Adam Smith · Complete work
Part IV, Chapter II, 2
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Humanity, justice, generosity, and public spirit, are the qualities most useful to others. Wherein consists the propriety of humanity and justice has been explained upon a former occasion, where it was shewn how much our esteem and approbation of those qualities depended upon the concord between the affections of the agent and those of the spectators.
The propriety of generosity and public spirit is founded upon the same principle with that of justice. Generosity is different from humanity. Those two qualities, which at first sight seem so nearly allied, do not always belong to the same person. Humanity is the virtue of a woman, generosity of a man. The fair sex, who have commonly much more tenderness than ours, have seldom so much generosity. That women rarely make considerable donations is an observation of the civil law7. Humanity consists merely in the exquisite fellow-feeling which the spectator entertains with the sentiments of the persons principally concerned, so as to grieve for their sufferings, to resent their injuries, and to rejoice at their good fortune. The most humane actions require no self-denial, no self-command, no great exertion of the sense of propriety. They consist only in doing what this exquisite sympathy would of its own accord prompt us to do. But it is otherwise with generosity. We never are generous except when in some respect we prefer some other person to ourselves, and sacrifice some great and important interest of our own to an equal interest of a friend or of a superior. The man who gives up his pretensions to an office that was the great object of his ambition, because he imagines that the services of another are better entitled to it, the man who exposes his life to defend that of his friend, which he judges to be of more importance, neither of them act from humanity, or because they feel more exquisitely what concerns that other person than what concerns themselves. They both consider those opposite interests not in the light in which they naturally appear to themselves, but in that in which they appear to others. To every by-stander, the success or preservation of this other person may justly be more interesting than their own; but it cannot be so to themselves. When to the interest of this other person, therefore, they sacrifice their own, they accommodate themselves to the sentiments of the spectator, and by an effort of magnanimity act according to those views of things which they feel, must naturally occur to any third person. The soldier who throws away his life in order to defend that of his officer, would perhaps be but little affected by the death of that officer, if it should happen without any fault of his own; and a very small disaster which had befallen himself might excite a much more lively sorrow. But when he endeavours to act so as to deserve applause, and to make the impartial spectator enter into the principles of his conduct, he feels, that to every body but himself, his own life is a trifle compared with that of his officer, and that when he sacrifices the one to the other, he acts quite properly and agreeably to what would be the natural apprehensions of every impartial by-stander.
Footnote 7:
Raro mulieres donare solent.
It is the same case with the greater exertions of public spirit. When a young officer exposes his life to acquire some inconsiderable addition to the dominions of his sovereign, it is not, because the acquisition of the new territory is, to himself, an object more desireable than the preservation of his own life. To him his own life is of infinitely more value than the conquest of a whole kingdom for the state which he serves. But when he compares those two objects with one another, he does not view them in the light in which they naturally appear to himself, but in that in which they appear to the nation he fights for. To them the success of the war is of the highest importance; the life of a private person of scarce any consequence. When he puts himself in their situation, he immediately feels that he cannot be too prodigal of his blood, if by shedding it, he can promote so valuable a purpose. In thus thwarting, from a sense of duty and propriety, the strongest of all natural propensities, consists the heroism of his conduct. There is many an honest Englishman, who, in his private station, would be more seriously disturbed by the loss of a guinea, than by the national loss of Minorca, who yet, had it been in his power to defend that fortress, would have sacrificed his life a thousand times rather than, through his fault, have let it fall into the hands of the enemy. When the first Brutus led forth his own sons to a capital punishment, because they had conspired against the rising liberty of Rome, he sacrificed what, if he had consulted his own breast only, would appear to be the stronger to the weaker affection. Brutus ought naturally to have felt much more for the death of his own sons, than for all that probably Rome could have suffered from the want of so great an example. But he viewed them, not with the eyes of a father, but with those of a Roman citizen. He entered so thoroughly into the sentiments of this last character, that he paid no regard to that tye, by which he himself was connected with them; and to a Roman citizen, the sons even of Brutus seemed contemptible, when put into the balance with the smallest interest of Rome. In these and in all other cases of this kind, our admiration is not so much founded upon the utility, as upon the unexpected, and on that account the great, the noble, and exalted propriety of such actions. This utility, when we come to view it, bestows upon them, undoubtedly, a new beauty, and upon that account still further recommends them, to our approbation. This beauty, however, is chiefly perceived by men of reflection and speculation, and is by no means the quality which first recommends such actions to the natural sentiments of the bulk of mankind.
It is to be observed, that so far as the sentiment of approbation arises from the perception of this beauty of utility, it has no reference of any kind to the sentiments of others. If it was possible, therefore, that a person should grow up to manhood without any communication with society, his own actions might, notwithstanding, be agreeable or disagreeable to him on account of their tendency to his happiness or disadvantage. He might perceive a beauty of this kind in prudence, temperance, and good conduct, and a deformity in the opposite behaviour: He might view his own temper and character with that sort of satisfaction with which we consider a well contrived machine, in the one case; or with that sort of distaste and dissatisfaction with which we regard a very awkward and clumsy contrivance, in the other. As these perceptions, however, are merely a matter of taste, and have all the feebleness and delicacy of that species of perceptions, upon the justness of which what is properly called taste is founded, they probably would not be much attended to by one in his solitary and miserable condition. Even though they should occur to him, they would by no means have the same effect upon him, antecedent to his connexion with society, which they would have in consequence of that connexion. He would not be cast down with inward shame at the thought of this deformity; nor would he be elevated with secret triumph of mind from the consciousness of the contrary beauty. He would not exult from the notion of deserving reward in the one case, nor tremble from the suspicion of meriting punishment in the other. All such sentiments suppose the idea of some other being, who is the natural judge of the person that feels them; and it is only by sympathy with the decisions of this arbiter of his conduct, that he can conceive, either the triumph of self-applause, or the shame of self-condemnation.
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.
Humanity, justice, generosity, and public spirit are the qualities most useful to others. I have explained before what constitutes the propriety of humanity and justice, showing how much our esteem and approval of those qualities depend upon the agreement between the feelings of the agent and those of the spectators.
The propriety of generosity and public spirit rests on the same principle as that of justice. Generosity differs from humanity. These two qualities, so closely related at first sight, do not always belong to the same person. Humanity is the virtue of a woman; generosity, of a man. Women, who commonly have far more tenderness than men, seldom have as much generosity. That women rarely make substantial gifts is an observation of civil law7. Humanity consists simply in the spectator's keen fellow-feeling with the sentiments of those principally concerned: he grieves at their suffering, resents injuries done to them, and rejoices in their good fortune. The most humane acts demand no self-denial, no self-command, no great exercise of the sense of propriety. They consist merely in doing what such keen sympathy would prompt us to do of itself. With generosity it is otherwise. We are generous only when, in some respect, we put another person before ourselves and sacrifice an important interest of our own for an equal interest of a friend or superior. Consider the man who gives up his claim to an office that has been the great object of his ambition because he believes another person's services merit it more; or the man who risks his life to defend a friend whose life he judges more important. Neither acts from humanity, or because he feels the other's concerns more keenly than his own. Both consider the opposing interests not as they naturally appear to themselves, but as they appear to others. To any bystander, the other's success or survival may rightly matter more than their own; to themselves, it cannot. When they sacrifice their interests for his, they bring their feelings into accord with those of the spectator and, through an effort of magnanimity, act according to the view they know any third person would naturally take. A soldier who gives his life to defend his officer might be little troubled by that officer's death if it happened through no fault of his own; a very small misfortune of his own might grieve him far more. But when he strives to act in a way deserving of praise, and to make the impartial spectator sympathize with his motives, he feels that to everyone but himself his own life is a trifle beside his officer's. In sacrificing one for the other, he acts with complete propriety, in keeping with the natural judgment of every impartial bystander.
Women rarely make gifts.
The same holds true of the greater acts of public spirit. When a young officer risks his life to gain a small addition to his sovereign's dominions, it is not because the new territory is more desirable to him than the preservation of his life. His own life is worth infinitely more to him than the conquest of an entire kingdom for the state he serves. Yet in comparing the two, he sees them not as they naturally appear to him, but as they appear to the nation for which he fights. To that nation, success in war is of supreme importance, while a private individual's life is of scarcely any consequence. Putting himself in their place, he immediately feels he cannot be too lavish with his blood if shedding it will further so valuable an end. The heroism of his conduct lies in thwarting, from a sense of duty and propriety, the strongest of all natural impulses. Many an honest Englishman, in private life, would be more deeply upset at losing a guinea than at the nation's loss of Minorca; yet, had he been able to defend that fortress, he would have sacrificed his life a thousand times rather than let it fall through his fault into enemy hands. When the first Brutus brought his own sons out to face capital punishment for conspiring against Rome's emerging liberty, he sacrificed what would have seemed the stronger affection, had he consulted only his own heart, to the weaker. Brutus should naturally have felt far more at the death of his sons than at anything Rome would probably have suffered for want of so great an example. But he looked on them not as a father, but as a Roman citizen. He entered so fully into the feelings of the citizen that he disregarded his own bond with them; to a Roman citizen, even Brutus's sons seemed of little account when weighed against the smallest interest of Rome. In these and all such cases, our admiration rests less on utility than on the unexpected—and therefore great, noble, and exalted—propriety of the actions. Once we notice their utility, it undoubtedly gives them a new beauty, making them still more deserving of our approval. Yet this beauty is perceived chiefly by reflective and speculative minds; it is by no means what first commends such actions to the natural feelings of most people.
We should observe that, insofar as approval springs from the perception of this beauty of utility, it has no reference whatever to the feelings of others. If a person could therefore grow to adulthood without any contact with society, his own actions might nevertheless please or displease him by their tendency to help or harm his happiness. He might perceive a beauty of this kind in prudence, temperance, and good conduct, and an ugliness in their opposites. He might contemplate his own disposition and character with the satisfaction we feel at a well-designed machine, or with the distaste and dissatisfaction a clumsy contrivance inspires. Yet these perceptions are matters of taste, possessing all the weakness and delicacy characteristic of the perceptions on whose accuracy taste, properly so called, is founded. In his lonely and miserable condition he would probably pay them little heed. Even if they occurred to him, they would not affect him before his connection with society as they would afterward. The thought of this ugliness would not cast him down in inward shame, nor would awareness of the opposite beauty lift him to a secret triumph of the mind. He would not exult in the belief that he deserved reward in one case, nor tremble at the thought that he merited punishment in the other. All such feelings presuppose another being, the natural judge of the person who feels them. Only by sympathizing with this judge's verdict on his conduct can a person conceive either the triumph of self-approval or the shame of self-condemnation.
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).
Humanity, justice, generosity, and public spirit are the qualities that help other people most. I have explained earlier what makes humanity and justice proper. I showed how much our esteem and approval of them depend on agreement between the agent's feelings and the spectators' feelings.
Generosity and public spirit are proper for the same basic reason as justice. Generosity differs from humanity. Although the two seem closely related at first, they do not always occur in the same person. Humanity is a woman's virtue, generosity a man's. Women generally have much more tenderness than men, but seldom as much generosity. The civil law observes that women rarely make substantial gifts. In its own words: “Women rarely give gifts.” Humanity consists simply of the spectator's deep sympathy with the feelings of the people directly involved. It leads the spectator to grieve at their suffering, resent injuries done to them, and rejoice in their good fortune. The most humane acts demand no self-denial, no self-command, and no great effort to do what is proper. They simply follow what this deep sympathy naturally prompts us to do. Generosity is different. We are generous only when we put someone else ahead of ourselves in some respect. We sacrifice an important interest of our own for an equally important interest of a friend or a superior. Think of a man who gives up his claim to an office he deeply wants because he believes another candidate's service gives that person a stronger claim. Or think of someone who risks his life to protect a friend whose life he judges more important. Neither acts from humanity or because he feels the other person's concerns more keenly than his own. Instead, both judge the competing interests not as they naturally appear to themselves, but as they appear to other people. An onlooker may rightly care more about the other person's success or survival than about theirs. But they themselves cannot naturally feel that way. When they sacrifice their own interests for the other's, they bring their feelings into line with the spectator's. Through an act of great-mindedness, they follow the view they know would naturally occur to any third person. A soldier who dies protecting his officer might feel little sorrow if the officer died through no fault of his. Some minor setback to the soldier himself might grieve him far more. But when he tries to act so as to deserve praise and to make the impartial spectator understand his reasons, he realizes something. For everyone but himself, his own life matters little beside his officer's. By sacrificing it for his officer, he acts properly and in accord with the natural judgment of any impartial onlooker.
The same is true of greater acts of public spirit. A young officer may risk his life to add a small piece of territory to his sovereign's lands. He does not do so because this gain matters more to him than staying alive. To him, his life is worth infinitely more than winning an entire kingdom for his country. But when he compares these things, he views them not as they naturally appear to him but as they appear to the nation he serves. Victory matters enormously to the nation; one private person's life counts for very little. Putting himself in his fellow citizens' place, he feels he cannot shed too much of his blood if doing so advances so important a goal. His heroism consists in opposing the strongest natural impulse out of duty and a sense of propriety. Many an honest Englishman would feel the loss of a guinea in private life more sharply than his country's loss of Minorca. Yet if he could have defended that fortress, he would have died a thousand times rather than let it fall to the enemy through his fault. When the first Brutus sent his own sons to be executed for plotting against Rome's newly won freedom, he sacrificed what would have seemed to him the stronger feeling for the weaker one, had he consulted his own heart alone. Naturally he should have felt much more for his sons' deaths than for whatever Rome might have suffered if he had failed to set so powerful an example. But he saw them with a Roman citizen's eyes, not a father's. He identified so fully with a citizen's feelings that he disregarded his personal bond with his sons. To a Roman citizen, even Brutus's sons counted for little against Rome's smallest interest. In these cases and others like them, we admire the actions less for their usefulness than for their surprising, and therefore great, noble, and elevated propriety. When we notice their usefulness, it certainly adds a new beauty and strengthens our approval. But mainly reflective, speculative people notice this beauty. It is not what first makes most people naturally approve of such actions.
Notice that approval based on seeing the beauty of usefulness has no reference at all to anyone else's feelings. Suppose someone could grow to adulthood without contact with society. That person could still like or dislike their own actions because those actions tend to help or hurt them. They might find a beauty of this sort in prudence, moderation, and good conduct, and an ugliness in the opposite behavior. In the first case, they might regard their own character with the satisfaction we feel at a well-designed machine. In the second, they might feel the distaste we feel at an awkward, clumsy device. But these perceptions are matters of taste. They are as faint and delicate as the perceptions whose accuracy forms what we call good taste. A person alone in such miserable circumstances would probably pay them little attention. Even if they did occur, they would not affect that person as they would after they entered society. They would not feel inward shame at their character's ugliness or a private sense of triumph at its opposite beauty. They would not rejoice at the thought of deserving a reward in the first case or fear that they deserved punishment in the second. All such feelings require the idea of someone else who could judge the person who feels them. Only by sharing the imagined judgment of this judge of their conduct could they feel either the triumph of self-approval or the shame of self-condemnation.