Adam Smith · Complete work
Part III, Chapter I
Part III, Chapter I of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Part III: Of the foundation of our judgments concerning our own sentiments and conduct, and of the sense of duty. CONSISTING OF ONE SECTION.
Of the consciousness of merited praise or blame.
In the two foregoing parts of this discourse, I have chiefly considered the origin and foundation of our judgments concerning the sentiments and conduct of others. I come now to consider the origin of those concerning our own.
The desire of the approbation and esteem of those we live with, which is of such importance to our happiness, cannot be fully and entirely contented but by rendering 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 mistake, 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 satisfaction 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 mortifying than any censure, and should perpetually call to our minds, the most humbling of all reflections, the reflection upon what we ought to be, but what we are not. A woman who paints to conceal her ugliness, could derive, one should imagine, but little vanity from the compliments that are paid to her beauty. These, we should expect, ought rather to put her in mind of the sentiments which her real complexion would excite, and mortify her more by the contrast. To be pleased with such groundless applause is a proof of the most superficial levity and weakness. It is what is properly called vanity, and is the foundation of the most ridiculous and contemptible vices, the vices of affectation and common lying; follies which, if experience did not teach us how common they are, one should imagine the least spark of common sense would save us from. The foolish liar, who endeavours to excite the admiration of the company by the relation of adventures which never had any existence, 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 difficult 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 companions actually look upon them. Their superficial weakness and trivial folly hinder them from ever turning their eyes inwards, or from seeing themselves in that despicable 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 reflect, that though 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 measures and rules by which praise and approbation are naturally and commonly bestowed. 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 satisfaction 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 though mankind should never be acquainted with what he has done, he regards himself not so much according to the light in which they actually regard him, as according to that, in which they would regard him if they were better informed. He anticipates 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 natural 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 voluntarily 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 natural fears, and transported them to perform actions which seem aimed 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 bestowed 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 through all those measures of conduct, which can alone render him agreeable to mankind, 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 necessarily 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 merely one of those improprieties which are the objects of simple disapprobation, but one of those enormous 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 though 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 indignation of all his fellow-creatures; and if his heart was not grown callous by the habit of crimes, he could not think without terror and astonishment even of the manner 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 affrighted conscience are the dæmons, the avenging furies 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 complete insensibility of honour and infamy, to vice and virtue. Men of the most detestable characters, who, in the execution of the most dreadful crimes, had taken their measures so coolly as to avoid even the suspicion of guilt, have sometimes been driven, by the horror of their situation, to discover of their own accord, what no human sagacity could ever have investigated. By acknowledging their guilt, by submitting themselves to the resentment of their offended 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 atone 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 happiness.
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.
Part III: On the foundation of our judgments concerning our own sentiments and conduct, and on the sense of duty. CONSISTING OF ONE SECTION.
On the consciousness of deserved praise or blame.
In the two preceding parts of this discourse, I have chiefly considered the origin and foundation of our judgments concerning the sentiments and conduct of others. I now turn to the origin of our judgments concerning our own.
The desire for the approval and esteem of those with whom we live, so important to our happiness, can be fully satisfied only if we make ourselves the just and proper objects of those sentiments, shaping our character and conduct according to the standards and rules by which esteem and approval are naturally given. It is not enough for esteem and approval to be given us somehow through ignorance or mistake. If we know that we do not deserve to be thought so well of, and that knowledge of the truth would bring very different sentiments, our satisfaction is far from complete. A man who applauds us for actions we did not perform, or for motives that played no part in our conduct, applauds someone else, not us. His praise can give us no satisfaction. It should mortify us more than any censure, continually reminding us of the most humbling thought of all: what we ought to be, but are not. A woman who uses makeup to conceal her ugliness could, one would imagine, take little vanity in compliments on her beauty. We would expect those compliments rather to remind her what feelings her real complexion would excite, and to mortify her all the more by contrast. To delight in such groundless applause is proof of the shallowest frivolity and weakness. It is what is properly called vanity, the foundation of the most ridiculous and contemptible vices: affectation and ordinary lying. If experience did not teach us how common these follies are, we might suppose that the faintest spark of common sense would protect us from them. The foolish liar who tries to win the admiration of company by recounting adventures that never happened, and the self-important fop who puts on airs of rank and distinction to which he knows he has no rightful claim, both undoubtedly enjoy the applause they imagine they receive. Yet their vanity springs from so gross an illusion of the imagination that it is hard to conceive how any rational creature could fall for it. When they put themselves in the place of those they think they have deceived, they are filled with the highest admiration for their own persons. They see themselves not as they know they ought to appear to their companions, but as they believe their companions actually see them. Their shallow weakness and petty folly keep them from ever looking inward, or seeing themselves from the contemptible point of view in which their own consciences should tell them they would appear to everyone if the truth became known.
Just as uninformed and groundless praise can yield no solid joy, no satisfaction that survives serious examination, so, conversely, it often brings real comfort to reflect that, even if no one actually praises us, our conduct has deserved praise, conforming in every respect to the standards and rules by which praise and approval are naturally and commonly given. We take pleasure not only in praise, but in having done what is praiseworthy. We take pleasure in thinking that we have made ourselves the natural objects of approval, even if no approval is ever actually expressed; and we are mortified to reflect that we have rightly incurred the blame of those with whom we live, even if they never actually express it against us. A man who knows that he has carefully followed those standards of conduct which experience tells him generally win favor reflects with satisfaction on the propriety of his own behavior. When he views it as the impartial spectator would view it, he fully sympathizes with every motive that influenced it. He looks back on every part with pleasure and approval; and even if mankind never learns what he has done, he regards himself less as they actually regard him than as they would regard him if they were better informed. He anticipates the applause and admiration they would then bestow on him, and applauds and admires himself through sympathy with sentiments that do not in fact arise, but are prevented from arising only by the public's ignorance. He knows that these are the natural and usual effects of such conduct; his imagination strongly associates them with it, and he has grown accustomed to conceiving them as something that naturally and properly ought to flow from it. Men have often willingly given up their lives to win a posthumous renown they could never enjoy. Meanwhile, their imagination anticipated the fame that would later be theirs. Applause they would never hear rang in their ears; thoughts of admiration whose effects they would never feel stirred in their hearts, banished the strongest of natural fears from their breasts, and carried them into deeds seemingly beyond the reach of human nature. But in reality, there is surely no great difference between approval bestowed only when we can no longer enjoy it and approval never bestowed at all, but certain to be bestowed if the world ever properly understood the true circumstances of our behavior. If the former often has such powerful effects, it is no wonder that the latter should always be held in high regard.
Conversely, for the man who has violated every standard of conduct that alone can make him agreeable to mankind, the fullest assurance that his deeds will forever be hidden from every human eye is of no use. When he looks back on what he has done, viewing it as the impartial spectator would, he finds he cannot sympathize with any of the motives that moved him. The thought of it leaves him abashed and confounded, and he necessarily feels a great measure of the shame to which he would be exposed if his actions became generally known. Here, too, his imagination anticipates the contempt and derision from which only the ignorance of those around him protects him. He still feels himself the natural object of these sentiments, and still trembles at the thought of what he would suffer if they were actually directed at him. But if his offense was not merely an impropriety that invites simple disapproval, but one of those enormous crimes that excite detestation and resentment, he could never think of it, so long as any feeling remained to him, without all the agony of horror and remorse. Even if he were sure that no one would ever learn of it, and could persuade himself that there was no God to avenge it, he would feel enough of both sentiments to embitter his whole life. He would still regard himself as the natural object of the hatred and indignation of all his fellow creatures; and unless repeated crimes had hardened his heart, he could not think without terror and astonishment even of how mankind would look at him, of the expressions on their faces and in their eyes, if the dreadful truth were ever known. These natural pangs of a terrified conscience are the demons, the avenging furies that haunt the guilty in this life, allowing them neither peace nor rest and often driving them to despair and distraction. No assurance of secrecy can protect them; no principles of irreligion can entirely free them. Nothing can release them but the vilest and most abject state of all: complete insensibility to honor and disgrace, to vice and virtue. Men of the most detestable character, who committed the most dreadful crimes with such cool calculation that they avoided even suspicion, have sometimes been driven by the horror of their condition to reveal of their own accord what no human ingenuity could ever have discovered. By confessing their guilt, submitting to the resentment of their offended fellow citizens, and thereby satisfying the vengeance of which they knew themselves to be the proper objects, they hoped through their deaths to reconcile themselves, at least in their own imagination, to the natural sentiments of mankind: to consider themselves less worthy of hatred and resentment, to atone in some measure for their crimes, and, if possible, to die at peace and with the forgiveness of all their fellow creatures. Compared with what they felt before their confession, even the thought of this, it seems, was happiness.
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).
Part III: The basis of our judgments about our own feelings and conduct, and our sense of duty. ONE SECTION.
Knowing whether we deserve praise or blame.
In the previous two parts of this discussion, I mainly considered where our judgments about other people's feelings and conduct come from, and what they rest on. Now I will consider the judgments we make about our own.
We want the approval and respect of the people we live with. This matters greatly to our happiness. But we cannot fully satisfy that desire unless we really deserve those feelings and shape our character and conduct by the standards people naturally use in granting approval and respect. It is not enough for people to approve of us through ignorance or mistake. If we know we do not deserve their good opinion, and that they would feel the opposite if they knew the truth, we cannot be fully satisfied. Someone who praises us for things we never did, or for motives that never influenced us, is praising someone else, not us. His praise cannot satisfy us. It should be more painful than criticism. It should keep reminding us of the humbling difference between what we ought to be and what we are. Imagine a woman who uses makeup to hide what she considers an ugly appearance. She could hardly take much pride in compliments on her beauty. They should instead remind her of how people would respond to her real complexion, making the contrast painful. Taking pleasure in praise with no basis shows extreme shallowness and weakness. That is what vanity really is. It lies behind the ridiculous and contemptible habits of putting on airs and telling ordinary lies. If experience did not show how common these habits are, we might think even a little common sense would prevent them. A foolish liar tries to win a group's admiration by describing adventures that never happened. A self-important show-off pretends to a rank and distinction he knows he has no right to claim. Both probably enjoy the applause they imagine they receive. Yet their vanity depends on such a crude trick of the imagination that it is hard to see how a rational person could fall for it. They imagine themselves in the position of those they believe they have fooled and then feel immense admiration for themselves. They see themselves not as they know they should appear to their companions, but as they believe their companions see them. Their shallow weakness and trivial foolishness keep them from looking inward. They cannot see themselves in the contemptible way their own consciences should tell them everyone would see them if the truth came out.
Praise given in ignorance and without grounds brings no lasting joy or satisfaction that stands up to serious thought. By contrast, it often comforts us to know that we deserve praise even if nobody gives it. We know our conduct has met every standard by which people naturally and commonly give praise and approval. We enjoy not only receiving praise but also doing something worthy of it. We are glad to know we deserve approval even if nobody actually expresses it. And it pains us to know that we deserve the blame of people around us even if they never blame us. Someone who knows he has faithfully followed standards of conduct that experience shows people generally approve of can look back with satisfaction on the propriety of his behavior. When he sees it as an impartial spectator would, he can fully share the motives that guided it. He looks back on every part with pleasure and approval. Even if nobody learns what he has done, he sees himself less as people actually see him than as they would see him if they knew more. He imagines in advance the praise and admiration they would give him then. By sympathy with those imagined feelings, he praises and admires himself. Those feelings do not actually arise only because the public lacks the facts. He knows they would naturally and ordinarily follow such conduct. In his mind, the conduct and the response are strongly linked; he has come to expect that response as its proper result. People have often willingly given up their lives for fame after death, when they could no longer enjoy it. Their imagination let them experience that future fame in advance. They heard in their minds applause they would never hear in life. The thought of admiration they would never feel drove out even the strongest natural fear and carried them into deeds that seem beyond human ability. But surely there is little real difference between approval given only after we can no longer enjoy it and approval never given at all, though it would be given if the world understood the true circumstances of our conduct. If the first can have such powerful effects, we should not be surprised that people value the second so highly.
On the other hand, someone who has broken every rule of conduct that could make him acceptable to others gains nothing from being absolutely sure that no one will ever find out. Looking back and seeing his action as an impartial spectator would, he cannot sympathize with any of the motives behind it. The thought embarrasses and confuses him. He inevitably feels much of the shame he would feel if everyone learned what he did. Here, too, his imagination brings forward the contempt and ridicule from which only other people's ignorance protects him. He still knows he deserves those reactions and trembles at the thought of actually facing them. If he has committed not just an improper act that deserves disapproval but a terrible crime that provokes hatred and resentment, he cannot think of it without horror and remorse, so long as he can still feel anything. He may be certain no person will ever know. He may even convince himself there is no God to punish it. Still, those feelings can make his whole life bitter. He still sees himself as someone his fellow human beings would naturally hate and condemn. Unless repeated crimes have hardened his heart, he cannot imagine without terror how people would look at him, or what would appear on their faces and in their eyes, if the awful truth emerged. These natural pains of a frightened conscience are the demons, the avenging furies, that haunt guilty people in this life. They give them no peace or rest and often drive them to despair or madness. Being sure of secrecy cannot protect them; disbelief in religion cannot fully release them. Only the lowest and most wretched state can free them: complete indifference to honor and disgrace, to vice and virtue. Even people of the most hateful character, who committed terrible crimes so carefully and calmly that nobody suspected them, have sometimes been driven by the horror of their condition to confess what no human investigator could have uncovered. By admitting guilt, accepting the anger of the citizens they had wronged, and satisfying the desire for vengeance that they knew they deserved, they hoped their deaths would bring them back into agreement, at least in their own minds, with humanity's natural feelings. They hoped to see themselves as less deserving of hatred and resentment, to make some amends for their crimes, and, if possible, to die at peace and forgiven by their fellow human beings. Compared with what they felt before confessing, even the prospect of this seems to have been happiness.