Adam Smith · Complete work
Part VI, Section III, Chapter III, 2
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But this account of things, though it may not be liable to the same objections with the foregoing, is exposed to others which are equally unanswerable.
First of all, whatever variations any particular emotion may undergo, it still preserves the general features which distinguish it to be an emotion of such a kind, and these general features are always more striking and remarkable than any variation which it may undergo in particular cases. Thus anger is an emotion of a particular kind: and accordingly its general features are always more distinguishable than all the variations it undergoes in particular cases. Anger against a man, is, no doubt, somewhat different from anger against a woman, and that again from anger against a child. In each of those three cases, the general passion of anger receives a different modification from the particular character of its object, as may easily be observed by the attentive. But still the general features of the passion predominate in all these cases. To distinguish these, requires no nice observation: a very delicate attention, on the contrary, is necessary to discover their variations: every body takes notice of the former: scarce any body observes the latter. If approbation and disapprobation, therefore, were, like gratitude and resentment, emotions of a particular kind, distinct from every other, we should expect that in all the variations which either of them might undergo, it would still retain the general features which mark it to be an emotion of such a particular kind, clear, plain, and easily distinguishable. But in fact it happens quite otherwise. If we attend to what we really feel when upon different occasions we either approve or disapprove, we shall find that our emotion in one case is often totally different from that in another, and that no common features can possibly be discovered between them. Thus the approbation with which we view a tender, delicate, and humane sentiment, is quite different from that with which we are struck by one that appears great, daring, and magnanimous. Our approbation of both may, upon different occasions, be perfect and entire; but we are softened by the one, and we are elevated by the other, and there is no sort of resemblance between the emotions which they excite in us. But, according to that system which I have been endeavouring to establish, this must necessarily be the case. As the emotions of the person whom we approve of, are, in those two cases, quite opposite to one another, and as our approbation arises from sympathy with those opposite emotions, what we feel upon the one occasion, can have no sort of resemblance to what we feel upon the other. But this could not happen if approbation consisted in a peculiar emotion which had nothing in common with the sentiments we approved of, but which arose at the view of those sentiments, like any other passion at the view of its proper object. The same thing holds true with regard to disapprobation. Our horror for cruelty has no sort of resemblance to our contempt for mean-spiritedness. It is quite a different species of discord which we feel at the view of those two different vices, between our minds and those of the person whose sentiments and behaviour we consider.
Secondly, I have already observed, that not only the different passions or affections of the human mind which are approved or disapproved of appear morally good or evil, but that proper and improper approbation appear, to our natural sentiments, to be stampt with the same characters. I would ask, therefore, how it is, that, according to this system, we approve or disapprove of proper or improper approbation. To this question, there is, I imagine, but one reasonable answer, which can possibly be given. It must be said, that when the approbation with which our neighbour regards the conduct of a third person coincides with our own, we approve of his approbation, and consider it as, in some measure, morally good; and that on the contrary, when it does not coincide with our own sentiments, we disapprove of it, and consider it as, in some measure, morally evil. It must be allowed, therefore, that, at least in this one case, the coincidence or opposition of sentiments, between the observer and the person observed, constitutes moral approbation or disapprobation. And if it does so in this one case, I would ask, why not in every other? to what purpose imagine a new power of perception in order to account for those sentiments?
Against every account of the principle of approbation, which makes it depend upon a peculiar sentiment, distinct from every other, I would object; that it is strange that this sentiment, which Providence undoubtedly intended to be the governing principle of human nature, should hitherto have been so little taken notice of, as not to have got a name in any language. The word moral sense is of very late formation, and cannot yet be considered as making part of the English tongue. The word approbation has but within these few years been appropriated to denote peculiarly any thing of this kind. In propriety of language we approve of whatever is entirely to our satisfaction, of the form of a building, of the contrivance of a machine, of the flavour of a dish of meat. The word conscience does not immediately denote any moral faculty by which we approve or disapprove. Conscience supposes, indeed, the existence of some such faculty, and properly signifies our consciousness of having acted agreeably or contrary to its directions. When love, hatred, joy, sorrow, gratitude, resentment, with so many other passions which are all supposed to be the subjects of this principle, have made themselves considerable enough to get titles to know them by, is it not surprising that the sovereign of them all should hitherto have been so little heeded, that, a few philosophers excepted, no body has yet thought it worth while to bestow a name upon it?
When we approve of any character or action, the sentiments which we feel, are, according to the foregoing system, derived from four sources, which are in some respects different from one another. First, we sympathize with the motives of the agent; secondly, we enter into the gratitude of those who receive the benefit of his actions; thirdly, we observe that his conduct has been agreeable to the general rules by which those two sympathies generally act; and, last of all, when we consider such actions as making part of a system of behaviour which tends to promote the happiness either of the individual or of the society, they appear to derive a beauty from this utility, not unlike that which we ascribe to any well contrived machine. After deducting, in any one particular case, all that must be acknowledged to proceed from some one or other of these four principles, I should be glad to know what remains, and I shall freely allow this overplus to be ascribed to a moral sense, or to any other peculiar faculty, provided any body will ascertain precisely what this overplus is. It might be expected, perhaps, that if there was any such peculiar principle, such as this moral sense is supposed to be, we should feel it, in some particular cases, separated and detached from every other, as we often feel joy, sorrow, hope, and fear, pure and unmixed with any other emotion. This however, I imagine, cannot even be pretended. I have never heard any instance alleged in which this principle could be said to exert itself alone and unmixed with sympathy or antipathy, with gratitude or resentment, with the perception of the agreement or disagreement of any action to an established rule, or last of all with that general taste for beauty and order which is excited by inanimated as well as by animated objects.
II. There is another system which attempts to account for the origin of our moral sentiments from sympathy distinct from that which I have been endeavouring to establish. It is that which places virtue in utility, and accounts for the pleasure with which the spectator surveys the utility of any quality from sympathy with the happiness of those who are affected by it. This sympathy is different both from that by which we enter into the motives of the agent, and from that by which we go along with the gratitude of the persons who are benefited by his actions. It is the same principle with that by which we approve of a well contrived machine. But no machine can be the object of either of those two last mentioned sympathies. I have already, in the fourth part of this discourse, given some account of this system.
Musean translation
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But although this account may escape the objections to the previous one, it faces others equally impossible to answer.
First, however much a particular emotion varies, it retains the general characteristics that identify its kind. Those characteristics are always more striking and noticeable than its variations in particular cases. Anger, for instance, is a distinct kind of emotion, and its general features are more recognizable than any of its particular variations. Anger at a man is doubtless somewhat different from anger at a woman, and that again from anger at a child. The character of its object modifies the general passion differently in each case, as an attentive observer can readily see. Still, its common characteristics predominate in all three. Recognizing them takes no keen observation; detecting the differences requires delicate attention. Everyone notices the former, hardly anyone the latter. If approval and disapproval were, like gratitude and resentment, distinct kinds of emotion unlike all others, we would expect that through all their variations they would retain clear and easily recognized general features identifying each as an emotion of its particular kind. But the facts are quite otherwise. If we examine what we really feel when we approve or disapprove in different circumstances, we find that our emotion in one case is often altogether different from that in another, with no discoverable feature in common. Our approval of a tender, sensitive, humane sentiment differs entirely from our approval of one that is grand, daring, and magnanimous. We may approve both perfectly and without reservation, yet the first softens us while the second elevates us; the emotions they arouse bear no resemblance to each other. On the account I have been trying to establish, this is precisely what must happen. The emotions of those we approve are opposite in the two cases, and since our approval arises from sympathy with those emotions, what we feel in one case cannot resemble what we feel in the other. This would be impossible if approval were a special emotion unrelated to the sentiments approved of, arising at the sight of those sentiments as any other passion arises at the sight of its proper object. The same is true of disapproval. Our horror of cruelty is nothing like our contempt for meanness of spirit. These two vices produce quite different kinds of discord between our minds and the mind of the person whose sentiments and conduct we consider.
Second, I have already observed that our natural sentiments regard not only the passions and affections we approve or disapprove as morally good or evil, but also approval itself as good when proper and evil when improper. How, then, does this system explain our approval or disapproval of proper or improper approval? Only one reasonable answer, I think, is possible. When our neighbor's approval of a third person's conduct agrees with our own, we approve of his approval and count it, in some degree, morally good. When it disagrees, we disapprove and count it, in some degree, morally evil. Thus at least in this instance, agreement or opposition of sentiment between observer and observed constitutes moral approval or disapproval. If it does so here, why not everywhere else? Why invent a new perceptive power to account for these sentiments?
Against every account that makes approbation depend on a special sentiment unlike all others, I would object that it is strange for this sentiment, which Providence surely intended to govern human nature, to have attracted so little notice that no language has given it a name. The expression moral sense was coined only recently and cannot yet be considered part of English. Only in recent years has approbation come to denote anything specifically moral. In ordinary speech we approve of whatever completely satisfies us: the shape of a building, the design of a machine, the flavor of a meat dish. Conscience does not directly name a moral faculty by which we approve or disapprove. It does presuppose such a faculty, but properly means our awareness that we have acted in accordance with or against its directions. Love, hatred, joy, sorrow, gratitude, resentment, and so many other passions supposedly subject to this governing principle have all proved important enough to acquire names. Is it not remarkable that the sovereign of them all should have been so little noticed that, apart from a few philosophers, nobody has thought it worth naming?
When we approve of a character or action, the sentiments we feel arise, according to the system I have set out, from four sources, different from one another in some respects. First, we sympathize with the agent's motives. Second, we share the gratitude of those benefited by his actions. Third, we observe that his conduct accords with the general rules by which these two kinds of sympathy usually operate. Finally, when we regard such actions as part of a pattern of conduct tending to promote the happiness of the individual or of society, their utility gives them a beauty like that of a well-designed machine. In any particular case, subtract everything that must be attributed to one or another of these four principles, and I would like to know what remains. I will freely grant that any remainder belongs to a moral sense or some other special faculty, provided someone can identify it precisely. If such a special principle as the supposed moral sense existed, we might expect at times to feel it alone, apart from everything else, just as we often feel joy, sorrow, hope, or fear pure and unmixed with another emotion. But I think no one can even claim this. I have never heard of an example in which this principle acts alone, unmixed with sympathy or antipathy, gratitude or resentment, a perception that an action agrees or disagrees with an established rule, or finally that general taste for beauty and order awakened by inanimate as well as living things.
II. Another system attempts to derive our moral sentiments from sympathy, but differs from the one I have been trying to establish. It locates virtue in utility and explains the spectator's pleasure in the usefulness of any quality by sympathy with the happiness of those affected by it. This sympathy differs both from the sympathy by which we enter into the agent's motives and from that by which we share the gratitude of those who benefit from his actions. It is the same principle by which we approve of a well-designed machine; yet no machine can be the object of either of the other two sympathies. I have already described this system to some extent in the fourth part of this discourse.
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).
This explanation may avoid the objections to the previous one, but it faces other objections that are just as hard to answer.
First, a particular emotion can vary, but it keeps the general features that identify it. Those shared features are more noticeable than the differences between its particular forms. Anger is one kind of emotion, and we can always recognize its general features more easily than its variations. Anger at a man is somewhat different from anger at a woman, and both differ from anger at a child. The character of each person affects the way anger appears, as a careful observer can see. But the common features of anger stand out in all three cases. We need no especially careful observation to recognize them. Noticing the differences, by contrast, takes close attention. Almost everyone notices the common features; hardly anyone notices the variations. So if approval and disapproval were distinct kinds of emotion, like gratitude and resentment, they should remain recognizable through all their variations. Their shared features should be clear and easy to identify. In fact, the opposite is true. Pay attention to what we feel when we approve or disapprove on different occasions. Often our feelings in one case are entirely different from our feelings in another, with no recognizable feature in common. Our approval of a gentle, sensitive, humane feeling, for example, differs completely from our approval of a grand, daring, and high-minded one. We may fully approve of both. But the first softens our hearts, while the second lifts our spirits. The two feelings these qualities inspire in us do not resemble each other. The theory I have been developing predicts exactly this. The feelings of the people we approve of are opposites in these two cases. Our approval comes from sympathy with those opposite feelings, so what we feel on one occasion cannot resemble what we feel on the other. This could not happen if approval were a unique emotion separate from the feelings we approve of, arising at the sight of those feelings as any other passion arises at the sight of its object. The same applies to disapproval. The horror we feel at cruelty does not resemble our contempt for a lack of spirit. Seeing these two different vices produces two entirely different kinds of disagreement between our feelings and those of the person whose feelings and behavior we consider.
Second, I have already noted that we judge not only other feelings morally good or evil but also approval itself, according to whether it is appropriate. So how, on this theory, do we approve or disapprove of someone else's appropriate or inappropriate approval? I think there is only one reasonable answer. When our neighbor's approval of a third person's conduct matches our own, we approve of our neighbor's approval and consider it morally good to some extent. When it conflicts with our feelings, we disapprove of it and consider it morally bad to some extent. At least in this case, then, moral approval or disapproval consists in the agreement or disagreement between the observer's feelings and those of the person observed. If it does in this case, why not in every case? Why invent a new power of perception to explain these judgments?
I have another objection to every explanation that makes approval depend on a special feeling unlike any other. Providence surely intended this feeling to govern human nature. Why, then, has it attracted so little attention that no language has a name for it? The phrase moral sense was coined only recently and is not yet really part of English. Only in recent years has approval acquired this particular moral meaning. In ordinary language we approve of anything that fully satisfies us: the shape of a building, the design of a machine, or the taste of a meat dish. Conscience does not directly name a moral faculty that approves and disapproves. It assumes such a faculty exists and means our awareness of whether our actions followed or violated its directions. Love, hatred, joy, sorrow, gratitude, resentment, and many other feelings supposedly governed by this principle have all become important enough to acquire names. Wouldn't it be surprising if their ruler remained so unnoticed that, except for a few philosophers, no one had thought to name it?
According to the theory I have been developing, the feelings we have when we approve of a person or action have four somewhat different sources. First, we sympathize with the person's motives. Second, we share the gratitude of the people helped by the action. Third, we see that the person's behavior fits the general rules that usually guide these two kinds of sympathy. Finally, when we see such actions as part of a pattern of behavior that promotes the happiness of the individual or society, their usefulness gives them beauty, much as it does a well-designed machine. Take any particular case and subtract everything that comes from one of these four sources. I would like to know what remains. I will gladly attribute whatever is left to a moral sense or another special faculty, provided someone can identify precisely what that remainder is. If there were such a special principle as the supposed moral sense, we might expect to feel it separately in some cases. We sometimes feel joy, sorrow, hope, or fear without mixing them with another emotion. But I do not think anyone can even claim a case in which this proposed principle works on its own, without sympathy or dislike, gratitude or resentment, an awareness that an action fits or violates an accepted rule, or our general appreciation of beauty and order in living and nonliving things. I have never heard anyone offer such a case.
II. Another theory, different from the one I have been developing, tries to explain the origin of our moral feelings through sympathy. It locates virtue in usefulness. It says an observer enjoys seeing a quality's usefulness because he sympathizes with the happiness of those affected by it. This sympathy differs both from sharing the actor's motives and from sharing the gratitude of those helped by the actor's actions. It is the same principle by which we approve of a well-designed machine. But a machine cannot be the object of either of those other two kinds of sympathy. I have already discussed this theory in the fourth part of this work.