Adam Smith · Complete work
Part III, Chapter IV, 1
Part III, Chapter IV, 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
In what cases the sense of duty ought to be the sole principle of our conduct; and in what cases it ought to concur with other motives.
Religion affords such strong motives to the practice of virtue, and guards us by such powerful restraints from the temptations of vice, that many have been led to suppose, that religious principles were the sole laudable motives of action. We ought neither, they said, to reward from gratitude, nor punish from resentment; we ought neither to protect the helplessness of our children, nor afford support to the infirmities of our parents, from natural affection. All affections for particular objects, ought to be extinguished in our breast, and one great affection take the place of all others, the love of the Deity, the desire of rendering ourselves agreeable to him, and of directing our conduct in every respect according to his will. We ought not to be grateful from gratitude, we ought not to be charitable from humanity, we ought not to be public-spirited from the love of our country, nor generous and just from the love of mankind. The sole principle and motive of our conduct in the performance of all those different duties, ought to be a sense that God has commanded us to perform them. I shall not at present take time to examine this opinion particularly; I shall only observe, that we should not have expected to have found it entertained by any sect, who professed themselves of a religion in which, as it is the first precept to love the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our strength, so it is the second to love our neighbour as we love ourselves; and we love ourselves surely for our own sakes, and not merely because we are commanded to do so. That the sense of duty should be the sole principle of our conduct, is no where the precept of Christianity; but that it should be the ruling and governing one, as philosophy, and as, indeed, common sense directs. It may be a question however, in what cases our actions ought to arise chiefly or entirely from a sense of duty, or from a regard to general rules; and in what cases some other sentiment or affection ought to concur, and have a principal influence.
The decision of this question, which cannot, perhaps, be given with any very great accuracy, will depend upon two different circumstances; first, upon the natural agreeableness or deformity of the sentiment or affection which would prompt us to any action independent of all regard to general rules; and secondly, upon the precision and exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy of the general rules themselves.
I. First, I say, it will depend upon the natural agreeableness or deformity of the affection itself, how far our actions ought to arise from it, or entirely proceed from a regard to the general rule.
All those graceful and admired actions, to which the benevolent affections would prompt us, ought to proceed as much from the passions themselves, as from any regard to the general rules of conduct. A benefactor thinks himself but ill requited, if the person upon whom he has bestowed his good offices, repays them merely from a cold sense of duty, and without any affection to his person. A husband is dissatisfied with the most obedient wife, when he imagines her conduct is animated by no other principle besides her regard to what the relation she stands in requires. Though a son should fail in none of the offices of filial duty, yet if he wants that affectionate reverence which it so well becomes him to feel, the parent may justly complain of his indifference. Nor could a son be quite satisfied with a parent who, though he performed all the duties of his situation, had nothing of that fatherly fondness which might have been expected from him. With regard to all such benevolent and social affections, it is agreeable to see the sense of duty employed rather to restrain than to enliven them, rather to hinder us from doing too much, than to prompt us to do what we ought. It gives us pleasure to see a father obliged to check his own fondness, a friend obliged to set bounds to his natural generosity, a person who has received a benefit, obliged to restrain the too sanguine gratitude of his own temper.
The contrary maxim takes place with regard to the malevolent and unsocial passions. We ought to reward from the gratitude and generosity of our own hearts, without any reluctance, and without being obliged to reflect how great the propriety of rewarding: but we ought always to punish with reluctance, and more from a sense of the propriety of punishing than from any savage disposition to revenge. Nothing is more graceful than the behaviour of the man who appears to resent the greatest injuries, more from a sense that they deserve, and are the proper objects of resentment, than from feeling himself the furies of that disagreeable passion; who, like a judge, considers only the general rule, which determines what vengeance is due for each particular offence; who, in executing that rule, feels less for what himself has suffered, than what the offender is about to suffer; who, though in wrath remembers mercy, and is disposed to interpret the rule in the most gentle and favourable manner, and to allow all the alleviations which the most candid humanity could, consistently with good sense, admit of.
As the selfish passions, according to what has formerly been observed, hold in other respects a sort of middle place, between the social and unsocial affections, so do they likewise in this. The pursuit of the objects of private interest, in all common, little, and ordinary cases, ought to flow rather from a regard to the general rules which prescribe such conduct, than from any passion for the objects themselves; but upon more important and extraordinary occasions, we should be awkward, insipid, and ungraceful, if the objects themselves did not appear to animate us with a considerable degree of passion. To be anxious, or to be laying a plot either to gain or to save a single shilling, would degrade the most vulgar tradesman in the opinion of all his neighbours. Let his circumstances be ever so mean, no attention to any such small matters, for the sake of the things themselves, must appear in his conduct. His situation may require the most severe œconomy, and the most exact assiduity: but each particular exertion of that œconomy and assiduity must proceed not so much from a regard for that particular saving or gain, as for the general rule which to him prescribes, with the utmost rigour, such a tenour of conduct. His parsimony to-day must not arise from a desire of the particular three-pence which he will save by it, nor his attendance in his shop from a passion for the particular ten-pence which he will acquire by it: both the one and the other ought to proceed solely from a regard to the general rule, which prescribes, with the most unrelenting severity, this plan of conduct to all persons in his way of life. In this consists the difference between the character of a miser, and that of a person of exact œconomy and assiduity. The one is anxious about small matters for their own sake; the other attends to them only in consequence of the scheme of life which he has laid down to himself.
It is quite otherwise with regard to the more extraordinary and important objects of self-interest. A person appears mean-spirited, who does not pursue these with some degree of earnestness for their own sake. We should despise a prince who was not anxious about conquering or defending a province. We should have little respect for a private gentleman who did not exert himself to gain an estate, or even a considerable office, when he could acquire them without either meanness or injustice. A member of parliament who shews no keenness about his own election, is abandoned by his friends, as altogether unworthy of their attachment. Even a tradesman is thought a poor-spirited fellow among his neighbours, who does not bestir himself to get what they call an extraordinary job, or some uncommon advantage. This spirit and keenness constitutes the difference between the man of enterprise and the man of dull regularity. Those great objects of self-interest, of which the loss or acquisition quite changes the rank of the person, are the objects of the passion properly called ambition; a passion, which when it keeps within the bounds of prudence and justice, is always admired in the world, and has even sometimes a certain irregular greatness, which dazzles the imagination, when it passes the limits of both these virtues, and is not only unjust but extravagant. Hence the general admiration for Heroes and Conquerors, and even for Statesmen, whose projects have been very daring and extensive, though altogether devoid of justice; such as those of the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. The objects of avarice and ambition differ only in their greatness. A miser is as furious about a halfpenny, as a man of ambition about the conquest of a kingdom.
II. Secondly, I say, it will depend partly upon the precision and exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy of the general rules themselves, how far our conduct ought to proceed entirely from a regard to them.
The general rules of almost all the virtues, the general rules which determine what are the offices of prudence, of charity, of generosity, of gratitude, of friendship, are in many respects loose and inaccurate, admit of many exceptions, and require so many modifications, that it is scarce possible to regulate our conduct entirely by a regard to them. The common proverbial maxims of prudence, being founded in universal experience, are perhaps the best general rules which can be given about it. To affect, however, a very strict and literal adherence to them would evidently be the most absurd and ridiculous pedantry. Of all the virtues I have just now mentioned, gratitude is that, perhaps, of which the rules are the most precise, and admit of the fewest exceptions. That as soon as we can we should make a return of equal, and if possible of superior value to the services we have received, would seem to be a pretty plain rule, and one which admitted of scarce any exceptions. Upon the most superficial examination, however, this rule will appear to be in the highest degree loose and inaccurate, and to admit of ten thousand exceptions. If your benefactor attended you in your sickness, ought you to attend him in his? or can you fulfil the obligation of gratitude, by making a return of a different kind? If you ought to attend him, how long ought you to attend him? The same time which he attended you, or longer, and how much longer? If your friend lent you money in your distress, ought you to lend him money in his? How much ought you to lend him? When ought you to lend him? Now, or to-morrow, or next month? And for how long a time? It is evident, that no general rule can be laid down, by which a precise answer can, in all cases, be given to any of these questions. The difference between his character and yours, between his circumstances and yours, may be such, that you may be perfectly grateful, and justly refuse to lend him a halfpenny: and, on the contrary, you may be willing to lend, or even to give him ten times the sum which he lent you, and yet justly be accused of the blackest ingratitude, and of not having fulfilled the hundredth part of the obligation you lie under. As the duties of gratitude, however, are perhaps the most sacred of all those which the beneficent virtues prescribe to us, so the general rules which determine them are, as I said before, the most accurate. Those which ascertain the actions required by friendship, humanity, hospitality, generosity, are still more vague and indeterminate.
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.
When the sense of duty should be the sole principle of our conduct, and when it should act alongside other motives.
Religion offers such strong motives for practicing virtue, and such powerful safeguards against the temptations of vice, that many have come to suppose religious principles are the only praiseworthy motives for action. We should neither reward from gratitude nor punish from resentment, they have said; neither protect our helpless children nor support our frail parents from natural affection. Every affection for a particular person should be extinguished in our hearts, replaced by one great affection: love of God, the desire to please him and to direct every aspect of our conduct according to his will. We should not be grateful out of gratitude, charitable out of humanity, public-spirited out of love for our country, or generous and just out of love for humankind. The sole principle and motive in fulfilling all these different duties should be the knowledge that God has commanded us to fulfill them. I will not stop here to examine this view in detail; I will only observe that we would hardly expect to find it embraced by any sect professing a religion whose first commandment is to love the Lord our God with all our heart, all our soul, and all our strength, and whose second is to love our neighbor as ourselves. Surely we love ourselves for our own sake, not merely because we are commanded to. Christianity nowhere prescribes that duty must be the sole principle of our conduct; it does prescribe that duty must govern and rule it, as philosophy and indeed common sense also advise. It remains a question, however, in which cases our actions should spring chiefly or wholly from duty or regard for general rules, and in which cases another feeling or affection should participate and exercise the leading influence.
The answer to this question, which perhaps cannot be given with great precision, depends on two circumstances: first, the natural attractiveness or ugliness of the feeling or affection that would prompt an action apart from any regard for general rules; and second, the precision and exactness, or looseness and uncertainty, of the general rules themselves.
I. First, how far our actions should spring from the affection itself, and how far entirely from regard for the general rule, depends on the affection's natural attractiveness or ugliness.
All the graceful and admirable actions that benevolent affections would prompt should spring as much from the affections themselves as from regard for general rules of conduct. A benefactor considers himself poorly repaid if the recipient of his kindness repays him merely from a cold sense of duty, with no affection for him. A husband is dissatisfied even with the most obedient wife if he believes her conduct is animated by nothing beyond regard for what her position requires. A son may fulfill every filial duty, but if he lacks the affectionate reverence so fitting for him to feel, his parent may rightly complain of his indifference. Nor could a son be fully satisfied with a parent who performed every duty of a parent but showed none of the paternal tenderness one might expect. With all such benevolent and social affections, we are pleased to see duty employed to restrain rather than enliven them, to keep us from doing too much rather than spur us to do what we ought. We take pleasure in seeing a father obliged to check his tenderness, a friend to limit his natural generosity, and someone who has received a kindness to restrain the overardent gratitude of his own disposition.
The opposite maxim applies to hostile and antisocial passions. We should reward freely from the gratitude and generosity of our hearts, without reluctance or the need to reflect on how proper it is to reward; but we should always punish reluctantly, moved more by the propriety of punishment than by any savage urge for revenge. Nothing is more graceful than the conduct of a person who appears to resent even the gravest injuries more because they deserve resentment and are its proper objects than because he feels the fury of that unpleasant passion; who, like a judge, considers only the general rule determining what retribution each particular offense deserves; who, in carrying out that rule, feels less for what he himself has suffered than for what the offender is about to suffer; who remembers mercy even in anger, and is disposed to interpret the rule as gently and favorably as possible, allowing every mitigating circumstance that the most candid humanity can admit without sacrificing good sense.
As observed earlier, selfish passions occupy a kind of middle ground between social and antisocial affections; so they do here as well. In ordinary, minor matters, the pursuit of private interest should proceed more from regard for the general rules prescribing such conduct than from passion for the objects themselves. On more important and extraordinary occasions, however, we would seem awkward, insipid, and ungraceful if those objects did not stir considerable passion in us. To fret or scheme over gaining or saving a single shilling would lower even the most humble tradesman in his neighbors' opinion. However modest his circumstances, he must not appear to concern himself with such trifles for their own sake. His circumstances may demand the strictest economy and most scrupulous diligence, but each particular effort should arise less from concern for that particular saving or gain than from the general rule that prescribes such a rigorous course of life for him. His thrift today must not arise from a desire for the particular three-pence it saves, nor his attendance at his shop from eagerness for the particular ten-pence it earns: both should arise solely from regard for the general rule that imposes this plan of conduct, with relentless severity, on everyone in his way of life. Here lies the distinction between a miser and a person of scrupulous economy and diligence. One is anxious about small matters for their own sake; the other attends to them only as part of the way of life he has chosen for himself.
Extraordinary and important objects of self-interest are another matter. A person seems mean-spirited if he does not pursue them with some eagerness for their own sake. We would despise a prince who cared nothing for conquering or defending a province. We would have little respect for a private gentleman who made no effort to gain an estate, or even a considerable office, when he could acquire it without baseness or injustice. A member of parliament who shows no zeal for his own election is abandoned by his friends as wholly unworthy of their loyalty. Even a tradesman who makes no effort to secure what his neighbors call an extraordinary job or some uncommon advantage is thought to lack spirit. This energy and eagerness distinguish the enterprising man from the man of dull regularity. Those great objects of self-interest whose loss or acquisition entirely changes a person's rank are the objects of the passion properly called ambition. When kept within the bounds of prudence and justice, this passion is always admired in the world; even when it oversteps both virtues, becoming not merely unjust but extravagant, it sometimes possesses an irregular grandeur that dazzles the imagination. Hence the general admiration for heroes and conquerors, and even for statesmen whose projects were daring and far-reaching though utterly unjust, such as those of the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. The objects of greed and ambition differ only in scale. A miser is as fierce over a halfpenny as an ambitious man over the conquest of a kingdom.
II. Second, how far our conduct should proceed entirely from regard for general rules depends in part on whether those rules are precise and exact, or loose and uncertain.
The general rules of almost all virtues—the rules determining the duties of prudence, charity, generosity, gratitude, and friendship—are loose and uncertain in many respects. They admit so many exceptions and require so many qualifications that it is scarcely possible to govern our conduct entirely by them. Common proverbial maxims of prudence, grounded in universal experience, may be the best general rules we can offer for it. Yet affecting a very strict and literal adherence to them would clearly be the most absurd and ridiculous pedantry. Of all the virtues just mentioned, gratitude perhaps has the most precise rules and the fewest exceptions. The principle that we should repay services received as soon as we can, with a return of equal or, if possible, greater value, seems fairly clear and admits scarcely any exceptions. Yet even the most superficial examination shows that this rule is extremely loose and uncertain, admitting ten thousand exceptions. If your benefactor cared for you while you were sick, must you care for him while he is sick, or can you discharge the debt of gratitude with a different kind of return? If you must care for him, for how long? For as long as he cared for you, or longer—and how much longer? If a friend lent you money in your distress, must you lend him money in his? How much must you lend, and when—now, tomorrow, or next month? For how long? Evidently no general rule can supply a precise answer to any of these questions in every case. Your characters and circumstances may differ so much that you could be perfectly grateful and rightly refuse to lend him a halfpenny; conversely, you could be willing to lend or even give him ten times what he lent you and still rightly be charged with the blackest ingratitude, having failed to fulfill even a hundredth part of what you owe. Yet the duties of gratitude are perhaps the most sacred imposed by the benevolent virtues; accordingly, as I said, their general rules are the most exact. The rules defining what friendship, humanity, hospitality, and generosity require are vaguer and less definite still.
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).
When should a sense of duty be our only reason for acting, and when should it work alongside other motives?
Religion gives us strong reasons to practice virtue and powerful restraints against vice. This has led many people to believe that religious principles are the only worthy motives for action. According to them, we should not reward someone out of gratitude or punish someone out of resentment. Natural affection should not lead us to protect our helpless children or support our aging parents. We should put aside every feeling for particular people. One great feeling should replace them all: love of God, the desire to please him, and the wish to follow his will in everything we do. We should not be grateful because we feel gratitude, charitable because we care about others, devoted to the public because we love our country, or generous and just because we love humanity. Our only motive for carrying out these duties should be the knowledge that God has commanded them. I will not examine this opinion in detail here. I will only note how surprising it is to find it among followers of a religion whose first commandment is to love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, and strength, and whose second is to love our neighbor as ourselves. Surely we love ourselves for our own sake, not merely because we are commanded to. Christianity nowhere commands us to make duty our only motive. It does, however, require duty to govern our conduct, as philosophy and ordinary good sense also require. The question remains: When should our actions come mainly or entirely from duty or from following general rules? And when should another feeling also play a leading part?
The answer may not be very exact. It depends on two things. The first is whether the feeling that would move us to act, apart from any rule, is naturally attractive or repellent. The second is whether the general rules themselves are precise or vague.
I. First, whether we should act from a feeling or entirely from a general rule depends on whether that feeling is itself naturally attractive or repellent.
Kind feelings should play as much of a part in the gracious actions they inspire as any concern for rules of conduct. A benefactor feels poorly repaid if someone returns his kindness only from a cold sense of duty, without affection for him. A husband is dissatisfied even with a perfectly obedient wife if he thinks she acts only because marriage requires it. A son might perform every duty to his parents. But if he lacks the loving respect that is fitting for him, they may rightly complain that he is indifferent. Nor could a son be entirely satisfied with a parent who carried out every parental duty but showed none of the fatherly affection he could expect. With these kind and social feelings, we like to see duty hold them back rather than stir them up. We want duty to keep us from doing too much, not to prod us into doing what we should. We are pleased when a father has to check his affection, a friend has to limit his natural generosity, or someone who has received help has to restrain his own overenthusiastic gratitude.
The opposite rule applies to hostile and antisocial feelings. We should reward others freely, from gratitude and generosity, without having to remind ourselves that rewarding them is proper. But we should always be reluctant to punish. Our reason should be that punishment is proper, not a fierce desire for revenge. There is nothing more admirable than a person who responds to even the worst injuries mainly because they deserve resentment and are its proper objects, rather than because he is caught up in that unpleasant passion. Like a judge, he looks to the general rule that sets the appropriate penalty for each offense. In applying it, he feels less concern for his own suffering than for what the offender is about to suffer. Even in anger he remembers mercy. He is ready to interpret the rule as gently and favorably as possible, and to accept every mitigating circumstance that fair-minded humanity can recognize without abandoning good sense.
Self-interested feelings occupy a middle position here, just as I observed earlier that they do between social and antisocial feelings in other respects. In small, ordinary matters, we should pursue our private interests mainly because general rules tell us to, not because we are eager for the particular gains. On important and unusual occasions, however, we look clumsy, dull, and unappealing unless those goals themselves stir us to some degree of passion. A person who anxiously plotted to gain or save a single shilling would lose the respect of even the most ordinary tradespeople nearby. However poor he is, he should not seem preoccupied with such small amounts for their own sake. His circumstances may demand the strictest economy and most diligent attention. But each small effort should spring less from concern for that particular gain or saving than from the general rule that strictly requires him to live this way. He should not save money today simply because he wants the particular three-pence he will keep. Nor should he tend his shop because he longs for the particular ten-pence he will earn. He should do both solely because a general rule sternly demands this way of life from people in his position. That is the difference between a miser and someone who is careful and diligent. The miser worries about small things for their own sake. The careful person attends to them as part of the plan he has set for his life.
The situation is quite different when a person's own interests involve unusually important goals. We think someone lacks spirit if he does not pursue these goals with some eagerness for their own sake. We would despise a prince who was not concerned about conquering or defending a province. We would have little respect for a private gentleman who made no effort to acquire an estate or even an important office, when he could do so without acting shamefully or unjustly. Friends abandon a member of parliament who shows no eagerness to win his own election; they consider him unworthy of their support. Even neighbors think a tradesman lacks spirit if he does not put himself out to win what they call an extraordinary job or some unusual advantage. This energy and eagerness distinguish an enterprising person from one who is merely dull and methodical. Major personal goals, whose gain or loss completely changes someone's rank, are the objects of the passion properly called ambition. When ambition stays within the bounds of prudence and justice, the world always admires it. Even when it oversteps both bounds and becomes unjust and extravagant, its wild grandeur can sometimes dazzle us. This explains the general admiration for heroes and conquerors, and even for statesmen with daring, far-reaching plans that have no justice in them, such as the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. Greed and ambition differ only in the size of their goals. A miser is as fierce about a halfpenny as an ambitious person is about conquering a kingdom.
II. Second, whether our conduct should come entirely from following general rules depends partly on how precise or vague those rules are.
The general rules for nearly all virtues are imprecise in many ways. Rules about prudence, charity, generosity, gratitude, and friendship allow many exceptions and require so many adjustments that we can hardly guide our conduct entirely by them. Common sayings about prudence may offer the best general rules for it, because they are based on widespread experience. Still, following them strictly and literally would be absurdly fussy. Of the virtues just mentioned, gratitude may have the clearest rules and the fewest exceptions. Repaying a kindness as soon as we can with something of equal or, if possible, greater value seems like a plain rule with hardly any exceptions. Yet even a quick look shows how vague it is and how many thousands of exceptions it permits. If someone cared for you while you were sick, must you care for him when he is sick? Or could you meet your obligation of gratitude by helping him in another way? If you must care for him, for how long? As long as he cared for you, or longer? How much longer? If a friend lent you money when you were in need, must you lend him money when he is in need? How much, when—now, tomorrow, or next month—and for how long? Clearly no general rule can give an exact answer to every one of these questions in every case. Your different characters and circumstances may mean that you can be perfectly grateful while rightly refusing to lend him even a halfpenny. Conversely, you might offer to lend or even give him ten times what he lent you and still deserve to be accused of the worst ingratitude, having met not even a hundredth part of what you owe him. The duties of gratitude may be the most binding of all the duties that kindly virtues lay upon us. That is why their general rules are, as I said, the most precise. The rules governing friendship, humanity, hospitality, and generosity are still more vague and uncertain.