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Part III, Chapter II, 2
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On the contrary, if the man within condemns us, the loudest acclamations of mankind appear but as the noise of ignorance and folly, and whenever we assume the character of this impartial judge, we cannot avoid viewing our own actions with this distaste and dissatisfaction. The weak, the vain, and the frivolous, indeed, may be mortified by the most groundless censure, or elated by the most absurd applause. Such persons are not accustomed to consult the judge within concerning the opinion which they ought to form of their own conduct. This inmate of the breast, this abstract man, the representative of mankind, and substitute of the Deity, whom Nature has constituted the supreme judge of all their actions, is seldom appealed to by them. They are contented with the decision of the inferior tribunal. The approbation of their companions, of the particular persons whom they have lived and conversed with, has generally been the ultimate object of all their wishes. If they obtain this, their joy is complete; and if they fail, they are entirely disappointed. They never think of appealing to the superior court. They have seldom inquired after its decisions, and are altogether unacquainted with the rules and forms of its procedure. When the world injures them, therefore, they are incapable of doing themselves justice, and are, in consequence, necessarily the slaves of the world. But it is otherwise with the man who has, upon all occasions, been accustomed to have recourse to the judge within, and to consider, not what the world approves or disapproves of, but what appears to this impartial spectator, the natural and proper object of approbation or disapprobation. The judgment of this supreme arbiter of his conduct, is the applause, which he has been accustomed principally to court, is the censure which he has been accustomed principally to fear. Compared with this final decision, the sentiments of all mankind, though not altogether indifferent, appear to be but of small moment; and he is incapable of being either much elevated by their favourable, or greatly depressed by their most disadvantageous judgment.
It is only by consulting this judge within, that we can see whatever relates to ourselves in its proper shape and dimensions, or that we can make any proper comparison between our own interests and those of other men.
As to the eye of the body, objects appear great or small, not so much according to their real dimensions, as according to the nearness or distance of their situation; so do they likewise to what may be called the natural eye of the mind: and we remedy the defects of both these organs pretty much in the same manner. In my present situation an immense landscape of lawns, and woods, and distant mountains, seems to do no more than cover the little window which I write by, and to be out of all proportion less than the chamber in which I am sitting. I can form a just comparison between those great objects and the little objects around me, in no other way, than by transporting myself, at least in fancy, to a different station, from whence I can survey both at nearly equal distances, and thereby form some judgment of their real proportions. Habit and experience have taught me to do this so easily and so readily, that I am scarce sensible that I do it; and a man must be, in some measure, acquainted with the philosophy of vision, before he can be thoroughly convinced, how little those distant objects would appear to the eye, if the imagination, from a knowledge of their real magnitudes, did not swell and dilate them.
In the same manner, to the selfish and original passions of human nature, the loss or gain of a very small interest of our own, appears to be of vastly more importance, excites a much more passionate joy or sorrow, a much more ardent desire or aversion, than the greatest concern of another with whom we have no particular connexion. His interests, as long as they are surveyed from this station, can never be put into the balance with our own, can never restrain us from doing whatever may tend to promote our own, how ruinous soever to him. Before we can make any proper comparison of those opposite interests, we must change our position. We must view them, neither from our own place, nor yet from his, neither with our own eyes nor yet with his, but from the place, and with the eyes of a third person, who has no particular connexion with either, and who judges with impartiality between us. Here too, habit and experience have taught us to do this so easily and so readily, that we are scarce sensible that we do it; and it requires, in this case too, some degree of reflection, and even of philosophy to convince us, how little interest we should take in the greatest concerns of our neighbour, how little we should be affected by whatever relates to him, if the sense of propriety and justice did not correct the otherwise natural inequality of our sentiments.
Let us suppose that the great empire of China, with all its myriads of inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an earthquake, and let us consider how a man of humanity in Europe, who had no sort of connexion with that part of the world, would be affected upon receiving intelligence of this dreadful calamity. He would, I imagine, first of all, express very strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy people, he would make many melancholy reflections upon the precariousness of human life, and the vanity of all the labours of man, which could thus be annihilated in a moment. He would too, perhaps, if he was a man of speculation, enter into many reasonings concerning the effects which this disaster might produce upon the commerce of Europe, and the trade and business of the world in general. And when all this fine philosophy was over, when all these humane sentiments had been once fairly expressed, he would pursue his business or his pleasure, take his repose or his diversion, with the same ease and tranquility, as if no such accident had happened. The most frivolous disaster which could befal himself would occasion a more real disturbance. If he was to lose his little finger to-morrow, he would not sleep to-night; but provided he never saw them, he will snore with the most profound security over the ruin of a hundred millions of his brethren, and the destruction of that immense multitude seems plainly an object less interesting to him, than this paultry misfortune of his own. To prevent therefore, this paultry misfortune to himself would a man of humanity be willing to sacrifice the lives of a hundred millions of his brethren, provided he had never seen them? Human nature startles with horror at the thought, and the world, in its greatest depravity and corruption, never produced such a villain as could be capable of entertaining it. But what makes this difference? When our passive feelings are almost always so sordid and so selfish, how comes it that our active principles should often be so generous and so noble? When we are always so much more deeply affected by whatever concerns ourselves, than by whatever concerns other men; what is it which prompts the generous, upon all occasions, and the mean upon many, to sacrifice their own interests to the greater interests of others? It is not the soft power of humanity, it is not that feeble spark of benevolence which Nature has lighted up in the human heart, that is thus capable of counteracting the strongest impulses of self-love. It is a stronger power, a more forcible motive, which exerts itself upon such occasions. It is reason, principle, conscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man within, the great judge and arbiter of our conduct. It is he, who, whenever we are about to act so as to affect the happiness of others, calls to us with a voice capable of astonishing the most presumptuous of our passions, that we are but one of the multitude, in no respect better than any other in it; and that when we prefer ourselves so shamefully and so blindly to others, we become the proper objects of resentment, abhorrence, and execration. It is from him only that we learn the real littleness of ourselves, and of whatever relates to ourselves, and the natural misrepresentations of self-love can be corrected only by the eye of this impartial spectator. It is he who shows us the propriety of generality and the deformity of injustice; the propriety of resigning the greatest interests of our own, for the yet greater interests of others, and the deformity of doing the smallest injury to another, in order to obtain the greatest benefit to ourselves. It is not the love of our neighbour, it is not the love of mankind, which upon many occasions prompts us to the practice of those divine virtues. It is a stronger love, a more powerful affection which generally takes place upon such occasions, the love of what is honourable and noble, of the grandeur, and dignity, and superiority of our own characters.
When the happiness or misery of others depends in any respect upon our conduct, we dare not, as self-love would suggest to us, prefer any little interest of our own, to the yet greater interest of our neighbour. We feel that we should become the proper objects of the resentment and indignation of our brethren, and the sense of the impropriety of this affection is supported and enlivened by the yet stronger sense of the demerit of the action, which it would in this case give occasion to. But when the happiness or misery of others in no respect depends upon our conduct, when our own interests are altogether separated and detached from theirs, so that there is neither connexion nor competition between them, as the sense of demerit does not in this case interpose, the mere sense of impropriety is seldom able to restrain us from abandoning ourselves to our natural anxiety about our own affairs, and to our natural indifference about those of other men. The most vulgar education teaches us to act, upon all important occasions, with some sort of impartiality between ourselves and others, and even the ordinary commerce of the world is capable of adjusting our active principles to some degree of propriety. But it is the most artificial and refined education only, which pretends to correct the inequalities of our passive feelings, and we must for this purpose have recourse to the severest, as well as to the profoundest philosophy.
Two different sets of philosophers have attempted to teach us this hardest of all the lessons of morality. One set have laboured to increase our sensibility to the interests of others; another to diminish that to our own. The first would have us feel for others as we naturally feel for ourselves. The second would have us feel for ourselves, as we naturally feel for others.
The first are those melancholy moralists, who are perpetually reproaching us with our happiness, while so many of our brethren are in misery,6 who regard as impious the natural joy of prosperity, which does not think of the many wretches that are at every instant labouring under all sorts of calamities, in the languor of poverty, in the agony of disease, in the horrors of death, under the insults and oppression of their enemies. Commiseration for those miseries which we never saw, which we never heard of, but which we may be assured are at all times infecting such numbers of our fellow-creatures, ought, they think, to damp the pleasures of the fortunate, and to render a certain melancholy dejection habitual to all men. But first of all, this extreme sympathy with misfortunes, which we know nothing about, seems altogether absurd and unreasonable. Take the whole earth at an average, for one man who suffers pain or misery, you will find twenty in prosperity and joy, or at least in tolerable circumstances. No reason, surely, can be assigned why we should rather weep with the one than rejoice with the twenty. This artificial commiseration, besides, is not only absurd, but seems altogether unattainable; and those who affect this character have commonly nothing but a certain hypocritical sadness, which, without reaching the heart, serves only to render the countenance and convocation impertinently dismal and disagreeable. And last of all, this disposition of mind, though it could be attained, would be perfectly useless, and could serve no other purpose than to render miserable the person who was possessed of it. Whatever interest we take in the fortune of those with whom we have no acquaintance or connexion, and who are placed altogether out of the sphere of our activity, can produce only anxiety to ourselves, without any manner of advantage to them. To what purpose should we trouble ourselves about the world in the moon? All men, even those at the greatest distance, are no doubt entitled to our good wishes, and our good wishes we naturally give them. But if, notwithstanding, they should be unfortunate, to give ourselves any anxiety upon that account, seems to be no part of our duty. That we should be but little interested, therefore, in the fortune of those whom we can neither serve nor hurt, and who are in every respect so very remote from us, seems wisely ordered by nature; and if it were possible to alter in this respect the original constitution of our frame, we could yet gain nothing by the change.
Footnote 6:
See Thomson’s Seasons, Winter:
“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,” &c.
See also Pascal.
Among the moralists who endeavour to correct the natural inequality of our passive feelings by diminishing our sensibility to what peculiarly concerns ourselves, we may count all the ancient sects of philosophers, but particularly the ancient stoics. Man, according to the stoics, ought to regard himself, not as something separated and detached, but as a citizen of the world, a member of the vast commonwealth of nature. To the interest of this great community, he ought at all times to be willing that his own little interest should be sacrificed. Whatever concerns himself, ought to affect him no more than whatever concerns any other equally important part of this immense system. We should view ourselves, not in the light in which our own selfish passions are apt to place us, but in the light in which any other citizen of the world would view us. What befalls ourselves we should regard as what befalls our neighbour, or, what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour regards what befalls us. “When our neighbour,” says Epictetus, “loses his wife or his son, there is nobody who is not sensible that this is a human calamity, a natural event altogether, according to the ordinary course of things: but when the same thing happens to ourselves, then we cry out, as if we had suffered the most dreadful misfortune. We ought, however, to remember how we were affected when this accident happened to another, and such as we were in his case, such ought we to be in our own.” How difficult soever it may be to attain this supreme degree of magnanimity and firmness, it is by no means either absurd or useless to attempt it. Though few men have the stoical idea of what this perfect propriety requires, yet all men endeavour in some measure to command themselves, and to bring down their selfish passions to something which their neighbour can go along with. But this can never be done so effectually as by viewing whatever befalls themselves in the light in which their neighbours are apt to view it. The stoical philosophy, in this respect, does little more than unfold our natural ideas of perfection. There is nothing absurd or improper, therefore, in aiming at this perfect self-command. Neither would the attainment of it be useless, but, on the contrary, the most advantageous of all things, as establishing our happiness upon the most solid and secure foundation, a firm confidence in that wisdom and justice which governs the world, and an entire resignation of ourselves, and of whatever relates to ourselves to the all-wise disposal of this ruling principle in nature.
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.
Conversely, if the man within condemns us, the loudest cheers of mankind sound like nothing but the noise of ignorance and folly; and whenever we assume the role of that impartial judge, we cannot help seeing our own actions with distaste and dissatisfaction. The weak, the vain, and the frivolous may indeed be mortified by the most groundless censure or elated by the most absurd applause. Such people are not accustomed to consulting the judge within about the opinion they ought to form of their own conduct. This inhabitant of the breast, this abstract man, representative of mankind and deputy of the Deity, whom Nature has made supreme judge of all their actions, is seldom called upon by them. They content themselves with the decision of the lesser tribunal. The approval of their companions, of the particular people among whom they have lived and with whom they have talked, has generally been the final object of all their wishes. If they obtain it, their joy is complete; if not, they are utterly disappointed. They never think to appeal to the higher court. They have seldom asked for its decisions, and know nothing of the rules and forms of its procedure. When the world wrongs them, therefore, they cannot do justice to themselves and must consequently be slaves to the world. But it is otherwise with the man who has made a habit on every occasion of consulting the judge within and considering not what the world approves or disapproves, but what appears to this impartial spectator the natural and proper object of approval or disapproval. The judgment of this supreme arbiter of his conduct is the applause he has chiefly sought and the censure he has chiefly feared. Beside this final decision, the sentiments of all mankind, though not wholly irrelevant, seem of little moment; their favorable judgment cannot greatly exalt him, nor their most unfavorable judgment greatly depress him.
Only by consulting this judge within can we see anything concerning ourselves in its proper shape and proportions, or make any proper comparison between our own interests and those of other people.
To the bodily eye, objects appear large or small not so much in keeping with their actual size as with their nearness or distance. So it is with what might be called the natural eye of the mind; and we correct the defects of both organs in much the same way. Where I sit now, an immense landscape of lawns, woods, and distant mountains seems to fill no more than the little window beside which I write, and seems smaller out of all proportion than the room where I sit. I can compare those great objects fairly with the little things around me only by moving myself, at least in imagination, to another vantage point from which I can survey both from almost equal distances and so judge their true proportions. Habit and experience have taught me to do this so easily and readily that I scarcely notice myself doing it; and a man must know something of the science of vision to be fully convinced how small those distant objects would appear to the eye if imagination, knowing their real size, did not enlarge and expand them.
In the same way, to the selfish and original passions of human nature, the loss or gain of some very small interest of our own seems vastly more important, stirring far greater joy or sorrow and far more ardent desire or aversion, than the greatest concern of another person with whom we have no special connection. As long as we survey his interests from this position, they can never balance our own, can never restrain us from doing anything that advances our own, however ruinous to him. Before we can compare these opposed interests fairly, we must change our position. We must view them neither from our own place nor from his, neither through our eyes nor through his, but from the place and through the eyes of a third person with no special connection to either, who judges impartially between us. Here, too, habit and experience have taught us to do this so easily and readily that we scarcely notice ourselves doing it; and here, too, it takes some reflection, even philosophy, to convince us how little interest we would take in our neighbor's greatest concerns, how little anything affecting him would move us, if the sense of propriety and justice did not correct the otherwise natural inequality of our sentiments.
Suppose that the great empire of China, with its countless inhabitants, were suddenly swallowed up by an earthquake. Consider how a humane man in Europe, with no connection of any kind to that part of the world, would react on hearing news of this dreadful calamity. First, I imagine, he would express deep sorrow for that unhappy people's misfortune; he would reflect sadly on the fragility of human life and the futility of all human labor, which can thus be destroyed in an instant. If he were given to speculation, he might also reason at length about the effects of this disaster on the commerce of Europe and on the trade and business of the world generally. Then, once all this fine philosophy was finished, once these humane feelings had been duly expressed, he would go about his business or pleasure, his rest or amusement, with the same ease and tranquility as if nothing had happened. The most trifling disaster to himself would disturb him more profoundly. If he were to lose his little finger tomorrow, he would not sleep tonight; but as long as he had never seen them, he would sleep soundly through the ruin of a hundred millions of his brothers. The destruction of that immense multitude plainly seems to interest him less than this paltry misfortune of his own. Would a humane man, then, be willing to sacrifice the lives of a hundred millions of his brothers, if he had never seen them, to prevent this paltry misfortune to himself? Human nature recoils in horror at the thought, and the world in all its depravity and corruption has never produced a villain capable of entertaining it. But what makes the difference? When our passive feelings are almost always so sordid and selfish, how can the principles on which we act so often be generous and noble? When we are always so much more deeply affected by what concerns ourselves than by what concerns others, what prompts generous people on every occasion, and even mean people on many, to sacrifice their own interests for the greater interests of others? It is not the gentle power of humanity, not that feeble spark of benevolence that Nature has kindled in the human heart, that can resist the strongest impulses of self-love. It is a stronger power, a more forceful motive, that asserts itself on such occasions. It is reason, principle, conscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man within, the great judge and arbiter of our conduct. Whenever we are about to act in a way that affects the happiness of others, he calls to us with a voice that can startle our most presumptuous passions: we are only one among multitudes, no better in any respect than anyone else; if we so shamefully and blindly put ourselves first, we become the proper objects of resentment, abhorrence, and condemnation. From him alone we learn how little we and the things concerning us truly are; only the eye of this impartial spectator can correct the natural distortions of self-love. He shows us the propriety of generosity and the ugliness of injustice; the propriety of surrendering even our greatest interests for still greater interests of others, and the ugliness of doing even the slightest injury to another for the greatest benefit to ourselves. It is not love of our neighbor, not love of mankind, that on many occasions prompts us to practice those divine virtues. It is a stronger love, a more powerful affection, that generally prevails on such occasions: love of what is honorable and noble, of the grandeur, dignity, and excellence of our own characters.
When the happiness or misery of others depends in any way on our conduct, we dare not, as self-love would have us do, prefer some small interest of our own to our neighbor's greater interest. We feel that we would become the proper objects of our brothers' resentment and indignation; and the sense that such a preference is improper is strengthened and enlivened by the still stronger sense of the demerit of the action to which it would then lead. But when the happiness or misery of others does not depend on our conduct at all, when our interests are wholly separate and detached from theirs, with neither connection nor competition between them, the sense of demerit does not intervene. Then the mere sense of impropriety can seldom restrain us from giving ourselves over to our natural anxiety about our own affairs and our natural indifference to those of others. The most ordinary education teaches us to act, on all important occasions, with some measure of impartiality between ourselves and others; even ordinary dealings in the world can bring the principles on which we act into some degree of propriety. But only the most elaborate and refined education claims to correct the inequalities of our passive feelings; for that purpose we must turn to the sternest as well as the deepest philosophy.
Two different groups of philosophers have tried to teach us this hardest of all moral lessons. One has worked to increase our sensitivity to the interests of others; the other to decrease our sensitivity to our own. The first would have us feel for others as we naturally feel for ourselves. The second would have us feel for ourselves as we naturally feel for others.
The first are those melancholy moralists who continually reproach us for our happiness while so many of our brothers are in misery,6 who consider the natural joy of prosperity impious if it does not think of the many unfortunate people who at every moment labor under every sort of calamity: the exhaustion of poverty, the agony of disease, the horrors of death, the insults and oppression of their enemies. Sympathy for miseries we have never seen or heard of, but which we may be sure afflict so many of our fellow creatures at all times, ought, they think, to damp the pleasures of the fortunate and make a certain melancholy dejection habitual to everyone. But first, such extreme sympathy with misfortunes of which we know nothing seems altogether absurd and unreasonable. Take the whole earth on average: for one person suffering pain or misery, you will find twenty in prosperity and joy, or at least in tolerable circumstances. Surely there is no reason why we should weep with the one rather than rejoice with the twenty. Besides, this artificial compassion is not only absurd but seems wholly unattainable; those who pretend to it commonly display nothing but a certain hypocritical sadness, which, without touching the heart, merely gives the face and conversation an offensively dismal and disagreeable air. Last, even if this disposition could be attained, it would be utterly useless and would serve no purpose but to make its possessor miserable. Whatever interest we take in the fortunes of people we do not know, who have no connection to us and lie entirely beyond the reach of our actions, can cause us only anxiety without benefiting them in any way. Why should we trouble ourselves about the world on the moon? All people, even those farthest away, undoubtedly deserve our good wishes, and we naturally give them those wishes. But if they are unfortunate nonetheless, it does not seem part of our duty to distress ourselves over it. That we should therefore take little interest in the fortunes of those whom we can neither help nor harm, and who are in every respect so far removed from us, seems a wise provision of nature; and even if we could alter our original constitution in this respect, we would gain nothing by doing so.
Footnote 6:
See Thomson’s Seasons, Winter:
“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,” etc.
See also Pascal.
Among the moralists who try to correct the natural inequality of our passive feelings by lessening our sensitivity to what concerns us personally, we may count all the ancient schools of philosophy, but especially the ancient Stoics. According to the Stoics, a man should regard himself not as something separate and detached, but as a citizen of the world, a member of the vast commonwealth of nature. He ought always to be willing to sacrifice his own small interest for the interest of this great community. What concerns him personally should affect him no more than what concerns any other equally important part of this immense system. We should view ourselves not as our selfish passions tend to portray us, but as any other citizen of the world would view us. We should regard what happens to ourselves as we regard what happens to our neighbor or, what amounts to the same thing, as our neighbor regards what happens to us. “When our neighbor,” says Epictetus, “loses his wife or his son, everyone recognizes that this is a human calamity, a natural event in the ordinary course of things; but when the same thing happens to ourselves, we cry out as though we had suffered the most dreadful misfortune. We ought, however, to recall how we felt when it happened to someone else, and we ought to be in our own case what we were in his.” However hard it may be to attain this supreme degree of courage and steadiness, it is by no means absurd or useless to attempt it. Though few people hold the Stoic conception of what this perfect propriety requires, everyone tries in some measure to command themselves and bring their selfish passions down to a level with which their neighbor can sympathize. Nothing can do this so effectively as viewing whatever happens to us in the light in which our neighbors tend to view it. In this respect Stoic philosophy does little more than articulate our natural ideas of perfection. There is therefore nothing absurd or improper in striving for this perfect self-command. Nor would attaining it be useless; on the contrary, it would be the most advantageous of all things, resting our happiness on the firmest and surest foundation: steadfast trust in the wisdom and justice that govern the world, and complete surrender of ourselves and all that concerns us to the all-wise direction of this governing principle in nature.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included).
On the other hand, if the person within condemns us, even the loudest praise from everyone else sounds like ignorant, foolish noise. Whenever we take the role of this impartial judge, we cannot help looking at our actions with dislike and dissatisfaction. Weak, vain, and shallow people, of course, may be hurt by criticism with no basis or delighted by absurd praise. They are not used to consulting the judge within about how they should view their conduct. They rarely turn to this inner inhabitant, this imagined person who represents humanity and stands in for God, whom nature has made the highest judge of their actions. They accept the decision of the lower court. Their deepest wish has generally been for the approval of their companions, the particular people they live and talk with. If they get it, their joy is complete; if not, they are entirely disappointed. They never think to appeal to the higher court. They have seldom asked for its decisions and know nothing of its rules or procedures. So when the world treats them unfairly, they cannot give themselves justice. They inevitably become slaves to the world's opinions. The person who regularly turns to the inner judge is different. He asks not what the world praises or blames, but what this impartial spectator sees as naturally deserving praise or blame. The decision of this highest judge of his conduct is the praise he has mainly sought and the criticism he has mainly feared. Beside that final decision, the feelings of all other people still matter, but not much. Their most favorable judgment cannot lift him very high, and their harshest judgment cannot bring him very low.
Only by consulting this inner judge can we see things that concern us in their true size and shape, or make a fair comparison between our own interests and other people's.
To our eyes, things look large or small less because of their actual size than because of how near or far away they are. The mind's natural vision works much the same way. We correct the shortcomings of both kinds of vision in much the same way too. From where I sit, a vast landscape of lawns, woods, and distant mountains seems to cover no more than the small window beside which I write. It seems far smaller than the room I am sitting in. To compare those great things fairly with the little things around me, I must move, at least in my imagination, to another viewpoint. From there I can look at both from roughly equal distances and judge their true proportions. Habit and experience have made this so easy that I hardly notice doing it. A person needs some knowledge of how vision works to fully understand how tiny the distant things would look if the imagination did not enlarge them using our knowledge of their real size.
In the same way, our original, selfish passions make a tiny gain or loss of our own seem much more important than the greatest concern of a person with whom we have no special connection. Our own small interest gives us far greater joy or sorrow, desire or aversion. As long as we look from this position, we cannot weigh his interests against ours. They cannot stop us from doing whatever serves our interests, even if it ruins him. To compare these conflicting interests fairly, we must move to another position. We must look neither from our place nor from his, neither through our own eyes nor through his. We must look through the eyes of a third person, who has no special connection with either of us and judges us impartially. Habit and experience have also made this shift so easy that we hardly notice it. It takes some thought, even some philosophy, to understand how little we would care about our neighbor's greatest concerns, or feel for what happens to him, if our sense of propriety and justice did not correct this natural imbalance in our feelings.
Imagine that an earthquake suddenly swallowed the great empire of China and its countless inhabitants. How would a humane man in Europe, with no connection to that part of the world, respond to the news? I think he would first express deep sorrow for those unfortunate people. He would reflect sadly on how uncertain human life is and how all human labor can be wiped out in a moment. If he liked to reason about such matters, he might also consider how the disaster would affect European commerce and trade and business across the world. Once he had finished these thoughtful reflections and expressed his humane feelings, he would return to work or pleasure, rest or recreation, as calmly as though nothing had happened. The smallest trouble of his own would upset him more deeply. If he were going to lose his little finger tomorrow, he would not sleep tonight. But so long as he had never seen them, he would sleep soundly through the deaths of a hundred millions of his fellow human beings. The destruction of that vast number seems plainly less important to him than his own small loss. Would a humane man, then, agree to sacrifice the lives of a hundred millions of people he had never seen to save his little finger? Human nature recoils in horror at the thought. Even at its most corrupt, the world has never produced someone wicked enough to consider it. What accounts for the difference? If our feelings about what happens are almost always so selfish and narrow, why are the principles that guide our actions often so noble and generous? We are so much more deeply affected by our own concerns than by other people's. What makes generous people, always, and even selfish people, often, give up their own interests for the greater interests of others? It is not the gentle force of humanity or the weak spark of kindness that nature put in our hearts. Those cannot overcome the strongest impulses of self-love. A stronger force and motive acts here: reason, principle, conscience, the inner inhabitant, the person within, the great judge of our conduct. Whenever we are about to act in a way that affects another person's happiness, this judge speaks with enough force to startle even our boldest passions. He tells us that we are just one person among many, no better than anyone else. If we put ourselves above others so blindly and shamefully, we deserve resentment, horror, and condemnation. Only this judge teaches us how small we and our personal concerns really are. Only the impartial spectator's viewpoint can correct the distortions of self-love. This judge shows us that generosity is proper and injustice is ugly. He shows us that it is right to give up even a great interest of our own for a still greater interest of others, and wrong to do even the smallest harm to another for the greatest benefit to ourselves. Often it is not love for our neighbor or for humanity that moves us to act with such extraordinary virtue. Usually a stronger love moves us in such cases: love of what is honorable and noble, of the greatness, dignity, and excellence of our own character.
When another person's happiness or misery depends in any way on what we do, we dare not put a small interest of our own above that person's greater interest, though self-love urges us to. We know our fellow human beings would rightly resent and condemn us. Our sense that our selfish feeling is improper is reinforced by an even stronger sense that the resulting action deserves blame. But things differ when what we do has no effect on other people's happiness or misery, and our interests are completely separate from theirs, with no connection or competition between them. Then no sense of deserved blame for an action intervenes. A mere sense that our feelings are improper is rarely enough to keep us from giving in to our natural anxiety about our own affairs and our natural indifference to other people's. Even the most ordinary upbringing teaches us to act with some impartiality toward ourselves and others when important matters arise. Ordinary dealings with people can give the principles guiding our actions some degree of propriety. But only the most elaborate and advanced education claims to correct the imbalance in what we passively feel. For that, we must turn to the strictest and most profound philosophy.
Two groups of philosophers have tried to teach us this hardest moral lesson. One group has tried to make us more sensitive to other people's interests. The other has tried to make us less sensitive to our own. The first wants us to feel for others as we naturally feel for ourselves. The second wants us to feel for ourselves as we naturally feel for others.
The first group consists of gloomy moral teachers who constantly blame us for being happy while so many of our fellow human beings suffer.6 They treat the natural joy of good fortune as irreverent if it fails to think of the many people who are, at every moment, enduring every kind of hardship: the weakness brought by poverty, the agony of illness, the terror of death, and their enemies' insults and oppression. They think compassion for suffering we have never seen or heard about, but can be sure is always affecting so many others, should lessen fortunate people's pleasure. They want everyone to live with a habitual sadness. First, though, such intense sympathy for hardships we know nothing about seems utterly unreasonable. On average across the whole earth, for every person in pain or misery, you will find twenty who are happy and doing well, or at least getting by. Surely there is no reason to weep with the one rather than rejoice with the twenty. Besides, this manufactured compassion is not just unreasonable; it seems impossible to achieve. Those who pretend to have it usually display only a false sadness. It never reaches the heart and only makes their faces and conversation pointlessly gloomy and unpleasant. Finally, even if this attitude were possible, it would be entirely useless. It would do nothing but make its possessor miserable. Feeling concern for strangers who are completely beyond our ability to help or hurt can only bring us anxiety without benefiting them at all. Why worry about a world on the moon? Everyone, including those farthest away, certainly deserves our good wishes, which we naturally give them. But if they suffer despite those wishes, worrying about it does not seem to be our duty. Nature seems wise, then, in making us care little about the fortunes of those we can neither help nor hurt and who are so remote from us. Even if we could change this basic part of our nature, we would gain nothing.
Footnote 6:
See Thomson’s Seasons, Winter:
“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,” etc.
See also Pascal.
Among the moral teachers who try to correct the natural imbalance in our passive feelings by reducing our sensitivity to our own concerns, we can count all the ancient schools of philosophy, especially the ancient Stoics. According to the Stoics, a person should see himself not as separate and detached, but as a citizen of the world and a member of nature's vast community. He should always be willing to sacrifice his small personal interest for the good of that great community. What happens to him should affect him no more than what happens to any other equally important part of this immense whole. We should see ourselves as another citizen of the world would, not as our selfish passions lead us to see ourselves. We should see what happens to us as we see what happens to our neighbor—or, equivalently, as our neighbor sees what happens to us. “When our neighbor loses his wife or son,” says Epictetus, “everyone knows this is a human misfortune, a natural event in the normal course of things. But when the same thing happens to us, we cry out as though we had suffered the worst possible disaster. We should remember how we felt when it happened to someone else and feel the same way about our own loss.” Achieving such complete strength and steadiness of mind may be very hard, but trying is neither unreasonable nor useless. Few people have the Stoic idea of what perfect propriety demands. Yet everyone tries to control themselves to some degree and moderate their selfish passions enough for their neighbor to understand them. The best way to do that is to see what happens to them as their neighbors tend to see it. In this respect, Stoic philosophy does little more than spell out our natural idea of perfection. There is nothing foolish or improper about aiming for perfect self-control. Achieving it would be far from useless. It would be the most beneficial thing possible: it would put our happiness on the firmest, safest basis, a steady trust in the wisdom and justice that govern the world and a complete willingness to leave ourselves and everything that concerns us to the all-wise direction of nature's ruling principle.