The Theory of Moral Sentiments

Human beings desire praise, but in the exercise of their moral judgment, they prefer praiseworthiness. “Nature,” it seems, “endowed” us “not only with a desire of being approved of, but with a desire of being what ought to be approved of” (114-15). Indeed, the desire for undeserved praise springs only from “the most contemptible vanity” (115). In like manner, human beings wish to avoid blameworthiness, of being “the just and proper objects of the hatred and contempt of our fellow creatures” (115). Even worse than blameworthiness is “[u]nmerited reproach” (117), for “the innocent man […] is tormented by his own indignation at the injustice which has been done to him” (118), in which case “the only effectual consolation […] lies in an appeal to a still higher tribunal, to that of the all-seeing Judge of the world, whose eye can never be deceived, and whose judgments can never be perverted” (125).

Consulting our own conscience—what Smith calls “the testimony of the supposed impartial spectator, of the great inmate of the breast”—is the only means by which “we can ever see what relates to ourselves in its proper shape and dimensions,” and it is the only means by which “we can ever make any proper comparison between our own interests and those of other people” (128). A devastating earthquake on the other side of the world would cause us far less actual grief than would the severing of our own little finger, and yet, even if it meant preserving our own little finger, we would not dream of condemning millions of strangers on the other side of the world to suffering and death. Conscience alone—“not the love of our neighbor” or “the love of mankind” but “the love of what is honorable and noble”—accounts for the difference between our interests and conduct (130).

Conscience teaches us to restrain self-pity and practice self-command, neither of which would occur to us as desirable or even necessary were it not for our “regard to the sentiments of the real or supposed spectator of our conduct” (136). Self-command, in turn, is a prerequisite for virtue. Indeed, the virtuous man is the man who combines “the most perfect command of his own original and selfish feelings” with “the most exquisite sensibility both to the original and sympathetic feelings of others” (143).

Certain circumstances, however, have the capacity to dull our consciences. Excessive solitude, for instance, makes us “feel too strongly whatever relates to ourselves,” in which case the “man within the breast, the abstract and ideal spectator of our sentiments and conduct, requires often to be awakened and put in mind of his duty, by the presence of the real spectator” (144). Indeed, “our moral sentiments” are “never so apt to be corrupted, as when the indulgent and partial spectator is at hand, while the indifferent and impartial one is at a great distance” (145). Such is the case when two nations are at war. Surrounded only by one’s own citizens, “[t]he partial spectator is at hand,” while the citizens of neutral nations are “at a great distance” (145). In like manner, the zealous advocate of group interests, the “true party-man” who “hates and despises candour,” does not concern himself with the impartial spectator (146). Hence, “faction and fanaticism” constitute the worst “corruptors of moral sentiments” (146).

The selfish passions are so powerful that they often overwhelm our consciences and “induce” us “to make a report very different from what the real circumstances of the case are capable of authorizing” (147). Indeed, our assessments of our own conduct “are apt to be most partial when it is of most importance that they should be otherwise” (147). This capacity for “self-deceit,” which Smith calls “the fatal weakness of mankind,” accounts for “half the disorders of human life” (149). It is for this reason that we develop and rely upon general rules of conduct, which “are of great use in correcting the misrepresentations of self-love concerning what is fit and proper to be done in our particular situation” (150).

The general rules of conduct constitute the only means “by which the bulk of mankind are capable of directing their actions” (152). These rules, “impressed by nature,” acquire such universal reverence that they are regarded as “the commands and laws of the Deity” (153). Our consciences, “[t]hose vice-regents of God within us, never fail to punish the violation” of his rules “by the torments of inward shame, and self-condemnation” (155). So it is that “religion enforces the natural sense of duty” (160).

The sense of duty cannot be the sole principle of conduct in all cases. Other factors, such as “the natural agreeableness or deformity of the sentiment or affection,” as well as the “precision and exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy, of the general rules themselves,” must exert influence (161). With “almost all the virtues,” for instance,

the general rules which determine what are the offices of prudence, of charity, of generosity, of gratitude, of friendship, are in many respects loose and inaccurate, admit of many exceptions, and require so many modifications, that it is scarce possible to regulate our conduct entirely by a regard to them (163).

The lone exception is justice, the rules for which “may be compared to the rules of grammar,” whereas “the rules of the other virtues” may be compared to “rules which critics lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and elegant in composition” (165). In either case, “[n]o action can properly be called virtuous, which is not accompanied with the sentiment of self-approbation” (167).