Part VI, Section II, Chapter IV, 2

There is also a kinship between the desire to become honorable and worthy of esteem and the desire for honor and esteem—between love of virtue and love of true glory. They resemble each other not only because both aim at actually being honorable and noble, but even in the respect in which the love of true glory resembles what is properly called vanity: some regard for the sentiments of others. The most magnanimous person, who desires virtue for its own sake and cares least what people actually think of him, nevertheless delights in considering what they ought to think. He knows that, though he may receive neither honor nor applause, he deserves both, and that if people were calm, candid, consistent, and properly informed about the motives and circumstances of his conduct, they would honor and applaud him. Though he despises the opinions actually held about him, he prizes those that ought to be held. The great and exalted motive of his conduct is to think himself worthy of those honorable sentiments: whatever others may think of his character, when he puts himself in their place and considers not their actual opinion but what it ought to be, he can always hold the highest opinion of it himself. Thus even the love of virtue has some reference—not to what others think, but to what reason and propriety say they ought to think—and in this respect, too, it has some kinship with the love of true glory. Yet there remains a very great difference. The person who acts solely from regard for what is right and fitting, for what deserves esteem and approval even if he never receives either, acts from the most sublime and godlike motive human nature can conceive. The person who wishes both to deserve approval and to obtain it has motives that, though laudable on the whole, contain more human frailty. Ignorance and injustice may wound him; the envy of rivals and the folly of the public may threaten his happiness. The other's happiness, by contrast, is wholly secure, independent of fortune and of the whims of those around him. He does not take the contempt and hatred cast on him through ignorance as belonging to him, and so they do not wound him. People despise and hate him because they have a false notion of his character and conduct. Were they to know him better, they would esteem and love him. Strictly speaking, the person they hate and despise is not him but someone else for whom they have mistaken him. A friend who encountered us at a masquerade dressed as our enemy would be more amused than hurt if we vented our indignation against him beneath that disguise. Such are the sentiments of genuine magnanimity under unjust censure. Human nature, however, seldom attains this firmness. Though only the weakest and least worthy delight greatly in false glory, a strange inconsistency allows false disgrace to wound even those who seem most resolute and determined.

Dr. Mandeville is not content to portray the trivial motive of vanity as the source of every action commonly counted virtuous. He tries to show other defects in human virtue. In every instance, he claims, it falls short of the complete self-denial it professes and is ordinarily not a conquest of our passions but a concealed indulgence of them. If our restraint in pleasure falls short of the sternest abstinence, he calls it gross luxury and sensuality. Everything beyond what is absolutely necessary to sustain human nature is luxury to him: even a clean shirt or a comfortable home becomes a vice. Indulging sexual desire in the most lawful union he regards as just as sensual as its most harmful gratification; he mocks temperance and chastity practiced at so little cost. Here, as often, ambiguity of language conceals the ingenious sophistry of his argument. Some passions have no common names except names for their offensive and disagreeable degree. It is at this degree that the spectator is most likely to notice them. When they offend his own sentiments and cause aversion and unease, he must attend to them and naturally gives them names. When they accord with his own state of mind, he tends to overlook them altogether and either gives them no names or chooses names that signify their restraint rather than the degree to which they persist under restraint. Thus the common names for the love of pleasure and the love of sex—luxury and lust—denote the vicious, offensive degree of those passions. Temperance and chastity, by contrast, seem to signify the restraint imposed on them rather than the degree to which they still exist. When Mandeville can show that they persist in some degree, he imagines he has demolished the reality of temperance and chastity and exposed them as mere deceptions practiced on the inattentive and unsuspecting. Yet those virtues do not demand utter insensibility to the objects of the passions they govern. They aim only to curb their violence enough that it neither harms the individual nor disturbs or offends society.

The great fallacy of Dr. Mandeville's book, Fable of the Bees, is to represent as wholly vicious any passion that can be vicious in some degree or direction. Thus he calls everything vanity that has any reference either to what others do think or to what they ought to think; through this sophistry he arrives at his favorite conclusion, that private vices are public benefits. If the love of splendor, the taste for the elegant arts and improvements of human life, for agreeable dress, furnishings, or conveyances, for architecture, sculpture, painting, and music must be called luxury, sensuality, and ostentation even in people whose circumstances allow them to indulge these tastes without inconvenience, then luxury, sensuality, and ostentation certainly are public benefits. Without the qualities on which he chooses to lay these reproachful names, the arts of refinement would receive no encouragement and would languish for lack of work. Certain popular ascetic doctrines current before his time, which located virtue in the complete extirpation of every passion, were the true foundation of this permissive system. It was easy for Dr. Mandeville to prove, first, that no such complete conquest ever actually occurred among human beings and, second, that if it occurred universally, it would harm society by ending all industry and commerce and virtually all human business. The first claim seemed to prove that genuine virtue did not exist, and that what claimed the name was a mere fraud upon mankind; the second seemed to prove that private vices were public benefits, since no society could prosper without them.

Such is Dr. Mandeville's system. It once caused a great stir and, though perhaps it never produced more vice than would otherwise have existed, it at least taught vice arising from other causes to appear more brazenly and to avow its corrupt motives with an unprecedented shameless audacity.

Yet however destructive this system may seem, it could never have persuaded so many people or so alarmed the friends of better principles if it had not approached the truth in some respects. A system of natural philosophy may seem plausible and be widely accepted for a long time without any basis in nature or likeness to truth. For nearly a century an ingenious nation considered the vortices of Des Cartes a thoroughly satisfactory account of the revolutions of the heavenly bodies. Yet it has been demonstrated to everyone's satisfaction that these supposed causes not only do not exist but cannot exist, and that even if they did, they could not produce the effects attributed to them. Moral philosophy is different. An author who claims to explain the origin of our moral sentiments cannot deceive us so grossly or stray so far from the truth. A traveler describing a distant country can pass off the most groundless and absurd inventions as certain facts. But someone describing events in our neighborhood and the affairs of our own parish, though he may still deceive us in many respects if we fail to look for ourselves, must give even his greatest falsehoods some resemblance to truth and a considerable share of it. The natural philosopher who assigns causes to the great phenomena of the universe is reporting on a distant country: provided his account seems possible, he can say almost anything and hope to be believed. But the person explaining the origin of our desires and affections and our sentiments of approval and disapproval reports not only on our own parish but on our own household. Like indolent masters who trust a deceitful steward, we may be easily fooled here too; yet we cannot accept an account that has no regard at all for truth. At least some of its entries must be correct, and even the most inflated ones must have some foundation, or our most careless inspection would detect the fraud. Anyone who assigned a natural sentiment to a principle neither connected with it nor resembling any principle connected with it would seem absurd even to the least discerning and least experienced reader.

The desire to be honorable and worthy of respect is closely related to the desire for honor and respect. The love of virtue is closely related to the love of genuine glory. Both aim at actually being honorable and noble. And even the love of virtue has something in common with the love of genuine glory where that love resembles vanity: it takes account of what others think. The most generous and high-minded person may want virtue for its own sake and care very little about what people actually think of him. Still, he enjoys thinking about what they ought to think. He knows that even if they neither honor nor praise him, he deserves their honor and praise. If people were calm, fair, consistent, and properly informed about his motives and circumstances, they would honor and praise him. He may dismiss their actual opinions of him, but he cares deeply about the opinions they ought to hold. His great and noble motive is to be worthy of that favorable judgment. Whatever others might think of his character, he wants to put himself in their place, consider what their opinion should be rather than what it is, and retain the highest opinion of his own character on that basis. So even the love of virtue refers, not to what others do think, but to what reason and propriety say they ought to think. In this respect, it resembles the love of genuine glory. Yet there is a great difference. Someone who acts solely because an action is right and fitting, and worthy of esteem and approval even if he never receives either, acts from the noblest, most godlike motive we can imagine. Someone who wants to deserve approval but is also eager to receive it generally deserves praise too. But his motives include more human weakness. Other people's ignorance and injustice may upset him. His happiness is vulnerable to his rivals' envy and the public's foolishness. The first person's happiness, by contrast, is secure. It does not depend on luck or on the whims of those around him. If people ignorantly despise and hate him, he thinks their hostility does not really apply to him, and it does not upset him. They despise a false picture of his character and conduct. If they knew him better, they would esteem and love him. Strictly speaking, they hate not him but someone they mistake him for. If we met a friend at a masquerade dressed as our enemy, our friend would be amused rather than hurt if we angrily spoke to him as though he were that enemy. This is how a truly high-minded person feels when unfairly criticized. Few people, however, reach this level of firmness. Only the weakest and most worthless people take much pleasure in undeserved glory. Yet, strangely, an undeserved bad name can hurt even those who seem most resolute and determined.

Dr. Mandeville does not stop at portraying the shallow motive of vanity as the source of everything usually called virtuous. He tries to show other supposed flaws in human virtue. He claims that in every case it falls short of the complete self-denial it professes. What looks like a victory over our passions, he says, is usually a hidden way of indulging them. Unless restraint in pleasure amounts to the strictest abstinence, he calls it gross luxury and sensuality. In his view, everything beyond what is absolutely necessary to keep people alive is a luxury. Even a clean shirt or a comfortable home is a vice. He treats sexual desire within the most lawful union as no different in sensuality from its most harmful gratification. He mocks temperance and chastity when they can be practiced at such a low cost. His clever but misleading argument, here as elsewhere, depends on ambiguous words. Some passions have no common names except names for their unpleasant and offensive extremes. An observer is more likely to notice them at those extremes. When they clash with his own feelings and repel or disturb him, he cannot help noticing them and naturally gives them names. When they fit his ordinary state of mind, he is likely to overlook them entirely. He may give them no names, or use names that point to the restraint placed on the passions rather than to the strength they still have after being restrained. Thus the common names for an excessive love of pleasure and of sex—luxury and lust—refer to a vicious, offensive degree of those passions. By contrast, temperance and chastity name the restraint placed on them, not the degree to which they remain. Mandeville thinks that proving the passions still exist in some degree completely disproves the reality of temperance and chastity. He thinks he has shown that these virtues merely exploit people's inattention and simplicity. But they do not demand that we become completely unresponsive to the things that arouse the passions they govern. They aim only to restrain the passions enough that they do not harm the individual or disturb or offend society.

The central mistake in Dr. Mandeville's book, Fable of the Bees, is to call every passion wholly vicious if it is vicious to any degree or in any form. That is why he calls anything vanity if it has any connection with what others think or what they ought to think. This misleading argument lets him reach his favorite conclusion: private vices benefit the public. Suppose that a love of splendor and a taste for refined arts and improvements in human life are called luxury, sensuality, and showiness. These tastes include pleasing clothes, furniture, and vehicles, along with architecture, sculpture, painting, and music. Suppose they receive those labels even when people's circumstances allow them to enjoy such things without inconvenience. In that case, luxury, sensuality, and showiness certainly benefit the public. Without the qualities he gives those insulting names, refined arts would receive no support and would wither for lack of work. His permissive theory actually rests on some earlier, popular doctrines of severe self-denial. They located virtue in the total destruction of all our passions. It was easy for Dr. Mandeville to show, first, that no one ever achieved such a total victory and, second, that universal success at it would harm society. It would end all industry and commerce, and nearly all the business of human life. The first point seemed to prove that there was no real virtue, and that anything claiming to be virtue was a fraud on humanity. The second seemed to prove that private vices benefit the public, since society could not prosper without them.

That is Dr. Mandeville's system. It once caused a great stir. Perhaps it never produced more vice than would have existed anyway. But at least it taught vice from other causes to show itself more shamelessly and to admit its corrupt motives with a reckless boldness previously unheard of.

However destructive this system looks, it could not have fooled so many people or so alarmed defenders of better principles if it did not come close to the truth in some ways. A theory of nature may look very convincing and win wide acceptance for a long time, even when it has no basis in nature and bears no resemblance to the truth. For nearly a century, a very ingenious nation accepted Des Cartes's vortices as an excellent explanation of the motions of heavenly bodies. Yet it has been demonstrated to everyone's satisfaction that those supposed causes do not exist, are impossible, and could not produce the claimed effects even if they did exist. Moral philosophy is different. Someone who tries to explain the origin of our moral sentiments cannot mislead us so thoroughly or stray so far from the truth. A traveler describing a distant country might persuade us that the most groundless and absurd stories are certain facts. But a person reporting what happens in our neighborhood and our own parish has less room to lie. We may fail to look for ourselves and be deceived in many ways. Even so, the biggest lies he tells us must resemble the truth and contain a good deal of it. Someone who proposes the causes of the great phenomena of the universe is like the traveler describing a distant country. He can say almost anything and expect belief so long as his story seems possible. But someone explaining where our desires, affections, approval, and disapproval come from is describing not only our own parish but our own household affairs. We may be like lazy householders who trust a dishonest steward and are easily deceived. Still, we cannot accept an account that takes no notice of the truth. At least some of its details must be correct. Even the most exaggerated must have some basis, or we would detect the fraud during even a careless inspection. If an author said a natural feeling came from a principle entirely unconnected to it, and unlike any principle connected to it, even the least discerning and least experienced reader would find the claim absurd.