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Part III, Chapter IV, 2
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There is, however, one virtue of which the general rules determine with the greatest exactness every external action which it requires. This virtue is justice. The rules of justice are accurate in the highest degree, and admit of no exceptions or modifications, but such as may be ascertained as accurately as the rules themselves, and which generally, indeed, flow from the very same principles with them. If I owe a man ten pounds, justice requires that I should precisely pay him ten pounds, either at the time agreed upon, or when he demands it. What I ought to perform, how much I ought to perform, when and where I ought to perform it, the whole nature and circumstances of the action prescribed, are all of them precisely fixt and determined. Though it may be awkward and pedantic, therefore, to affect too strict an adherence to the common rules of prudence or generosity, there is no pedantry in sticking fast by the rules of justice. On the contrary, the most sacred regard is due to them; and the actions which this virtue requires are never so properly performed, as when the chief motive for performing them is a reverential and religious regard to those general rules which require them. In the practice of the other virtues, our conduct should rather be directed by a certain idea of propriety, by a certain taste for a particular tenour of conduct, than by any regard to a precise maxim or rule; and we should consider the end and foundation of the rule, more than the rule itself. But it is otherwise with regard to justice: the man who in that refines the least, and adheres with the most obstinate stedfastness, to the general rules themselves, is the most commendable, and the most to be depended upon. Though the end of the rules of justice be, to hinder us from hurting our neighbour, it may frequently be a crime to violate them, though we could pretend, with some pretext of reason, that this particular violation could do no hurt. A man often becomes a villain the moment he begins even in his own heart, to chicane in this manner. The moment he thinks of departing from the most staunch and positive adherence to what those inviolable precepts prescribe to him, he is no longer to be trusted, and no man can say what degree of guilt he may not arrive at. The thief imagines he does no evil, when he steals from the rich, what he supposes they may easily want, and what possibly they may never even know has been stolen from them. The adulterer imagines he does no evil, when he corrupts the wife of his friend, provided he covers his intrigue from the suspicion of the husband, and does not disturb the peace of the family. When once we begin to give way to such refinements, there is no enormity so gross of which we may not be capable.
The rules of justice may be compared to the rules of grammar; the rules of the other virtues to the rules which critics lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and elegant in composition. The one, are precise, accurate, and indispensable. The other, are loose, vague, and indeterminate, and present us rather with a general idea of the perfection we ought to aim at, than afford us any certain and infallible directions for acquiring it. A man may learn to write grammatically by rule, with the most absolute infallibility; and so, perhaps, he may be taught to act justly. But there are no rules whose observance will infallibly lead us to the attainment of elegance or sublimity in writing, though there are some which may help us, in some measure, to correct and ascertain the vague ideas which we might otherwise have entertained of those perfections: and there are no rules by the knowledge of which we can infallibly be taught to act upon all occasions with prudence, with just magnanimity, or proper beneficence. Though there are some which may enable us to correct and ascertain in several respects, the imperfect ideas which we might otherwise have entertained of those virtues.
It may sometimes happen, that with the most serious and earnest desire of acting so as to deserve approbation, we may mistake the proper rules of conduct, and thus be misled by that very principle which ought to direct us. It is in vain to expect, that in this case mankind should entirely approve of our behaviour. They cannot enter into that absurd idea of duty which influenced us, nor go along with any of the actions which follow from it. There is still, however, something respectable in the character and behaviour of one who is thus betrayed into vice, by a wrong sense of duty, or by what is called an erroneous conscience. How fatally soever he may be misled by it, he is still, with the generous and humane, more the object of commiseration than of hatred or resentment. They lament the weakness of human nature, which exposes us to such unhappy delusions, even while we are most sincerely labouring after perfection, and endeavouring to act according to the best principle which can possibly direct us. False notions of religion are almost the only causes which can occasion any very gross perversion of our natural sentiments in this way; and that principle which gives the greatest authority to the rules of duty, is alone capable of distorting our ideas of them in any considerable degree. In all other cases common sense is sufficient to direct us, if not to the most exquisite propriety of conduct, yet to something which is not very far from it; and provided we are in earnest desirous to do well, our behaviour will always, upon the whole, be praise-worthy. That to obey the will of the Deity, is the first rule of duty, all men are agreed. But concerning the particular commandments which that will may impose upon us, they differ widely from one another. In this, therefore, the greatest mutual forbearance and toleration is due; and though the defence of society requires that crimes should be punished, from whatever motives they proceed, yet a good man will always punish them with reluctance, when they evidently proceed from false notions of religious duty. He will never feel against those who commit them that indignation which he feels against other criminals, but will rather regret, and sometimes even admire their unfortunate firmness and magnanimity, at the very time that he punishes their crime. In the tragedy of Mahomet, one of the finest of Mr. Voltaire’s, it is well represented, what ought to be our sentiments for crimes which proceed from such motives. In that tragedy, two young people of different sexes, of the most innocent and virtuous dispositions, and without any other weakness except what endears them the more to us, a mutual fondness for one another, are instigated by the strongest motives of a false religion, to commit a horrid murder, that shocks all the principles of human nature: a venerable old man, who had expressed the most tender affection for them both, for whom, notwithstanding he was the avowed enemy of their religion, they had both conceived the highest reverence and esteem, and who was in reality their father, though they did not know him to be such, is pointed out to them as a sacrifice which God had expressly required at their hands, and they are commanded to kill him. While they are about executing this crime, they are tortured with all the agonies which can arise from the struggle between the idea of the indispensableness of religious duty on the one side, and compassion, gratitude, reverence for the age, and love for the humanity and virtue of the person whom they are going to destroy, on the other. The representation of this exhibits one of the most interesting, and perhaps the most instructive spectacle that was ever introduced upon any theatre. The sense of duty, however, at last prevails over all the amiable weaknesses of human nature. They execute the crime imposed upon them; but immediately discover their error, and the fraud which had deceived them, and are distracted with horror, remorse, and resentment. Such as are our sentiments for the unhappy Seid and Palmira, such ought we to feel for every person who is in this manner misled by religion, when we are sure that it is really religion which misleads him, and not the pretence of it, which is made a cover to some of the worst of human passions.
As a person may act wrong by following a wrong sense of duty, so nature may sometimes prevail, and lead him to act right in opposition to it. We cannot in this case be displeased to see that motive prevail, which we think ought to prevail, though the person himself is so weak as to think otherwise. As his conduct, however, is the effect of weakness, not principle, we are far from bestowing upon it any thing that approaches to complete approbation. A bigotted Roman Catholic, who, during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, had been so overcome by compassion, as to save some unhappy protestants, whom he thought it his duty to destroy, would not seem to be entitled to that high applause which we should have bestowed upon him, had he exerted the same generosity with complete self-approbation. We might be pleased with the humanity of his temper, but we should still regard him with a sort of pity which is altogether inconsistent with the admiration that is due to perfect virtue. It is the same case with all the other passions. We do not dislike to see them exert themselves properly, even when a false notion of duty would direct the person to restrain them. A very devout Quaker, who upon being struck upon one cheek, instead of turning up the other, should so far forget his literal interpretation of our Saviour’s precept, as to bestow some good discipline upon the brute that insulted him, would not be disagreeable to us. We should laugh and be diverted with his spirit, and rather like him the better for it. But we should by no means regard him with that respect and esteem which would seem due to one who, upon a like occasion, had acted properly from a just sense of what was proper to be done. No action can properly be called virtuous, which is not accompanied with the sentiment of self-approbation.
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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.
There is, however, one virtue whose general rules determine with the greatest exactness every outward act it requires. That virtue is justice. Its rules are precise in the highest degree and admit no exceptions or qualifications except those that can be defined as precisely as the rules themselves and that generally arise from the same principles. If I owe a man ten pounds, justice requires that I pay him exactly ten pounds, at the agreed time or when he demands it. What I must do, how much, when and where—the entire nature and circumstances of the required action—are precisely fixed and determined. Though an affected strictness about the ordinary rules of prudence or generosity may seem awkward and pedantic, there is no pedantry in holding fast to the rules of justice. On the contrary, they deserve the most sacred regard, and the acts justice requires are never performed more properly than when their principal motive is reverent, almost religious regard for the general rules that require them. In practicing the other virtues, our conduct should be guided less by a precise maxim or rule than by an idea of propriety, a taste for a particular manner of conduct; we should consider the rule's purpose and foundation more than the rule itself. With justice, it is otherwise: the person who indulges in the least clever qualification and adheres most steadfastly to the general rules themselves is the most commendable and dependable. Although the purpose of the rules of justice is to keep us from harming our neighbors, it may often be a crime to break them even when we can make a plausible case that this particular breach would do no harm. A man often becomes a villain the moment he begins to quibble this way, even in his own heart. The moment he thinks of departing from unwavering adherence to these inviolable precepts, he can no longer be trusted, and no one can say how far his guilt may go. The thief imagines he does no wrong when he steals from the rich something he thinks they can easily spare and may never even notice is gone. The adulterer imagines he does no wrong in seducing his friend's wife, provided he conceals the affair from her husband's suspicions and does not disturb the peace of the family. Once we yield to such subtleties, there is no enormity so gross that we might not commit it.
The rules of justice can be compared with the rules of grammar; the rules of the other virtues with those critics prescribe for achieving sublimity and elegance in writing. The former are precise, exact, and indispensable. The latter are loose, vague, and indefinite: they give us a general idea of the excellence we should seek rather than certain and infallible directions for attaining it. A person can learn by rule to write grammatically with complete certainty, and perhaps can similarly be taught to act justly. But no rules, however faithfully observed, can unfailingly lead us to elegance or sublimity in writing, though some can help correct and clarify the vague ideas of those qualities we might otherwise entertain. Nor can knowledge of any rules unfailingly teach us to act on every occasion with prudence, appropriate magnanimity, or proper beneficence, though some rules may help correct and clarify, in several respects, the imperfect ideas we might otherwise have of those virtues.
Sometimes, even while earnestly and sincerely wishing to act so as to deserve approval, we may mistake the proper rules of conduct and thus be led astray by the very principle meant to guide us. We cannot expect humankind to approve our behavior entirely in such a case. People cannot share the absurd notion of duty that influenced us, or sympathize with the actions following from it. Still, there is something respectable in the character and conduct of someone thus led into vice by a mistaken sense of duty, or what is called an erroneous conscience. However disastrously it misleads him, the generous and humane see him more as an object of compassion than of hatred or resentment. They lament the weakness of human nature, which leaves us open to such wretched delusions even when we sincerely strive for perfection and try to act by the best principle that could guide us. False religious beliefs are almost the only causes capable of so grossly distorting our natural sentiments in this way; the very principle that lends the greatest authority to the rules of duty is alone capable of distorting our ideas of them to any considerable degree. In all other cases common sense suffices to guide us, if not to the most exquisite propriety of conduct, at least to something not very far from it. Provided we sincerely wish to do well, our conduct will, on the whole, always be praiseworthy. Everyone agrees that obedience to God's will is the first rule of duty. But people differ greatly over the particular commandments that will may impose on us. The greatest mutual forbearance and tolerance are therefore called for here. Although the defense of society requires that crimes be punished, whatever their motives, a good person will always punish reluctantly when they clearly spring from false ideas of religious duty. He will never feel toward their perpetrators the indignation he feels toward other criminals; rather, even as he punishes their crime, he will regret, and sometimes even admire, their unfortunate firmness and courage. The tragedy Mahomet, one of Mr. Voltaire's finest, admirably portrays how we should feel about crimes arising from such motives. In it, two young people of different sexes, innocent and virtuous in disposition, with no weakness but the mutual affection that makes them still dearer to us, are driven by the strongest motives of a false religion to commit a horrible murder that shocks every principle of human nature. A venerable old man who has shown them both the tenderest affection, for whom they both feel the highest reverence and esteem despite his being an avowed enemy of their religion, and who is in fact their father, though they do not know it, is presented to them as a sacrifice expressly demanded by God, and they are commanded to kill him. As they prepare to commit the crime, they suffer every agony of the struggle between, on one side, their belief in the absolute necessity of religious duty, and, on the other, compassion, gratitude, reverence for age, and love of the humanity and virtue of the person they are about to destroy. This portrayal offers one of the most gripping, perhaps the most instructive, spectacles ever brought to a theater. Yet duty finally prevails over all the lovable weaknesses of human nature. They carry out the crime imposed on them, only to discover at once their error and the deception that misled them, and are overwhelmed with horror, remorse, and resentment. What we feel for the unhappy Seid and Palmira is what we should feel for anyone misled by religion in this way, when we are certain it is truly religion that misleads him and not a pretense of religion concealing some of the worst human passions.
Just as a person can act wrongly by following a mistaken sense of duty, so nature may sometimes prevail and lead him to act rightly in defiance of it. In this case we cannot be displeased to see the motive prevail that we believe ought to prevail, though the person himself is weak enough to believe otherwise. Yet because his conduct arises from weakness rather than principle, we are far from granting it anything like full approval. A bigoted Roman Catholic who, during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, was moved by compassion to save some unfortunate protestants whom he thought it his duty to kill would not seem entitled to the high praise we would have given him had he acted with the same generosity and complete self-approval. We might appreciate his humane disposition, yet still look on him with a kind of pity wholly inconsistent with the admiration due to perfect virtue. The same holds for all other passions. We do not dislike seeing them properly exercised even when a false idea of duty would tell a person to restrain them. A very devout Quaker who, on being struck on one cheek, forgot his literal reading of our Savior's precept instead of offering the other cheek, and gave the brute who insulted him a good lesson, would not displease us. We would laugh and enjoy his spirit, and like him rather better for it. But we would by no means regard him with the respect and esteem due to someone who, in the same situation, acted properly from a sound understanding of what was right. No action can properly be called virtuous unless accompanied by the feeling of self-approval.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included).
There is, however, one virtue whose general rules specify exactly every outward action it requires: justice. Its rules are exceptionally precise. They admit no exceptions or adjustments except ones that can be specified just as precisely, and that generally follow the same principles as the rules themselves. If I owe a man ten pounds, justice requires me to pay him exactly ten pounds, either at the agreed time or when he asks for it. What I must do, how much I must do, and when and where I must do it are all precisely settled, along with every feature and circumstance of the required action. It can look fussy to follow ordinary rules of prudence or generosity too rigidly. But it is not fussy to stick firmly to the rules of justice. On the contrary, we owe them the deepest respect. We perform the actions justice requires most properly when our main motive is a deep, almost religious respect for the general rules requiring them. In practicing other virtues, we should be guided more by a sense of propriety and a feel for the right way to behave than by a precise rule. We should think more about the purpose and basis of a rule than its wording. Justice is different. The person who devises the fewest subtle qualifications and clings most firmly to its general rules is the most praiseworthy and reliable. The rules of justice aim to prevent us from hurting our neighbors. But breaking them can often be a crime even when we can offer a seemingly reasonable argument that this particular violation will hurt no one. A person often becomes a villain as soon as he starts making such evasive arguments to himself. Once he considers departing from strict obedience to these rules that must not be broken, he can no longer be trusted. No one can say how far his guilt might go. A thief imagines he does no harm when he steals from rich people something he thinks they can easily do without and may never even notice is missing. An adulterer imagines he does no harm when he seduces his friend's wife, provided he hides the affair from the husband and leaves the family's peace undisturbed. Once we allow ourselves such clever excuses, we may become capable of any outrage, however terrible.
The rules of justice are like the rules of grammar. The rules for the other virtues are like critics' rules for achieving elegance and greatness in writing. The first set is precise, exact, and necessary. The second is loose and uncertain. It gives us a general picture of the ideal to aim for, rather than reliable instructions for reaching it. A person can learn to write grammatically by following rules without making mistakes. Perhaps a person can also be taught to act justly in that way. But no set of rules will certainly produce elegant or great writing, although some rules can help us clarify and correct our vague ideas of those qualities. Likewise, knowing rules cannot guarantee that we will always act prudently, with proper greatness of spirit, or with fitting beneficence. Some rules can, however, help us clarify and correct our incomplete ideas of these virtues in several respects.
Sometimes we sincerely and earnestly want to act in a way that deserves approval, but misunderstand the proper rules of conduct. The very sense of duty that should guide us then leads us astray. We cannot expect others to approve of our behavior completely. They cannot share the absurd idea of duty that moved us or approve the actions it produces. Even so, there is something worthy of respect in the character and behavior of someone led into wrongdoing by a mistaken sense of duty—what is called a mistaken conscience. However disastrous its guidance, generous and humane people feel more pity than hatred or resentment toward him. They grieve that human beings are vulnerable to such sad errors even when they are sincerely working to become better and trying to act by the best possible principle. False religious beliefs are nearly the only things that can seriously distort our natural feelings in this way. The very principle that gives rules of duty their greatest authority can also greatly twist our understanding of those rules. In other cases, common sense is enough to guide us toward behavior that may not be perfect but is not very far from it. If we sincerely want to do right, our behavior will generally deserve praise. Everyone agrees that obeying God's will is the first rule of duty. But people disagree widely about the particular things God commands. We therefore owe one another great patience and tolerance on this question. Society must protect itself by punishing crimes, whatever the motives for them. Yet a good person will be reluctant to punish a crime clearly committed from a false belief about religious duty. He will not feel the same indignation toward its perpetrator as toward other criminals. Instead, even as he punishes the crime, he will regret and sometimes admire the person's tragic resolve and courage. One of Mr. Voltaire's finest tragedies, Mahomet, shows very well how we should feel about crimes committed for such reasons. In the play, two young people, a man and a woman, are innocent and virtuous in every way. Their only weakness is their affection for each other, which makes us like them more. Powerful motives from a false religion drive them to commit a dreadful murder that offends every human feeling. They are ordered to kill a venerable old man as a sacrifice expressly required by God. He has shown them both the tenderest affection. Although he is openly an enemy of their religion, they greatly respect and admire him. Unknown to them, he is actually their father. As they prepare to kill him, they suffer intensely. On one side is their belief that religious duty must be obeyed. On the other are compassion, gratitude, respect for his age, and love for his humanity and virtue. The scene is among the most compelling and perhaps the most instructive ever staged. In the end, duty wins out over all their lovable human weaknesses. They commit the crime. Immediately afterward, they discover their mistake and the fraud that deceived them. Horror, remorse, and anger overwhelm them. We should feel toward anyone truly led astray by religion what we feel toward the unfortunate Seid and Palmira. That is, of course, only when we are sure religion itself is misleading the person, rather than being used as a cover for some of the worst human passions.
Someone can act wrongly by following a mistaken sense of duty. Equally, natural feeling can sometimes prevail and lead him to act rightly against what he thinks duty requires. We cannot object when the motive that we believe should win does win, even if the person wrongly thinks it should not. But because his action comes from weakness rather than principle, we cannot give it anything close to full approval. Suppose a fiercely committed Roman Catholic had been moved by compassion during the massacre of St. Bartholomew to save some unfortunate protestants whom he believed it was his duty to kill. He would not seem to deserve the high praise we would give him if he had acted with the same generosity while fully approving of his own choice. We might welcome his humane feelings. But we would also pity him in a way that rules out the admiration due to complete virtue. The same applies to other feelings. We are glad to see them properly expressed even when a mistaken view of duty tells someone to suppress them. Suppose a deeply devout Quaker is struck on one cheek. Instead of offering the other, he forgets his literal reading of our Savior's instruction enough to give the brute who hit him a good beating. We would not dislike him for it. His spirit would amuse us, and we might like him more. But we would not respect or admire him as much as someone who acted properly in the same situation because he correctly understood what was right. No action can properly be called virtuous unless the person who performs it feels that he can approve of it himself.