favorably or unfavorably; it nearly always intensifies our gratitude or resentment as well, and our sense of the design's merit or demerit.
Yet when nature planted the seeds of this irregularity in the human heart, she seems, as on every other occasion, to have intended the happiness and improvement of the species. If a harmful design or malevolent feeling alone could arouse resentment, we would feel the full fury of that passion toward anyone we suspected or believed to harbor such thoughts, even if they had never appeared in any act. Feelings, thoughts, and intentions would become punishable. If human indignation against them rose as high as it does against actions, if a base thought that had produced no action seemed as deserving of vengeance as a base deed, every court of law would become a true inquisition. Even the most innocent and cautious conduct would offer no safety. Bad wishes, bad aims, and bad designs might still be suspected; if they inspired the same indignation as bad conduct, if bad intentions met with as much resentment as bad actions, they would equally expose a person to punishment and hostility. The Author of nature has therefore made acts that cause real harm, or attempt to cause it and thereby make us immediately fear it, the only proper and approved objects of human punishment and resentment. Feelings, designs, and affections—from which, according to cool reason, human actions derive all their merit or demerit—are placed by the great Judge of hearts beyond every human jurisdiction and reserved for his own unerring tribunal. Thus the necessary rule of justice that people in this life may be punished only for their actions, not for their designs and intentions, rests on this wholesome and useful irregularity in our judgments of merit and demerit, however absurd and inexplicable it may seem at first. But every part of nature, closely examined, displays the providential care of its Author; even in human weakness and folly we may admire the wisdom and goodness of God.
Nor is it altogether useless that, through this irregularity, an unsuccessful attempt to help, and still more a mere inclination to kindness or a good wish, seems to possess incomplete merit. Human beings are made for action: by exercising their powers they are to improve the outward circumstances of themselves and others in ways that best promote the happiness of all. A person must not content himself with idle benevolence or imagine himself a friend of humanity merely because he wishes the world well in his heart. To call forth all the vigor of his soul and strain every nerve toward the ends his existence is meant to advance, nature has taught him that neither he nor humanity can be fully satisfied with his conduct, or give it their full applause, unless he actually achieves those ends. He knows that praise for good intentions, without the merit of helpful deeds, will do little to win either the world's loudest acclaim or the highest praise from himself. Someone who has never performed a single significant deed, however just, noble, and generous the feelings expressed in all his speech and conduct, has no claim to a very high reward, even if his lack of usefulness comes only from having had no opportunity to help. We may still refuse him such a reward without blame. We may ask him, “What have you done? What actual service can you show to entitle you to so great a reward? We esteem you and love you, but we owe you nothing.” To reward hidden virtue that has lacked only an opportunity to be useful, to give it honors and advancement that it may in some measure deserve but could not properly demand, is an act of the most godlike benevolence. To punish someone, by contrast, for feelings of the heart alone when no crime has been committed is the most insolent and barbarous tyranny. Benevolent feelings seem most praiseworthy when they do not wait until failing to act on them is almost a crime. Malevolent feelings, by contrast, can hardly be too late, too slow, or too deliberate in turning into action.
It is useful, too, that harm done without design should be regarded as a misfortune for its author as well as its victim. A person thereby learns to respect the happiness of his fellow human beings, to tremble lest he unknowingly do anything to hurt them, and to fear the instinctive resentment that he knows is ready to burst out against him if he should unwittingly become the unhappy instrument of their suffering.
Despite all these apparent irregularities of feeling, when a person unfortunately causes harm he never intended, or fails to bring about the good he intended, nature does not leave his innocence wholly without comfort or his virtue wholly without reward. He then calls to his aid the just and fair principle that events beyond our control ought not to lessen the esteem due to us. He musters all his magnanimity and firmness of spirit, and tries to see himself not as he now appears, but as he ought to appear: as he would have appeared had his generous plans succeeded, and as he would still appear in spite of their failure if human judgments were entirely candid and fair, or even perfectly consistent. The more candid and humane people fully sympathize with his effort to sustain his own opinion of himself. They summon all their generosity and strength of mind to correct this irregularity in their own nature, and strive to regard his unfortunate magnanimity as they would naturally have regarded it, without any such effort, if it had succeeded.
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).
The ultimate purpose of this inconsistency in our feelings.
We have seen how the good or bad results of actions affect both the people who perform them and those who watch them. Fortune rules the world and influences even what we would least want to leave to her: how people judge their own character and conduct and that of others. People have complained in every age that the world judges actions by their results, not their intentions. This is a great discouragement to virtue. Everyone accepts the general rule that an outcome beyond the agent's control should not affect how we judge the merit or propriety of that person's conduct. But in particular cases our feelings hardly ever follow this fair rule exactly. Whether an action turns out well or badly affects not only our judgment of the prudence behind it, but almost always also our gratitude or resentment and our sense of the merit or demerit of the intention.
Yet when nature planted this inconsistency in us, she seems to have meant, as in other cases, to promote human happiness and improvement. Suppose a harmful intention or a malicious feeling alone were enough to arouse resentment. Then we would feel the full fury of resentment against anyone we suspected of harboring such thoughts, even if they never acted on them. Feelings, thoughts, and intentions would become punishable. If people were as outraged by a base thought that never led to action as by a base action, and demanded revenge for both, every court would become a real inquisition. Even the most innocent and careful person would be unsafe. People might still suspect him of bad wishes, purposes, or plans. If these drew as much anger as bad conduct, and bad intentions as much resentment as bad actions, they would equally expose him to punishment. So the Author of nature has made actions that actually cause harm, or attempts that put us in immediate fear of harm, the only proper and acceptable objects of human punishment and resentment. Feelings, plans, and affections are, according to calm reason, the entire source of the merit or demerit of human actions. Yet the great Judge of hearts has put them beyond all human courts and reserved them for his own infallible judgment. The necessary rule of justice that people in this life may be punished only for their actions, not for their plans and intentions, thus rests on our useful inconsistency about merit and demerit. At first it seems absurd and impossible to explain. But every part of nature, studied closely, shows its Author's care. Even human weakness and folly can make us admire God's wisdom and goodness.
Another inconsistency in our feelings is useful too. We see less than full merit in an unsuccessful attempt to help someone, and even less in kind wishes and good intentions that never become actions. Human beings were made to act. They were made to use their powers to change their own circumstances and those of others in ways that seem best for everyone's happiness. A person must not be content with idle goodwill or think he is a friend to humanity merely because he privately wishes the world well. Nature has taught him to put all his strength and effort into the purposes of his life. She has taught him that neither he nor anyone else will be fully satisfied with his conduct or give it full praise unless he actually achieves those purposes. He knows that praise for good intentions without the merit of helpful actions will do little to win the world's loudest applause or even his own highest approval. Suppose a person has done nothing of importance, but everything he says and the way he behaves show the most fair-minded, noble, and generous feelings. He cannot demand a very great reward, even if his lack of useful action is due solely to having had no chance to help. We may refuse him without doing anything wrong. We may still ask him, “What have you done? What service have you actually provided that entitles you to so great a reward? We esteem and love you, but we owe you nothing.” Of course, rewarding virtue that remains unused only for lack of opportunity—giving it honors and advancement that it may in some sense deserve but cannot properly demand—is an act of the most godlike kindness. Punishing someone solely for feelings in the heart when no crime has been committed is, by contrast, the most arrogant and brutal tyranny. Kind feelings seem most praiseworthy when they lead to action before inaction becomes almost a crime. Malicious feelings, by contrast, can hardly be too slow or too hesitant to become actions.
It is also useful for unintentional harm to be seen as a misfortune for the person who caused it, not just for the person harmed. This teaches us to respect other people's happiness, to fear hurting them even without knowing it, and to dread the instinctive resentment we know may burst out against us if we accidentally become the cause of their misfortune.
Despite all these apparent inconsistencies, nature has not left a person entirely without comfort for innocent harm or without reward for unsuccessful virtue. If he accidentally causes harm he never intended, or fails to do the good he intended, he can call on a fair rule: events outside our control should not reduce the esteem we deserve. He gathers all his courage and strength of character and tries to see himself not as he currently appears, but as he ought to appear. That is how he would have appeared if his generous plans had succeeded. It is how he would still appear despite their failure if people judged with complete honesty and fairness, or even judged in a way fully consistent with their own principles. The more fair-minded and humane people support his effort to maintain his self-respect. With all their generosity and strength of mind, they try to correct this inconsistency in themselves. They work to see his unfortunate courage as they would naturally have seen it if he had succeeded, without needing to make any such special effort.