Adam Smith · Complete work
Part III, Chapter III, 1
Part III, Chapter III, 1 of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
Open the complete readerOriginal 18th-century English
Of the influence and authority of the general rules of morality, and that they are justly regarded as the laws of the Deity.
The regard to those general rules of conduct, is what is properly called a sense of duty, a principle of the greatest consequence in human life, and the only principle by which the bulk of mankind are capable of directing their actions. Many men behave very decently, and through the whole of their lives avoid any considerable degree of blame, who yet, perhaps, never felt the sentiment upon the propriety of which we found our approbation of their conduct, but acted merely from a regard to what they saw were the established rules of behaviour. The man who has received great benefits from another person, may, by the natural coldness of his temper, feel but a very small degree of the sentiment of gratitude. If he has been virtuously educated, however, he will often have been made to observe how odious those actions appear which denote a want of this sentiment, and how amiable the contrary. Tho’ his heart therefore is not warmed with any grateful affection, he will strive to act as if it was, and will endeavour to pay all those regards and attentions to his patron which the liveliest gratitude could suggest. He will visit him regularly; he will behave to him respectfully; he will never talk of him but with expressions of the highest esteem, and of the many obligations which he owes to him. And what is more, he will carefully embrace every opportunity of making a proper return for past services. He may do all this too without any hypocrisy or blamable dissimulation, without any selfish intention of obtaining new favours, and without any design of imposing either upon his benefactor or the public. The motive of his actions may be no other than a reverence for the established rule of duty, a serious and earnest desire of acting, in every respect, according to the law of gratitude. A wife, in the same manner, may sometimes not feel that tender regard for her husband which is suitable to the relation that subsists between them. If she has been virtuously educated, however, she will endeavour to act as if she felt it, to be careful, officious, faithful, and sincere, and to be deficient in none of those attentions which the sentiment of conjugal affection could have prompted her to perform. Such a friend, and such a wife, are neither of them, undoubtedly, the very best of their kinds; and though both of them may have the most serious and earnest desire to fulfil every part of their duty, yet they will fail in many nice and delicate regards, they will miss many opportunities of obliging, which they could never have overlooked if they had possessed the sentiment that is proper to their situation. Though not the very first of their kinds, however, they are perhaps the second; and if the regard to the general rules of conduct has been very strongly impressed upon them, neither of them will fail in any essential part of their duty. None but those of the happiest mould are capable of suiting, with exact justness, their sentiments and behaviour to the smallest difference of situation, and of acting upon all occasions with the most delicate and accurate propriety. The coarse clay of which the bulk of mankind are formed, cannot be wrought up to such perfection. There is scarce any man, however, who by discipline, education, and example, may not be impressed with a regard to general rules, as to act upon almost every occasion with tolerable decency, and through the whole of his life avoid any considerable degree of blame.
Without this sacred regard to general rules, there is no man whose conduct can be much depended upon. It is this which constitutes the most essential difference between a man of principle and honour and a worthless fellow. The one adheres, on all occasions, steadily and resolutely to his maxims, and preserves through the whole of his life one even tenour of conduct. The other, acts variously and accidentally, as humour, inclination, or interest chance to be uppermost. Nay, such are the inequalities of humour to which all men are subject, that without this principle, the man who, in his cool hours, had the most delicate sensibility to the propriety of conduct, might often be led to act absurdly upon the most frivolous occasions, and when it was scarce possible to assign any serious motive for his behaviour in this manner. Your friend makes you a visit when you happen to be in a humour which makes it disagreeable to receive him: in your present mood this civility is very apt to appear an impertinent intrusion; and if you were to give way to the views of things which at this time occur, though civil in your temper, you would behave to him with coldness and contempt. What renders you incapable of such a rudeness, is nothing but a regard to the general rules of civility and hospitality, which prohibit it. That habitual reverence which your former experience has taught you for these, enables you to act, upon all such occasions, with nearly equal propriety, and hinders those inequalities of temper, to which all men are subject, from influencing your conduct in any very sensible degree. But if without regard to these general rules, even the duties of politeness, which are so easily observed, and which can scarce have any serious motive to violate, would yet be so frequently violated, what would become of the duties of justice, of truth, of chastity, of fidelity, which it is often so difficult to observe, and which there may be so many strong motives to violate? But upon the tolerable observance of these duties, depends the very existence of human society, which would crumble into nothing if mankind were not generally impressed with a reverence for those important rules of conduct.
This reverence is still further enhanced by an opinion which is first impressed by nature, and afterwards confirmed by reasoning and philosophy, that those important rules of morality, are the commands and laws of the Deity, who will finally reward the obedient, and punish the transgressors of their duty.
This opinion or apprehension, I say, seems first to be impressed by nature. Men are naturally led to ascribe to those mysterious beings, whatever they are, which happen, in any country, to be the objects of religious fear, all their own sentiments and passions. They have no other, they can conceive no other to ascribe to them. Those unknown intelligences which they imagine but see not, must necessarily be formed with some sort of resemblance to those intelligences of which they have experience. During the ignorance and darkness of pagan superstition, mankind seem to have formed the ideas of their divinities with so little delicacy, that they ascribed to them, indiscriminately, all the passions of human nature, those not excepted which do the least honour to our species, such as lust, hunger, avarice, envy, revenge. They could not fail therefore, to ascribe to those beings, for the excellence of whose nature they still conceived the highest admiration, those sentiments and qualities which are the great ornaments of humanity, and which seem to raise it to a resemblance of divine perfection, the love of virtue and beneficence, and the abhorrence of vice and injustice. The man who was injured, called upon Jupiter to be witness of the wrong that was done to him, and could not doubt, but that divine being would behold it with the same indignation which would animate the meanest of mankind, who looked on when injustice was committed. The man who did the injury, felt himself to be the proper object of detestation and resentment of mankind; and his natural fears led him to impute the same sentiments to those awful beings, whose presence he could not avoid, and whose power he could not resist. These natural hopes and fears, and suspicions, were propagated by sympathy, and confirmed by education; and the gods were universally represented and believed to be the rewarders of humanity and mercy, and the avengers of perfidy and injustice. And thus religion, even in its rudest form, gave a sanction to the rules of morality, long before the age of artificial reasoning and philosophy. That the terrors of religion should thus enforce the natural sense of duty, was of too much importance to the happiness of mankind, for nature to leave it dependent upon the slowness and uncertainty of philosophical researches.
These researches, however, when they came to take place, confirmed those original anticipations of nature. Upon whatever we suppose that our moral faculties are founded, whether upon a certain modification of reason, upon an original instinct, called a moral sense, or upon some other principle of our nature, it cannot be doubted, that they were given us for the direction of our conduct in this life. They carry along with them the most evident badges of this authority, which denote that they were set up within us to be the supreme arbiters of all our actions, to superintend all our senses, passions, and appetites, and to judge how far each of them was either to be indulged or restrained. Our moral faculties are by no means, as some have pretended, upon a level in this respect with the other faculties and appetites of our nature, endowed with no more right to restrain these last, than these last are to restrain them. No other faculty or principle of action judges of any other. Love does not judge of resentment, nor resentment of love. Those two passions may be opposite to one another, but cannot, with any propriety, be said to approve or disapprove of one another. But it is the peculiar office of those faculties now under our consideration to judge, to bestow censure or applause upon all the other principles of our nature. They may be considered as a sort of senses of which those principles are the objects. Every sense is supreme over its own objects. There is no appeal from the eye with regard to the beauty of colours, nor from the ear with regard to the harmony of sounds, nor from the taste with regard to the agreeableness of flavours. Each of those senses judges in the last resort of its own objects. Whatever gratifies the taste is sweet, whatever pleases the eye is beautiful, whatever sooths the ear is harmonious. The very essence of each of those qualities consists in being fitted to please the sense to which it is addressed. It belongs to our moral faculties, in the same manner to determine when the ear ought to be soothed, when the eye ought to be indulged, when the taste ought to be gratified, when and how far every other principle of our nature ought to be indulged or restrained. What is agreeable to our moral faculties, is fit, and right, and proper to be done; the contrary wrong, unfit, and improper. The sentiments which they approve of, are graceful and unbecoming. The very words, right, wrong, fit, improper, graceful, unbecoming, mean only what pleases or displeases those faculties.
Since these, therefore, were plainly intended to be the governing principles of human nature, the rules which they prescribe, are to be regarded as the commands and laws of the Deity, promulgated by those vicegerents which he has thus set up within us. All general rules are commonly denominated laws: thus the general rules which bodies observe in the communication of motion, are called the laws of motion. But those general rules which our moral faculties observe in approving or condemning whatever sentiment or action is subjected to their examination, may much more justly be denominated such. They have a much greater resemblance to what are properly called laws, those general rules which the sovereign lays down to direct the conduct of his subjects. Like them they are rules to direct the free actions of men: they are prescribed most surely by a lawful superior, and are attended to in the sanction of rewards and punishments. Those vicegerents of God within us, never fail to punish the violation of them, by the torments of inward shame, and self-condemnation; and on the contrary, always reward obedience with tranquillity of mind, with contentment, and self-satisfaction.
There are innumerable other considerations which serve to confirm the same conclusion. The happiness of mankind, as well as of all other rational creatures, seems to have been the original purpose intended by the Author of nature, when he brought them into existence. No other end seems worthy of that supreme wisdom and divine benignity which we necessarily ascribe to him; and this opinion, which we are led to by the abstract consideration of his infinite perfections, is still more confirmed by the examination of the works of nature, which seem all intended to promote happiness, and to guard against misery. But by acting according to the dictates of our moral faculties, we necessarily pursue the most effectual means for promoting the happiness of mankind, and may therefore be said, in some sense, to co-operate with the Deity, and to advance as far as in our power the plan of Providence. By acting otherways, on the contrary, we seem to obstruct, in some measure, the scheme which the Author of nature has established for the happiness and perfection of the world, and to declare ourselves, if I may say so, in some measure the enemies of God. Hence we are naturally encouraged to hope for his extraordinary favour and reward in the one case, and to dread his vengeance and punishment in the other.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
On the influence and authority of the general rules of morality, and why they are rightly regarded as the laws of the Deity.
Respect for these general rules of conduct is properly called a sense of duty: a principle of the greatest consequence in human life, and the only one by which most people are capable of directing their actions. Many people behave quite decently and avoid any considerable blame throughout their lives without perhaps ever feeling the sentiment whose propriety grounds our approval of their conduct. They act simply out of regard for what they know to be the established rules of behavior. Someone who has received great benefits from another may, owing to a naturally cold disposition, feel very little gratitude. If he has been brought up to be virtuous, however, he will often have been shown how hateful actions that betray a lack of gratitude appear, and how lovable their opposites are. Though his heart feels no warmth of gratitude, he will strive to act as though it did, offering his benefactor all the consideration and attention the liveliest gratitude could inspire. He will visit regularly, behave respectfully, and speak of him only with the highest esteem and with acknowledgment of all he owes him. More than that, he will carefully seize every opportunity to make a proper return for past services. He may do all this without hypocrisy or blameworthy pretense, without a selfish intention to obtain further favors, and without any design to deceive either his benefactor or the public. His only motive may be reverence for the established rule of duty, a serious and earnest desire to act in every respect according to the law of gratitude. Likewise, a wife may sometimes lack the tender regard for her husband appropriate to their relationship. If she has been brought up to be virtuous, however, she will try to act as though she felt it: caring, attentive, faithful, and sincere, neglecting none of the attentions that marital affection would have led her to show. Such a friend and such a wife are certainly not the very best of their kinds. Even if they earnestly desire to fulfill every part of their duty, they will overlook many delicate considerations and miss many chances to oblige that they could not have overlooked had they felt the affection proper to their situation. Though not the finest of their kinds, they may be the next best; and if regard for general rules of conduct is deeply impressed upon them, neither will neglect any essential duty. Only those of the happiest nature can adapt their feelings and behavior with exact precision to the smallest difference in circumstances, and act on every occasion with the most delicate and accurate propriety. The coarse clay of which most people are made cannot be fashioned to such perfection. Yet almost anyone can, by discipline, education, and example, be taught such respect for general rules that they act with reasonable decency on nearly every occasion and avoid any considerable blame throughout life.
Without this sacred regard for general rules, nobody's conduct can be much relied upon. It makes the most essential difference between a person of principle and honor and a worthless one. The former holds steadily and resolutely to his maxims on every occasion and maintains a consistent course throughout his life. The latter behaves inconsistently and haphazardly, as mood, inclination, or interest happens to prevail. Indeed, everyone is subject to such changes of mood that, without this principle, even a person who in his calmer hours has the keenest sense of proper conduct might often act absurdly on the most trivial occasions, when scarcely any serious motive for such behavior could be found. Your friend comes to visit when you happen to be in a mood that makes his arrival unwelcome. In that mood, his courtesy is apt to look like an intrusive impertinence; and if you yielded to your present impression, you would treat him coldly and contemptuously, courteous though you normally are. Nothing prevents you from being so rude but your respect for the general rules of courtesy and hospitality, which forbid it. The habitual reverence that past experience has taught you for these rules enables you to act with nearly the same propriety on every such occasion and keeps the fluctuations of temper to which we are all subject from markedly affecting your conduct. But if, without respect for general rules, we would so frequently violate even the duties of politeness—duties so easy to observe and so seldom opposed by serious motives—what would become of the duties of justice, truth, chastity, and fidelity, which are often so hard to observe and which so many powerful motives may tempt us to violate? The very existence of human society depends on reasonable observance of these duties. Society would crumble away if people were not generally imbued with reverence for these important rules of conduct.
This reverence is further strengthened by a belief first impressed upon us by nature and later confirmed by reasoning and philosophy: these important moral rules are the commands and laws of the Deity, who will ultimately reward those who obey their duty and punish those who transgress it.
This belief or apprehension, I say, appears first to be impressed upon us by nature. People naturally attribute all their own feelings and passions to the mysterious beings, whatever they may be, that happen to be objects of religious fear in their country. They have no others, and can imagine no others, to attribute to them. The unseen intelligences they imagine must necessarily bear some resemblance to the intelligences they know from experience. In the ignorance and darkness of pagan superstition, people seem to have conceived their divinities with so little refinement that they indiscriminately attributed to them every human passion, including those least creditable to our species: lust, hunger, greed, envy, and revenge. They could hardly fail, then, to attribute to these beings—whose superior nature they nevertheless admired so deeply—the feelings and qualities that most adorn humanity and seem to raise it toward divine perfection: love of virtue and beneficence, and abhorrence of vice and injustice. The injured man called upon Jupiter to witness the wrong done to him, and could not doubt that the god would view it with the same indignation felt by the humblest person witnessing an injustice. The wrongdoer felt himself the rightful object of human abhorrence and resentment, and his natural fears led him to ascribe those same feelings to the awe-inspiring beings whose presence he could not escape and whose power he could not resist. These natural hopes, fears, and suspicions spread through sympathy and were confirmed by education; the gods were everywhere represented and believed to reward humanity and mercy and avenge treachery and injustice. Thus religion, even in its crudest form, gave authority to the rules of morality long before the age of elaborate reasoning and philosophy. The happiness of humanity depended too much on religion's terrors thus reinforcing the natural sense of duty for nature to leave that reinforcement to the slow and uncertain progress of philosophical inquiry.
When philosophical inquiries did arise, however, they confirmed these original intimations of nature. Whatever the foundation of our moral faculties may be—some form of reason, an original instinct called a moral sense, or another principle of our nature—there can be no doubt that they were given to guide our conduct in this life. They bear unmistakable signs of this authority: they were established within us as supreme arbiters of all our actions, to oversee all our senses, passions, and appetites, and judge how far each should be indulged or restrained. Contrary to what some have claimed, our moral faculties are by no means on the same level in this respect as our other faculties and appetites, with no greater right to restrain the latter than the latter have to restrain them. No other faculty or motive judges another. Love does not judge resentment, nor resentment love. Though opposed, these passions cannot properly be said to approve or disapprove of one another. The particular office of the faculties we are now considering, by contrast, is to judge all the other principles of our nature and to censure or applaud them. We may regard these faculties as senses whose objects are those principles. Each sense has supreme authority over its own objects. There is no appeal from the eye about the beauty of colors, the ear about the harmony of sounds, or the palate about the pleasantness of flavors. Each sense gives the final judgment on its objects. Whatever pleases the palate is sweet; whatever pleases the eye is beautiful; whatever soothes the ear is harmonious. The very essence of each quality lies in its fitness to please the sense to which it speaks. In the same way, it belongs to our moral faculties to determine when the ear should be soothed, when the eye should be indulged, when the palate should be gratified, and when and how far every other principle of our nature should be indulged or restrained. What pleases our moral faculties is fit, right, and proper to do; its opposite is wrong, unfit, and improper. The feelings they approve are graceful, and those they reject unbecoming. Indeed, the words right, wrong, fit, improper, graceful, and unbecoming mean only what pleases or displeases these faculties.
Since these faculties were plainly intended to govern human nature, the rules they prescribe must be regarded as the commands and laws of the Deity, proclaimed by the deputies he has set within us. General rules of every kind are commonly called laws: thus the general rules governing how bodies transmit motion are called the laws of motion. But the general rules our moral faculties follow in approving or condemning feelings and actions they examine can with much greater justice be called laws. They bear a far closer likeness to laws in the proper sense: the general rules a sovereign lays down to direct the conduct of his subjects. Like those laws, they direct the free actions of human beings; they are certainly prescribed by a lawful superior and backed by rewards and punishments. These deputies of God within us never fail to punish disobedience with the torments of inward shame and self-condemnation, or to reward obedience with tranquility of mind, contentment, and self-satisfaction.
Countless other considerations support the same conclusion. The happiness of humankind and all other rational creatures seems to have been the original purpose of the Author of nature in bringing them into existence. No other end seems worthy of the supreme wisdom and divine goodness we necessarily ascribe to him. This conviction, reached by considering his infinite perfections in the abstract, is further confirmed by examining the works of nature, which all seem designed to promote happiness and guard against misery. By acting as our moral faculties direct, we necessarily pursue the most effective means of advancing human happiness. In this sense we may be said to cooperate with the Deity and, as far as we can, advance the plan of Providence. By acting otherwise, we seem to obstruct to some extent the design the Author of nature established for the world's happiness and perfection, declaring ourselves, if I may put it this way, in some measure God's enemies. Thus we are naturally encouraged to hope for his special favor and reward in the one case and to fear his vengeance and punishment in the other.
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 the general rules of morality influence us and command our respect, and why they are rightly seen as God's laws.
Respect for these general rules of conduct is what we properly call a sense of duty. It is extremely important in human life, and it is the only principle by which most people can guide their actions. Many people behave quite well throughout their lives and avoid any serious blame. Yet they may never feel the sentiment that makes their behavior worthy of approval. They simply follow what they know to be the established rules of behavior. A man who has received great benefits from someone else may naturally feel very little gratitude because of his cool temperament. But if he has been raised to be virtuous, he will often have seen how hateful a lack of gratitude looks and how appealing its opposite looks. Even though he does not feel warm gratitude, he will try to act as if he does. He will give his benefactor all the consideration that the strongest gratitude could suggest. He will visit regularly, treat him with respect, and speak of him only with the highest esteem and with acknowledgment of all he owes him. More than that, he will carefully take every opportunity to repay the services he has received. He can do all this without hypocrisy or blameworthy pretense. He need not be seeking new favors for himself or trying to deceive his benefactor or the public. He may act simply out of respect for the established rule of duty and a serious desire to follow the rule of gratitude in every way. Likewise, a wife may sometimes not feel the affection for her husband that their relationship calls for. If she was raised to be virtuous, she will still try to act as if she feels it. She will be attentive, helpful, faithful, and sincere, and will not neglect any of the care that married affection would have prompted. This friend and this wife are certainly not the best possible friend and wife. Though they may sincerely want to do their whole duty, they will miss many subtle ways of showing care and many chances to be helpful. They would not miss those chances if they felt the affection suited to their positions. Still, though not the best of their kind, they may be the next best. If respect for general rules has been strongly impressed on them, they will not fail in any essential duty. Only people with the happiest natural disposition can adjust their feelings and behavior exactly to even the smallest changes of circumstance. Only they can always act with such fine, precise propriety. Most people cannot reach that perfection. Yet hardly anyone is incapable of learning respect for general rules through discipline, education, and example. That respect can enable them to behave reasonably well in nearly every situation and avoid serious blame throughout life.
Without this deep respect for general rules, no one's conduct is very dependable. It makes the most important difference between a principled, honorable person and a worthless one. The first sticks firmly and consistently to his principles and behaves steadily throughout life. The second behaves differently from one occasion to the next, depending on which mood, desire, or interest happens to prevail. Everyone's moods shift. Without this guiding principle, even a person who, when calm, is very sensitive to what is proper may act absurdly over a trivial matter, with scarcely any serious reason for it. A friend visits you when you happen to be in a mood that makes his visit unwelcome. At that moment his courtesy may seem like an intrusive annoyance. If you followed your present view of the situation, you might treat him coldly and with contempt, even though you are usually polite. What stops you from being rude is simply respect for the general rules of courtesy and hospitality that forbid it. Experience has taught you to respect these rules. They help you behave with nearly the same propriety on every such occasion and prevent ordinary changes of mood from noticeably affecting your conduct. Without respect for general rules, people would often neglect even the easy duties of politeness, although there is hardly ever a strong reason to neglect them. What, then, would happen to the duties of justice, truth, chastity, and fidelity? These are often difficult to keep, and there may be powerful reasons to break them. Human society itself depends on people observing these duties reasonably well. It would fall apart if people did not generally respect these important rules of conduct.
This respect becomes even stronger when we believe that the important rules of morality are the commands and laws of God, who will finally reward those who obey and punish those who neglect their duty. Nature first leads us to this belief; reason and philosophy later confirm it.
I say that nature seems to lead us to this belief first. People naturally attribute their own feelings and passions to the mysterious beings they fear in their religion, whatever those beings may be in a particular country. They have no other feelings to attribute to them and cannot imagine any others. They picture unseen minds on the model of the minds they know. In the ignorance of ancient pagan superstition, people seem to have pictured their gods without much discrimination. They attributed every human passion to them, including passions that do our species least credit: lust, hunger, greed, envy, and revenge. So they could hardly avoid giving these beings, whom they nonetheless admired as supremely excellent, the qualities that most honor humanity and make it resemble divine perfection: love of virtue and beneficence, and hatred of vice and injustice. A man who had been wronged called on Jupiter to witness the wrong. He had no doubt that Jupiter would be as indignant as even the humblest human witness to an injustice. The wrongdoer felt that people would rightly hate and resent him. His natural fears led him to attribute those same feelings to awe-inspiring beings whose presence he could not escape and whose power he could not resist. Sympathy spread these natural hopes, fears, and suspicions, and education confirmed them. People everywhere portrayed and believed the gods to reward kindness and mercy and avenge betrayal and injustice. So even the simplest forms of religion gave authority to moral rules long before sophisticated reasoning and philosophy arose. It mattered too much to human happiness for nature to leave religion's support for our natural sense of duty waiting on the slow and uncertain progress of philosophical investigation.
When that investigation did begin, however, it confirmed these first expectations inspired by nature. Whatever we think our moral faculties are based on—some form of reason, an inborn instinct called moral sense, or another part of our nature—they were clearly given to us to guide our conduct in this life. They have clear marks of authority. These marks show that they were placed inside us to be the highest judges of all our actions, overseeing our senses, passions, and appetites and deciding how far we should satisfy or restrain each one. Contrary to what some have claimed, our moral faculties are not on the same level as our other faculties and appetites. The others do not have as much authority to restrain our moral faculties as our moral faculties have to restrain them. No other faculty or motive judges another in this way. Love does not judge resentment, and resentment does not judge love. They may oppose each other, but we cannot properly say they approve or disapprove of each other. Judging all the other parts of our nature, praising or blaming them, is the special role of our moral faculties. We can think of them as senses that take those other parts as their objects. Each sense has final authority over its own objects. There is no appeal from sight about the beauty of colors, from hearing about the harmony of sounds, or from taste about the pleasantness of flavors. Each sense makes the final judgment about what it perceives. What tastes good is sweet; what pleases the eye is beautiful; what pleases the ear is harmonious. Each quality consists in being suited to please its corresponding sense. In the same way, our moral faculties decide when the ear should be pleased, the eye indulged, and the taste satisfied. They decide when, and how far, every other part of our nature should be indulged or restrained. What our moral faculties approve is fit, right, and proper to do; what they reject is wrong, unfit, and improper. Feelings they approve are becoming, and feelings they reject are unbecoming. The words right, wrong, fit, improper, becoming, and unbecoming mean only what pleases or displeases these faculties.
Because these faculties were clearly meant to govern human nature, we should see their rules as God's commands and laws, issued through the representatives he has set within us. People commonly call any general rules laws. For example, they call the rules governing how bodies transmit motion the laws of motion. But the general rules by which our moral faculties approve or condemn feelings and actions can be called laws with even better reason. They resemble real laws more closely: the rules a ruler sets for the conduct of subjects. Like those laws, they guide people's free actions, are surely laid down by a rightful superior, and carry rewards and punishments. These representatives of God within us never fail to punish breaches of the rules with inward shame and self-condemnation. They always reward obedience with peace of mind, contentment, and satisfaction with ourselves.
Countless other considerations support the same conclusion. When the Author of nature brought humans and all other rational creatures into existence, happiness seems to have been his original purpose for them. No other aim seems worthy of the supreme wisdom and divine kindness that we necessarily attribute to him. We reach this view by considering his infinite perfection in the abstract, and the works of nature confirm it even more strongly. They all seem designed to promote happiness and prevent misery. By following our moral faculties, we necessarily use the most effective means of promoting human happiness. In that sense we can be said to work with God and do what we can to advance the plan of Providence. If we act otherwise, we seem to hinder to some degree the Author of nature's plan for the world's happiness and perfection. We even make ourselves, so to speak, God's enemies to some degree. We are therefore naturally led to hope for his special favor and reward if we do what is right, and to fear his vengeance and punishment if we do wrong.