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Part III, Chapter II, 1
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In what manner our own judgments refer 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 disapprobation which we feel from the consideration 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 approbation of this supposed equitable judge. If otherwise, we enter into his disapprobation 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 with regard to which he is provided with no mirror which can present them to his view. Bring him into society, and he is immediately provided with the mirror which he wanted before. It is placed in the countenance and behaviour of those he lives with, which always mark when they enter into, and when they disapprove of his sentiments; and it is here that he first views the propriety and impropriety of his own passions, 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, though of all things the most immediately present to him, could scarce ever be the objects of his thoughts. The idea of them could never interest him so much as to call upon his attentive consideration. The consideration of his joy could in him excite no new joy, nor that of his sorrow any new sorrow, though the consideration of the causes of those passions might often excite both. Bring him into society, and all his own passions will immediately become the causes of new passions. He will observe that mankind approve of some of them, and are disgusted by others. He will be elevated in the one case, and cast down in the other; his desires 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 interest him deeply, and often call upon his most attentive consideration.
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 either their blame or approbation. We examine our own persons limb by limb, and by placing ourselves before a looking-glass, or by some such expedient, endeavour, as much as possible, to view ourselves at the distance and with the eyes of other people. If after this examination we are satisfied 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 objects of distaste, every appearance of their disapprobation mortifies us beyond all measure. A man who is tolerably handsome, will allow you to laugh at any little irregularity in his person; but all such jokes are commonly insupportable to one who is really deformed. It is evident, however, that we are anxious about our own beauty and deformity only on account of its effect upon others. If we had no connexion with society, we should be altogether indifferent about either.
In the same manner our first moral criticisms 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 considering how they would appear to us if in their situation. We suppose ourselves the spectators of our own behaviour, and endeavour 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 conduct. If in this view it pleases us, we are tolerably satisfied. We can be more indifferent about the applause, and, in some measure, despise the censure of others; secure that, however misunderstood or misrepresented, 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.
When I endeavour to examine my own conduct, when I endeavour to pass sentence upon it, and either to approve or condemn it, it is evident that, in all such cases, I divide myself, as it were, into two persons, and that I, the examiner and judge, represent a different character from that other I, the person whose conduct is examined into and judged of. The first is the spectator, whose sentiments with regard to my own conduct I endeavour to enter into, by placing myself in his situation, and by considering how it would appear to me when seen from that particular point of view. The second is the agent, the person whom I properly call myself, and of whose conduct, under the character of a spectator, I was endeavouring to form some opinion. The first is the judge; the second the pannel. But that the judge should, in every respect, be the same with the pannel, is as impossible, as that the cause should, in every respect, be the same with the effect.
To be amiable and to be meritorious, that is, to deserve love and to deserve reward, are the great characters of virtue, and to be odious and punishable, of vice. But all these characters 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 consciousness that it is the object of such favourable regards is the source of that inward tranquillity 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?
Man is considered as a moral, because he is regarded as an accountable being. But an accountable being, as the word expresses, is a being that must give an account of its actions to some other, and that consequently must regulate them according to the good liking of this other. Man is accountable to God and his fellow-creatures. But though he is, no doubt, principally accountable to God; in the order of time, he must necessarily conceive himself as accountable to his fellow-creatures, before he can form any idea of the Deity, or of the rules by which that divine being 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 Deity, or of the rules by which that divine being will judge of its conduct.
The great judge of the world, has, for the wisest reasons, thought proper to interpose, between the weak eye of human reason, and the throne of his eternal justice, a degree of obscurity and darkness, which though it does not entirely cover that great tribunal from the view of mankind, yet renders the impression of it faint and feeble in comparison of what might be expected from the grandeur and importance of so mighty an object. If those infinite rewards and punishments which the Almighty has prepared for those who obey or transgress his will, were perceived as distinctly as we foresee the frivolous and temporary retaliations which we may expect from one another, the weakness of human nature, astonished at the immensity of objects so little fitted to its comprehension, could no longer attend to the little affairs of this world; and it is absolutely impossible that the business of society could have been carried on, if, in this respect, there had been a fuller revelation of the intentions of Providence than that which has already been made. That men, however, might never be without a rule to direct their conduct by, nor without a judge whose authority should enforce its observation, the Author of nature has made man the immediate judge of mankind, and has, in this respect, as in many others, created him after his own image, and appointed him his vicegerent upon earth, to superintend the behaviour of his brethren. They are taught by nature to acknowledge that power and jurisdiction which has thus been conferred upon him, and to tremble and exult according as they imagine that they have either merited his censure, or deserved his applause.
But whatever may be the authority of this inferior tribunal which is continually before their eyes, if at any time it should decide contrary to those principles and rules, which Nature has established for regulating its judgments, men feel that they may appeal from this unjust decision, and call upon a superior tribunal, the tribunal established in their own breasts, to redress the injustice of this weak or partial judgment.
There are certain principles established by Nature for governing our judgment concerning the conduct of those we live with. As long as we decide according to those principles, and neither applaud nor condemn any thing which Nature has not rendered the proper object of applause or condemnation, nor any further than she has rendered it such, as our sentence is, in this case, if I may say so, quite agreeable to law, it is liable neither to repeal nor to correction of any kind. The person concerning whom we form these judgments, must himself necessarily approve of them. When he puts himself into our situation, he cannot avoid viewing his own conduct in the very same light in which we appear to view it. He is sensible, that to us, and to every impartial spectator, he must necessarily appear the natural and proper object of those sentiments which we express with regard to him. Those sentiments, therefore, must necessarily produce their full effect upon him, and he cannot fail to conceive all the triumph of self-approbation from, what appears to him, such merited applause, as well as all the horrors of shame from, what, he is sensible, is such deserved condemnation.
But it is otherwise, if we have either applauded or condemned him, contrary to those principles and rules which Nature has established for the direction of our judgments concerning every thing of this kind. If we have either applauded or condemned him for what, when he put himself into our situation, does not appear to him to be the object either of applause or condemnation; as in this case he cannot enter into our sentiments, provided he has any constancy or firmness, he is but little affected by them, and can neither be much elevated by the favourable, nor greatly mortified by the unfavourable decision. The applause of the whole world will avail but little, if our own conscience condemn us; and the disapprobation of all mankind is not capable of oppressing us, when we are absolved by the tribunal within our own breast, and when our own mind tells us that mankind are in the wrong.
But though this tribunal within the breast be thus the supreme arbiter of all our actions, though it can reverse the decisions of all mankind with regard to our character and conduct, and mortify us amidst the applause, or support us under the censure of the world; yet, if we inquire into the origin of its institution, its jurisdiction we shall find is in a great measure derived from the authority of that very tribunal, whose decisions it so often and so justly reverses.
When we first come into the world, from the natural desire to please, we accustom ourselves to consider what behaviour is likely to be agreeable to every person we converse with, to our parents, to our masters, to our companions. We address ourselves to individuals, and for some time fondly pursue the impossible and absurd project of gaining the good-will and approbation of every body. We are soon taught by experience, however, that this universal approbation is altogether unattainable. As soon as we come to have more important interests to manage, we find, that by pleasing one man, we almost certainly disoblige another, and that by humouring an individual, we may often irritate a whole people. The fairest and most equitable conduct must frequently obstruct the interests, or thwart the inclinations of particular persons, who will seldom have candour enough to enter into the propriety of our motives, or to see that this conduct, how disagreeable soever to them, is perfectly suitable to our situation. In order to defend ourselves from such partial judgments, we soon learn to set up in our own minds a judge between ourselves and those we live with. We conceive ourselves as acting in the presence of a person quite candid and equitable, of one who has no particular relation either to ourselves, or to those whose interests are affected by our conduct, who is neither father, nor brother, nor friend either to them or to us, but is merely a man in general, an impartial spectator who considers our conduct with the same indifference with which we regard that of other people. If, when we place ourselves in the situation of such a person, our own actions appear to us under an agreeable aspect, if we feel that such a spectator cannot avoid entering into all the motives which influenced us, whatever may be the judgments of the world, we must still be pleased with our own behaviour, and regard ourselves, in spite of the censure of our companions, as the just and proper objects of approbation.
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.
How our own judgments refer to what the judgments of others ought to be: and on the origin of general rules.
A great part, perhaps the greatest part, of human happiness and misery arises from looking back on our past conduct and from the degree of approval or disapproval we feel in considering it. But however such feelings affect us, they always have some hidden reference to what others feel, or would feel under certain conditions, or to what we imagine they ought to feel. We examine our conduct as we imagine an impartial spectator would examine it. If, putting ourselves in his place, we fully sympathize with every passion and motive that influenced it, we approve of it through sympathy with the approval of this imagined fair-minded judge. If not, we share his disapproval and condemn it.
If a human being could reach adulthood alone in some solitary place, without any contact with his own kind, he could no more think about his own character, the propriety or demerit of his own sentiments and conduct, or the beauty or deformity of his own mind, than about the beauty or deformity of his own face. These are things he cannot easily see, does not naturally look at, and has no mirror to show him. Bring him into society and at once he has the mirror he lacked. It lies in the faces and behavior of those with whom he lives, which always show when they sympathize with his sentiments and when they disapprove of them. Here, for the first time, he sees the propriety and impropriety of his own passions, the beauty and deformity of his own mind. For a man who had lived apart from society since birth, the objects of his passions, the things outside him that pleased or hurt him, would occupy all his attention. The passions themselves—the desires and aversions, joys and sorrows awakened by those objects—though more immediately present to him than anything else, would scarcely ever become objects of his thought. The idea of them would never interest him enough to command his careful attention. Thinking about his joy would stir no new joy in him, nor thinking about his sorrow any new sorrow, though thinking about the causes of these passions might often stir both. Bring him into society and all his own passions will immediately become causes of new passions. He will observe that people approve of some and are repelled by others. In one case he will be lifted up; in the other, cast down. His desires and aversions, his joys and sorrows, will often become causes of new desires and aversions, new joys and sorrows; hence they will now interest him deeply and often command his closest attention.
Our first ideas of personal beauty and deformity come from the shape and appearance of others, not ourselves. Yet we soon realize that others judge us by the same standard. We are pleased when they approve of our appearance and offended when they seem repelled. We become anxious to know how far our appearance deserves their blame or approval. We examine our bodies limb by limb and, standing before a mirror or using some such device, try as far as possible to see ourselves from a distance and through other people's eyes. If this examination leaves us satisfied with our appearance, we can more easily bear the least favorable judgments of others; if, on the contrary, we realize that we are natural objects of distaste, every sign of their disapproval mortifies us beyond measure. A reasonably handsome man will let you laugh at some slight irregularity in his appearance; for a man who is truly deformed, such jokes are usually unbearable. It is clear, however, that we care about our own beauty or deformity only because of its effect on others. Without any connection to society, we would be entirely indifferent to both.
In the same way, we first exercise moral judgment on the character and conduct of other people, and are quick to notice how each affects us. But we soon learn that others are just as forthright about our own character and conduct. We grow anxious to know how far we deserve their censure or applause, and whether to them we must indeed appear the agreeable or disagreeable creatures they say we are. Accordingly, we begin to examine our own passions and conduct and to consider how these must appear to them, by considering how they would appear to us in their place. We imagine ourselves as spectators of our own behavior and try to conceive what impression it would then make on us. This is the only mirror in which we can, to some extent, scrutinize the propriety of our own conduct through the eyes of others. If this view pleases us, we are reasonably content. We can care less about their applause and, to some extent, disregard their censure, secure in the knowledge that, however misunderstood or misrepresented, we are the natural and proper objects of approval. If, on the other hand, our conduct displeases us, we are often all the more anxious to gain their approval for that very reason; and, unless we have already, as they say, made our peace with disgrace, the thought of their censure utterly distresses us, striking us with double force.
When I try to examine my own conduct, to pass judgment on it and approve or condemn it, I plainly divide myself, as it were, into two persons. I, the examiner and judge, play a different part from that other I whose conduct is examined and judged. The first is the spectator, whose feelings about my conduct I try to share by placing myself in his position and considering how that conduct would look to me from his particular point of view. The second is the agent, the person I properly call myself, whose conduct I was trying to judge in the character of a spectator. The first is the judge; the second, the accused. But it is as impossible for the judge to be in every respect identical with the accused as for the cause to be in every respect identical with the effect.
To be lovable and to have merit—that is, to deserve love and to deserve reward—are the great marks of virtue; to be hateful and deserving of punishment are those of vice. But all these qualities refer directly to the sentiments of others. Virtue is not called lovable or meritorious because it is the object of its own love or gratitude, but because it excites these sentiments in other people. Knowing that it is regarded with such favor is the source of the inward peace and satisfaction that naturally attend it, just as the suspicion of the opposite occasions the torments of vice. What happiness could be greater than being loved and knowing we deserve to be loved? What misery greater than being hated and knowing we deserve to be hated?
A man is considered a moral being because he is regarded as accountable. But an accountable being, as the word suggests, is one who must give an account of his actions to another and must therefore regulate them in a way that other approves. Man is accountable to God and to his fellow creatures. But though he is undoubtedly accountable chiefly to God, in the order of time he must necessarily think himself accountable to his fellow creatures before he can conceive of the Deity or of the rules by which that divine being will judge his conduct. Surely a child considers itself accountable to its parents, and is lifted up or cast down by thoughts of their deserved approval or disapproval, long before it conceives of its accountability to the Deity or of the rules by which that divine being will judge its conduct.
For the wisest reasons, the great judge of the world has seen fit to place a degree of obscurity and darkness between the feeble eye of human reason and the throne of his eternal justice. This does not wholly hide that great tribunal from mankind, but makes our impression of it faint and weak compared with what we might expect from an object of such grandeur and importance. If the infinite rewards and punishments the Almighty has prepared for those who obey or disobey his will were as plainly perceived as the trivial and fleeting responses we expect from one another, weak human nature, overwhelmed by the immensity of things so far beyond its comprehension, could no longer attend to the small affairs of this world. The business of society could never have been carried on had Providence revealed its intentions on this point more fully than it has. Yet so that men might never lack either a rule to guide their conduct or a judge with authority to enforce it, the Author of nature has made man the immediate judge of mankind. In this, as in many other respects, he has created man in his own image and appointed him his representative on earth to oversee the behavior of his brothers. Nature teaches them to acknowledge the power and jurisdiction thus conferred on him, and to tremble or rejoice as they imagine they have deserved his censure or his applause.
But whatever authority this lesser tribunal, ever before their eyes, may possess, if it should ever decide against the principles and rules Nature has established to govern its judgments, men feel that they may appeal its unjust decision to a higher tribunal, the tribunal established in their own breasts, to correct the injustice of this weak or partial judgment.
Nature has established certain principles to govern our judgments about the conduct of those with whom we live. So long as we decide by those principles, neither praising nor condemning anything that Nature has not made the proper object of praise or condemnation, nor praising or condemning it beyond the measure Nature warrants, our verdict is, so to speak, perfectly lawful and admits of neither reversal nor correction of any kind. The person we judge must necessarily approve of it himself. When he puts himself in our place, he cannot help seeing his conduct in the very same light in which we appear to see it. He knows that to us, and to every impartial spectator, he must necessarily appear the natural and proper object of the sentiments we express toward him. Those sentiments must therefore have their full effect on him: deserved applause, as it appears to him, must bring all the triumph of self-approval, and deserved condemnation, as he knows it to be, all the horrors of shame.
But things are otherwise if we have praised or condemned him contrary to the principles and rules Nature has established to guide our judgments in all such matters. If we praise or condemn him for something that, when he puts himself in our place, does not seem to him an object of praise or condemnation, he cannot share our sentiments. If he has any firmness or constancy, they affect him little: favorable judgment cannot greatly lift him up, nor unfavorable judgment greatly mortify him. The applause of the whole world avails little if our own conscience condemns us; and the disapproval of all mankind cannot crush us when the tribunal within our breast acquits us and our own mind tells us that mankind is mistaken.
Yet though this tribunal within the breast is thus the supreme arbiter of all our actions, though it can reverse the decisions of all mankind about our character and conduct and mortify us amid the world's applause or sustain us under its censure, if we investigate how it came to be established, we will find that its jurisdiction derives in great measure from the authority of that very tribunal whose decisions it so often and so rightly reverses.
When we first enter the world, our natural desire to please makes us accustomed to considering what behavior is likely to please each person with whom we deal: our parents, our teachers, our companions. We address ourselves to individuals, and for a while eagerly pursue the impossible and absurd aim of winning everyone's goodwill and approval. Experience soon teaches us, however, that such universal approval is altogether unattainable. As soon as we have more important interests to manage, we find that pleasing one person almost certainly offends another, and indulging an individual may often provoke a whole people. Even the fairest and most equitable conduct must often hinder the interests or frustrate the inclinations of particular people, who will seldom have the generosity to recognize the propriety of our motives or to see that our conduct, however disagreeable to them, is perfectly suited to our situation. To defend ourselves from such partial judgments, we soon learn to establish in our own minds a judge between ourselves and those with whom we live. We imagine acting before a person entirely fair-minded and equitable, with no special relationship to us or to those whose interests our conduct affects: neither a father, brother, nor friend to either side, but simply a human being in general, an impartial spectator who considers our conduct with the same detachment with which we consider that of others. If, when we put ourselves in the position of such a person, our actions appear pleasing to us, if we feel that such a spectator must sympathize with all the motives that influenced us, then whatever the world's judgments may be, we must still be pleased with our behavior and, despite our companions' censure, regard ourselves as the just and proper objects of approval.
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).
How our judgments of ourselves relate to the judgments others ought to make, and where general rules come from.
Much, perhaps most, of human happiness and misery comes from looking back on our conduct and feeling approval or disapproval of it. Whatever effect these feelings have on us, they always refer, in some hidden way, to other people's feelings: what others actually feel, what they would feel under certain conditions, or what we think they ought to feel. We examine our conduct as we imagine an impartial spectator would. If we put ourselves in that spectator's place and can fully share the feelings and motives behind our conduct, we approve of it. We sympathize with the approval of this imagined fair judge. If we cannot share them, we join in the judge's disapproval and condemn our conduct.
Suppose a human being grew to adulthood alone, with no contact with anyone else. He would be no more able to think about his own character, whether his own feelings and conduct were proper or deserved blame, or whether his own mind was beautiful or ugly, than to think about the beauty or ugliness of his own face. These qualities are hard for him to see; he would not naturally look at them, and he would have no mirror in which to see them. Bring him among other people and at once he gets the mirror he lacked. He finds it in their faces and behavior. These show when they share his feelings and when they disapprove. This is how he first sees whether his own passions are proper or improper and whether his own mind is beautiful or ugly. Someone who had been alone since birth would focus entirely on the things outside him that pleased or hurt him, the things his passions were about. His passions themselves—his wants and dislikes, joys and sorrows—would be immediately present to him, yet would hardly ever become objects of thought. Thinking about them would not interest him enough to hold his attention. Reflecting on his joy would not produce fresh joy, nor would reflecting on his sorrow produce fresh sorrow, though thinking about their causes might produce either. Bring him among other people, and all his passions immediately give rise to new passions. He sees that people approve of some and are repelled by others. Approval lifts him up; disapproval brings him down. His wants and dislikes, joys and sorrows now often produce further wants and dislikes, joys and sorrows. They matter deeply to him now and often demand his close attention.
We first learn what makes a person beautiful or ugly by looking at other people, not ourselves. But we soon realize that others judge our looks in the same way. We like their approval of our appearance and dislike signs of disgust. We want to know whether our appearance really deserves their praise or blame. We examine ourselves part by part. With a mirror or some other means, we try as far as possible to see ourselves from a distance and through other people's eyes. If we are pleased with our appearance after this examination, we can bear even their harshest judgments more easily. If we know our appearance naturally repels people, the slightest sign of their disapproval hurts us terribly. Someone reasonably good-looking will let you laugh at a small flaw in his appearance. A person who is seriously disfigured generally cannot bear such jokes. Clearly, we care about whether we look beautiful or ugly only because our looks affect others. Without ties to society, we would care about neither.
In the same way, we first make moral judgments about other people's characters and conduct. We are quick to notice how they affect us. But we soon learn that others are just as frank about ours. We want to know whether we deserve their blame or praise and whether we must really seem as agreeable or disagreeable to them as they say. So we begin to examine our own feelings and behavior. We ask how they must look to others by imagining how we would see them in their position. We picture ourselves watching our own conduct and ask how it would strike us from that viewpoint. This is the only mirror in which we can, to some degree, inspect the propriety of our conduct through other people's eyes. If we like what we see, we feel reasonably satisfied. We can care less about their praise and even, to a degree, disregard their criticism. We feel sure that, even if people misunderstand or misrepresent us, we really deserve approval. But if we dislike what we see, that very feeling often makes us more eager to win their approval. Unless we have already made peace with disgrace, as the saying goes, the thought of their criticism deeply distresses us. It hurts twice as much then.
When I examine my own conduct and judge whether to approve or condemn it, I seem to divide myself into two people. I, the examiner and judge, take a role different from that of the other I, whose conduct is being examined and judged. The first is the spectator. I try to share his feelings about my conduct by putting myself in his place and considering how my conduct looks from there. The second is the agent, the person I normally call myself, whose conduct I am trying to assess while playing the spectator. The first is the judge; the second is the defendant. The judge cannot be exactly the same as the defendant, just as a cause cannot be exactly the same as its effect.
To be lovable and to have merit—that is, to deserve love and reward—are the great marks of virtue. To be hateful and deserving of punishment are the marks of vice. But each of these descriptions refers directly to other people's feelings. Virtue is not called lovable or deserving of reward because it loves or thanks itself. It is called these things because it stirs love and gratitude in other people. Knowing that others rightly feel this way about us gives us the inner peace and satisfaction that naturally come with virtue. Suspecting the opposite brings the torments of vice. What could be happier than being loved and knowing we deserve it? What could be more miserable than being hated and knowing we deserve it?
We think of a person as a moral being because we hold that person accountable. To be accountable means having to answer to someone else for one's actions and, as a result, having to guide them by what that person approves. Human beings answer to God and to one another. No doubt they answer chiefly to God. But in the order in which people learn these ideas, they must think of themselves as answerable to other people before they can form an idea of God or of the rules by which God judges their conduct. A child surely knows that it must answer to its parents, and feels lifted up or brought down by the thought of their deserved approval or disapproval, long before it understands that it must answer to God or knows the rules by which God judges it.
The great judge of the world has wisely placed some darkness between our limited reason and the seat of his eternal justice. We can still see that great court, but its effect on us is faint compared with what we might expect from its grandeur and importance. Suppose we could see as clearly the endless rewards and punishments the Almighty has prepared for obedience and disobedience as we can foresee the small, temporary ways people repay one another. Human nature, overwhelmed by things too vast to grasp, could no longer attend to everyday matters. Society could not possibly carry on its business if Providence had revealed its intentions more fully in this respect than it already has. But the Author of nature did not leave people without a rule for their conduct or a judge with authority to uphold it. He made each person an immediate judge of other people. In this and many other ways, he made people in his own image and appointed them his representatives on earth to oversee one another's behavior. Nature teaches us to recognize the power and authority given to others in this way. We tremble when we think we deserve their criticism and rejoice when we think we deserve their praise.
Yet however much authority this lower court has, always standing before our eyes, we can appeal if it decides against the principles and rules that nature established to guide it. We can turn to a higher court, the court within our own hearts, to correct its weak or biased judgment.
Nature has established principles for judging the conduct of people around us. If we follow them, we neither praise nor condemn anything that does not deserve it by nature, nor do we praise or condemn it more than it deserves. Our judgment then follows the law, so to speak, and needs no reversal or correction. The person we judge must approve of that judgment too. When he puts himself in our position, he cannot help seeing his conduct as we appear to see it. He knows that to us, and to every impartial spectator, he must naturally deserve the feelings we express about him. Those feelings must therefore have their full effect on him. Deserved praise brings him the full triumph of self-approval; deserved condemnation brings him all the horrors of shame.
Things are different if we praise or condemn someone against nature's principles and rules for making such judgments. He may put himself in our position yet see no grounds for our praise or condemnation. Since he cannot share our feelings, our judgment will hardly affect him if he has any steadiness or resolve. Our favorable decision will not raise his spirits much, and an unfavorable one will not hurt him greatly. The whole world's applause is worth little if our conscience condemns us. And all humanity's disapproval cannot crush us when the court in our own hearts clears us and our own mind tells us that others are wrong.
This inner court is the highest judge of all our actions. It can overturn everyone's judgment of our character and conduct. It can bring us down amid the world's applause or support us under its criticism. Yet if we ask where this court comes from, we will find that much of its authority comes from the very lower court whose decisions it so often, and rightly, reverses.
When we first enter the world, we naturally want to please others. We get used to thinking about what behavior will please everyone we deal with: parents, teachers, and companions. We approach one person at a time and for a while eagerly pursue the impossible and foolish aim of winning everyone's approval and goodwill. Experience soon teaches us that we cannot get universal approval. When our interests become more important, we find that pleasing one person almost certainly upsets another. Going along with one individual may often anger an entire people. Even the fairest conduct often gets in the way of particular people's interests or wishes. They rarely have enough fairness to understand our motives or see that our actions fit our situation perfectly, however unwelcome those actions may be to them. To protect ourselves from such biased judgments, we soon learn to set up a judge in our minds between ourselves and the people around us. We imagine acting before a completely fair and open-minded person. This person has no special tie to us or to anyone our actions affect. He is neither parent, sibling, nor friend to either side, but simply a person in general: an impartial spectator who views our conduct with the same detachment with which we view other people's conduct. If our actions look good to us when we take his position, and we feel sure he can understand all the motives that guided us, we can be satisfied with our conduct whatever the world thinks. Despite our companions' criticism, we can see that we truly deserve approval.