2.2.2. Chap. II
Of the sense of Justice, of Remorse, and of the consciousness of
Merit
There can be no proper motive for hurting our neighbour,
there can be no incitement to do evil to another, which mankind
will go along with, except just indignation for evil which that
other has done to us. To disturb his happiness merely because it
stands in the way of our own, to take from him what is of real
use to him merely because it may be of equal or of more use to
us, or to indulge, in this manner, at the expence of other
people, the natural preference which every man has for his own
happiness above that of other people, is what no impartial
spectator can go along with. Every man is, no doubt, by nature,
first and principally recommended to his own care; and as he is
fitter to take care of himself than of any other person, it is
fit and right that it should be so. Every man, therefore, is much
more deeply interested in whatever immediately concerns himself,
than in what concerns any other man: and to hear, perhaps, of the
death of another person, with whom we have no particular
connexion, will give us less concern, will spoil our stomach, or
break our rest much less than a very insignificant disaster which
has befallen ourselves. But though the ruin of our neighbour may
affect us much less than a very small misfortune of our own, we
must not ruin him to prevent that small misfortune, nor even to
prevent our own ruin. We must, here, as in all other cases, view
ourselves not so much according to that light in which we may
naturally appear to ourselves, as according to that in which we
naturally appear to others. Though every man may, according to
the proverb, be the whole world to himself, to the rest of
mankind he is a most insignificant part of it. Though his own
happiness may be of more importance to him than that of all the
world besides, to every other person it is of no more consequence
than that of any other man. Though it may be true, therefore,
that every individual, in his own breast, naturally prefers
himself to all mankind, yet he dares not look mankind in the
face, and avow that he acts according to this principle. He feels
that in this preference they can never go along with him, and
that how natural soever it may be to him, it must always appear
excessive and extravagant to them. When he views himself in the
light in which he is conscious that others will view him, he sees
that to them he is but one of the multitude in no respect better
than any other in it. If he would act so as that the impartial
spectator may enter into the principles of his conduct, which is
what of all things he has the greatest desire to do, he must,
upon this, as upon all other occasions, humble the arrogance of
his self-love, and bring it down to something which other men can
go along with. They will indulge it so far as to allow him to be
more anxious about, and to pursue with more earnest assiduity,
his own happiness than that of any other person. Thus far,
whenever they place themselves in his situation, they will
readily go along with him. In the race for wealth, and honours,
and preferments, he may run as hard as he can, and strain every
nerve and every muscle, in order to outstrip all his competitors.
But if he should justle, or throw down any of them, the
indulgence of the spectators is entirely at an end. It is a
violation of fair play, which they cannot admit of. This man is
to them, in every respect, as good as he: they do not enter into
that self-love by which he prefers himself so much to this other,
and cannot go along with the motive from which he hurt him. They
readily, therefore, sympathize with the natural resentment of the
injured, and the offender becomes the object of their hatred and
indignation. He is sensible that he becomes so, and feels that
those sentiments are ready to burst out from all sides against
him.
As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done,
the resentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher; so does
likewise the sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as
the sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which
one man can inflict upon another, and excites the highest degree
of resentment in those who are immediately connected with the
slain. Murder, therefore, is the most atrocious of all crimes
which affect individuals only, in the sight both of mankind, and
of the person who has committed it. To be deprived of that which
we are possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed of
what we have only the expectation. Breach of property, therefore,
theft and robbery, which take from us what we are possessed of,
are greater crimes than breach of contract, which only
disappoints us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of
justice, therefore, those whose violation seems to call loudest
for vengeance and punishment, are the laws which guard the life
and person of our neighbour; the next are those which guard his
property and possessions; and last of all come those which guard
what are called his personal rights, or what is due to him from
the promises of others.
The violator of the more sacred laws of justice can never
reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with
regard to him, without feeling all the agonies of shame, and
horror, and consternation. When his passion is gratified, and he
begins coolly to reflect on his past conduct, he can enter into
none of the motives which influenced it. They appear now as
detestable to him as they did always to other people. By
sympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence which other men must
entertain for him, he becomes in some measure the object of his
own hatred and abhorrence. The situation of the person, who
suffered by his injustice, now calls upon his pity. He is grieved
at the thought of it; regrets the unhappy effects of his own
conduct, and feels at the same time that they have rendered him
the proper object of the resentment and indignation of mankind,
and of what is the natural consequence of resentment, vengeance
and punishment. The thought of this perpetually haunts him, and
fills him with terror and amazement. He dares no longer look
society in the face, but imagines himself as it were rejected,
and thrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot hope
for the consolation of sympathy in this his greatest and most
dreadful distress. The remembrance of his crimes has shut out all
fellow-feeling with him from the hearts of his fellow-creatures.
The sentiments which they entertain with regard to him, are the
very thing which he is most afraid of. Every thing seems hostile,
and he would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert, where he
might never more behold the face of a human creature, nor read in
the countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But
solitude is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts
can present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate, and
disastrous, the melancholy forebodings of incomprehensible misery
and ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back into society,
and he comes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to
appear before them, loaded with shame and distracted with fear,
in order to supplicate some little protection from the
countenance of those very judges, who he knows have already all
unanimously condemned him. Such is the nature of that sentiment,
which is properly called remorse; of all the sentiments which can
enter the human breast the most dreadful. It is made up of shame
from the sense of the impropriety of past conduct; of grief for
the effects of it; of pity for those who suffer by it; and of the
dread and terror of punishment from the consciousness of the
justly provoked resentment of all rational creatures.
The opposite behaviour naturally inspires the opposite
sentiment. The man who, not from frivolous fancy, but from proper
motives, has performed a generous action, when he looks forward
to those whom he has served, feels himself to be the natural
object of their love and gratitude, and, by sympathy with them,
of the esteem and approbation of all mankind. And when he looks
backward to the motive from which he acted, and surveys it in the
light in which the indifferent spectator will survey it, he still
continues to enter into it, and applauds himself by sympathy with
the approbation of this supposed impartial judge. In both these
points of view his own conduct appears to him every way
agreeable. His mind, at the thought of it, is filled with
cheerfulness, serenity, and composure. He is in friendship and
harmony with all mankind, and looks upon his fellow-creatures
with confidence and benevolent satisfaction, secure that he has
rendered himself worthy of their most favourable regards. In the
combination of all these sentiments consists the consciousness of
merit, or of deserved reward.