Part VI, Section III, Chapter I

Section III: Of the Different Systems Concerning the Principle of Approbation. Introduction.

After inquiring into the nature of virtue, the next important question in moral philosophy concerns the principle of approbation: the mental power or faculty that makes certain characters agreeable or disagreeable to us, leads us to prefer one course of conduct to another, calls one right and the other wrong, and regards one as deserving approval, honor, and reward, the other blame, censure, and punishment. Three different accounts of this principle have been offered. According to some, we approve or disapprove of our own and others' actions solely from self-love, with an eye to their likely effect on our own happiness or harm. According to others, reason—the same faculty by which we distinguish truth from falsehood—enables us to distinguish what is fitting from what is unfitting in actions and affections. According to still others, this distinction is entirely the work of immediate sentiment and feeling, arising from the satisfaction or disgust inspired by the sight of certain actions or affections. Self-love, reason, and sentiment, then, are the three proposed sources of approbation. Before describing these systems, I must observe that resolving this second question, though of the greatest speculative importance, has no practical importance. The question of virtue's nature necessarily affects our notions of right and wrong in many particular cases. The question of the principle of approbation cannot do so. To investigate the inner mechanism by which those notions or sentiments arise is purely a matter of philosophical curiosity.

Of Those Systems Which Derive the Principle of Approbation from Self-Love.

Those who derive approbation from self-love do not all explain it in the same way, and all their systems contain considerable confusion and imprecision. According to Mr. Hobbes and many of his followers, including Puffendorff and Mandeville, people seek refuge in society not from any natural love of their own kind, but because without others' help they cannot live safely or comfortably. Society is thus necessary to them. Whatever sustains and benefits it seems indirectly to advance their own interests; whatever threatens to disturb or destroy it seems in some measure harmful to themselves. Virtue chiefly sustains human society, while vice chiefly disturbs it. Virtue is therefore agreeable to each person, and vice offensive: in one he foresees the prosperity, and in the other the ruin and disorder, of what he needs for his comfort and safety.

There is no denying, as I have observed before, that when we consider the matter calmly and philosophically, virtue's tendency to promote social order gives it great beauty, while vice's tendency to disrupt that order gives it great ugliness. In an abstract, philosophical view, human society resembles an immense machine whose regular, harmonious motions produce a thousand pleasing effects. In any fine machine made by human skill, whatever makes its motion smoother and easier derives beauty from that effect, while whatever obstructs it is displeasing. So virtue, like a fine polish on the wheels of society, necessarily pleases us, while vice, like the vile rust that makes them jar and grate against one another, necessarily offends us. To the extent that this account derives approval and disapproval from regard for social order, it falls under the principle that gives utility its beauty, a principle I have already explained. From this it derives all the plausibility it possesses. When these authors describe the countless advantages of civilized social life over a savage solitary life, elaborate on the need for virtue and good order to sustain the former, and demonstrate how surely vice and lawlessness bring back the latter, readers are charmed by the novelty and grandeur of the view. They plainly see in virtue a new beauty and in vice a new ugliness they had not noticed before, and are often so delighted by the discovery that they fail to reflect that this political view, which had never occurred to them in their lives, cannot possibly have been the basis of the approval and disapproval they have always felt toward those qualities.

Yet when these authors derive our concern for society's welfare, and our consequent esteem for virtue, from self-love, they do not mean that when we now praise Cato's virtue and detest Catiline's villainy, we imagine ourselves benefiting from one or suffering from the other. Nor, according to these philosophers, do we esteem the virtuous character and blame the disorderly one because we expect society's prosperity or collapse in those distant ages and countries to affect our present happiness or misery. They never supposed that we think any benefit or harm actually accrues to us from either person. Rather, we think of what might have accrued to us if we had lived in those times and places, or what might still accrue if we encountered similar characters in our own time. In short, what these authors were groping toward without clearly explaining was the indirect sympathy we feel with the gratitude or resentment of those who benefited or suffered from such opposite characters. They dimly pointed to this when they said that our praise and indignation arise not from what we ourselves gained or lost, but from imagining what we might gain or lose by living among such people.

Sympathy, however, cannot in any sense be called selfish. When I sympathize with your sorrow or indignation, someone may argue that my feeling arises from self-love because it comes from imagining myself in your place and conceiving what I would feel in those circumstances. But though sympathy does arise from an imagined exchange of places with the person chiefly concerned, I do not imagine this exchange as happening to me in my own person and character. I imagine myself as that person. To share your grief at the death of your only son, I do not consider what I, with my particular character and profession, would suffer if I had a son who died. I consider what I would suffer if I really were you: I exchange not only circumstances but persons and characters. My grief is therefore entirely for you, not in the least for myself. It is not selfish at all. How could a passion be selfish when it arises not even from imagining something that has happened to me, or concerns me in my own person and character, but is wholly occupied with what concerns you? A man can sympathize with a woman in childbirth, though he cannot imagine himself suffering her pains in his own person and character. The whole account of human nature that derives every sentiment and affection from self-love—an account that has caused so much stir but, as far as I know, has never been fully and clearly explained—seems to me to have arisen from a confused misunderstanding of sympathy.

Section III: Different theories about the basis of approval. Introduction.

After asking what virtue is, moral philosophy must ask another important question: what makes us approve of something? What ability of the mind makes certain characters appealing or unappealing to us? What makes us prefer one way of acting to another, call one right and another wrong, and think one deserves approval, honor, and reward while the other deserves blame, criticism, and punishment? There have been three answers. Some say we approve or disapprove of our own actions and other people's only out of self-love, because we think about how the actions might help or harm us. Others say reason, which distinguishes truth from falsehood, also lets us tell what is fitting or unfitting in actions and feelings. Still others say the distinction comes entirely from immediate sentiment and feeling: seeing certain actions or feelings gives us satisfaction or disgust. Thus the three proposed sources of approval are self-love, reason, and sentiment. Before examining these theories, I should note that the answer to this second question matters greatly in theory but not in practice. What we think virtue is necessarily affects our ideas of right and wrong in many particular cases. What we think produces approval cannot have that effect. Studying the inner workings that produce these various ideas and feelings is purely a matter of philosophical curiosity.

Theories that derive approval from self-love.

Those who explain approval through self-love do not all explain it in the same way. Every version of their theory contains much confusion and imprecision. According to Mr. Hobbes and many of his followers, including Puffendorff and Mandeville, people turn to society not out of a natural love for other people, but because they cannot live safely or comfortably without help. On this account, society becomes necessary to them. Anything that supports its welfare seems to serve their interests in the long run. Anything that threatens or destroys society seems to harm them. Virtue gives society its strongest support, while vice causes its greatest disruption. Virtue is therefore pleasing to everyone, and vice offensive. Virtue promises a flourishing society; vice promises ruin and disorder in something essential to our comfort and security.

As I noted earlier, we cannot doubt that virtue's tendency to support social order makes it look very beautiful when we consider it calmly and philosophically. Vice's tendency to disrupt order makes it look very ugly. Considered in the abstract, human society looks like a huge machine. Its smooth, coordinated movements produce a thousand pleasing effects. In a fine machine made by human hands, anything that made its movements smoother would look better for that reason; anything that blocked them would displease us. Likewise, virtue pleases us as though it polished society's wheels, while vice offends us like rust that makes those wheels scrape and grind together. So an explanation that bases approval and disapproval on concern for social order draws on the principle that makes usefulness beautiful, which I explained earlier. This gives the theory whatever plausibility it has. These writers describe the countless advantages of a developed social life over a solitary life in the wild. They stress that virtue and good order are needed to maintain the first kind of life, while widespread vice and lawbreaking would inevitably bring back the second. The reader is delighted by the new and impressive picture they offer. He notices a beauty in virtue and an ugliness in vice that he had never seen before. He is often so pleased with the discovery that he fails to reflect on something important: this political view had never occurred to him before, so it cannot explain the approval and disapproval he has always felt for virtue and vice.

On the other hand, when these writers say our concern for society's welfare, and therefore our esteem for virtue, comes from self-love, they do not mean that we praise Cato's virtue and hate Catiline's villainy today because either man actually benefits or harms us. They do not think that society's success or collapse in those distant times and places could affect our happiness or misery now. They do not imagine that an actual gain or loss to us shapes our judgment. Rather, they mean what we might have gained or lost if we had lived then and there, or what we might still gain or lose if we met similar people today. What they were struggling to express was our indirect sympathy with the gratitude of people helped, or the resentment of people harmed, by those very different characters. They were vaguely pointing to this when they said we do not praise or condemn because of what we ourselves have gained or suffered. Instead, we imagine what we might gain or suffer if we had to live in society with such companions.

Sympathy, however, is not selfish in any sense. Someone might claim that my sympathy with your sorrow or anger comes from self-love, because I put myself in your place and imagine how I would feel in the same circumstances. Sympathy does involve imagining a change of places with the person concerned. But I do not imagine myself, with my own character, in that position. I imagine being the person with whom I sympathize. When I express sympathy for the death of your only son, I do not ask what I, with my own character and occupation, would suffer if I had a son who died. I ask what I would suffer if I actually were you. I exchange not just circumstances but people and characters. So my grief is entirely for you, not for myself. It is not selfish at all. How could a feeling be selfish when it does not even come from imagining anything happening to me as the person I am, but concerns you entirely? A man can sympathize with a woman in childbirth, though he cannot imagine suffering her pains as himself. The whole theory that traces every human feeling and affection to self-love has attracted great attention. Yet, as far as I know, no one has ever explained it fully and clearly. It seems to me to arise from a confused misunderstanding of sympathy.