To this view of the subject I would add only one consideration, which alone appears to present an insurmountable objection to the doctrine of utility in all its modifications; namely, that any correct ideas of the utility of an action can be derived only from experience. The study of the principles of morality, therefore, would consist of a series of observations or experiments, by which valid conclusions might be ascertained; and an individual, entering upon the momentous question, would require either to trust to the conclusions of others, or to make the observations and experiments for himself. In the former case, he could not fail to perceive the precarious nature of the basis on which he was receiving principles of such weighty importance. He could not fail to remark, that, in other sciences, unsound and premature deductions had been brought forward, even on high authority, and allowed to usurp the place of truth. How is he to be satisfied, that, in this highest of all inquiries, similar errors had not been committed. To avoid such uncertainty, he may resolve to make the observations or experiments for himself, and to trust only to his own conclusions. But here he is met by another difficulty of appalling magnitude. For a lifetime may not suffice to bring the experiments to a close; and, during this, he must remain in the same uncertainty on the great principles of morals, as respecting the periods of a comet, which, having been seen for a day, darts off into its eccentric orbit, and may not return for a century. How can it accord with our convictions of the wisdom of Him who made us, that he should have made us thus.
The foundation of all these Theories of Morals, then, seems to be the impression, that there is nothing right or wrong, just or unjust in itself; but that our ideas of right and wrong, justice and injustice, arise either from actual law or mutual compact, or from our view of the tendencies of actions. Another modification of these theories, liable, as it is sometimes stated, to similar objection, ascribes the origin of right and wrong directly to the will of the Deity, and holds that there is nothing wrong which might not have been right, if he had so ordained it.
By the immutability of moral distinctions, as opposed to these theories, we mean,—that there are certain actions which are immutably right, and which we are bound in duty to perform, and certain actions which are immutably wrong, apart from any other consideration whatever;—and that an absolute conviction of this is fixed upon us, in the moral principle or conscience, independently of knowledge derived from any other source respecting the will or laws of the Almighty. This important distinction has been sometimes not unaptly expressed by saying of such actions,—not that they are right because the Deity has commanded them,—but that he has commanded them because they are right. By this system, therefore, which refers our moral impressions to the supreme authority of conscience, a principle is disclosed, which, independently even of revelation, not only establishes an absolute conviction of the laws of moral rectitude, but leads us to the impression of moral responsibility and a moral Governor; and as immediately flowing from this, a state of future retribution. We have already shewn this to accord with the declarations of the sacred writings, and it is evidently the only system on which we can account for that uniformity of moral sentiment which is absolutely required for the harmonies of society. For it is, in fact, on a conviction of this feeling in ourselves, and of the existence of a similar and universal principle in others, that is founded all the mutual confidence which keeps mankind together. It is this reciprocity of moral feeling that proves a constant check upon the conduct of men in the daily transactions of life; but, to answer this purpose, there is evidently required an impression of its uniformity,—or a conviction that the actions, which we disapprove in others will be condemned in us by the unanimous decision of other men. It is equally clear that we have no such impression of a uniformity of sentiment on any other subject, except on those referable to the class of first truths; and this immediately indicates a marked distinction between our moral impressions, and any of those conclusions at which we arrive by a process of the understanding. It is clear, also, that this uniformity can arise from no system, which either refers us directly to the will of God, or is liable to be affected by the differences which may exist in the judgment, the moral taste, the personal feelings, or the interests of different individuals. It must be, in itself, fixed and immutable, conveying an absolute conviction which admits of no doubt and no difference of opinion. Such is the great principle of conscience. However its warnings may be neglected, and its influence obscured by passion and moral degradation, it still asserts its claim to govern the whole man. "Had it strength," says Butler, "as it had right; had it power, as it had manifest authority, it would absolutely govern the world."
In opposition to this belief of a uniformity of moral feeling, much importance has been attached to the practices of certain ancient and some barbarous nations, as the encouragement of theft in Sparta, and the exposure of the aged among certain tribes in India. Such instances prove no diversity of moral feeling; but a difference of practice, arising from certain specialities, real or supposed, by which, in the particular cases, the influence of the primary moral feeling is, for the time, set aside. It is of no importance to the argument, whether the disturbing principle thus operating be the result of an absurd local policy or a barbarous superstition. It is enough that we see a principle, which, in point of fact, does thus operate, suspending, in the particular instances, the primary moral impression. It was not that, in Sparta, there was any absence of the usual moral feeling in regard to theft in the abstract,—but that the cultivation of habits of activity and enterprise, which arose from the practice, was considered as a national object of the highest importance, in a small and warlike state, surrounded by powerful enemies. It is precisely in the same manner, that, in individual conduct, a man may be misled by passion or by interest to do things which his sober judgment condemns. In doing so, there is no want of the ordinary moral feeling which influences other men; but he has brought himself to violate this feeling, for certain purposes which he finds to be highly desirable; and then, probably, seeks to defend his conduct to the satisfaction of his own mind, and of the minds of others. He has a distinct perception of what is right, while he does what is wrong. There are numerous facts which illustrate the same principle, and shew the recognition of correct moral feelings, even in those who habitually and daringly violate them;—as the laws of honour and honesty which robbers observe towards each other,—and the remarkable fidelity of smugglers towards their associates. In some of the tribes in the South Seas, also, most remarkable for their dishonesty, it was found, that while they encouraged each other in pillaging strangers, theft was most severely punished among themselves. Need I farther refer, on this subject, to the line of argument adopted in the great question of slavery. It is directed to the palliating circumstances in the actual state of slavery, not to a broad defence of slavery itself. Its object is to shew, that slavery, under all its present circumstances, may be reconciled with the principles of humanity and justice:—no attempt is ever made to prove, that it is consistent with these principles to tear a human being from his country and his kindred, and make him a slave.[3]
On this subject we are sometimes triumphantly asked, where is the conscience of the Inquisitor,—as if the moral condition of such an individual incontestably proved, that there can be no such power as we consider conscience to be. But I think it cannot be doubted, that, as in the more common cases which have been mentioned, the conscience of the Inquisitor comes gradually to be accommodated to the circumstances in which he has voluntarily placed himself. This remarkable moral process has been repeatedly referred to. It may originate in various causes. It may arise from passion, or an ill-regulated state of the desires or affections of the mind; it may arise from motives of interest, leading a man by small and gradual steps into actions which his sober judgment condemns; or false opinions, however received, may be allowed to fasten on the mind, until, from want of candid examination, they come to be invested with the authority of truth. In the moral process which follows, each single step is slight, and its influence almost imperceptible; but this influence is perpetuated, and gains strength in each succeeding step, until the result is a total derangement of the moral harmony of the mind.
It remains only that we briefly notice the system of Dr. Adam Smith, commonly called the theory of Sympathy. According to this ingenious writer, it is required for our moral sentiments respecting an action, that we enter into the feelings both of the agent, and of him to whom the action relates. If we sympathize with the feelings and intentions of the agent, we approve of his conduct as right,—if not, we consider it as wrong. If, in the individual to whom the action refers, we sympathize with a feeling of gratitude, we regard the agent as worthy of praise,—if with a feeling of resentment, the contrary. We thus observe our feelings respecting the conduct of others, in cases in which we are not personally concerned,—then apply these rules to ourselves, and thus judge of our own conduct. This very obvious statement, however, of what every man feels, does not supply the place of a fundamental rule of right and wrong; and indeed Dr. Smith does not appear to contend that it does so. It applies only to the application of a principle, not to the origin of it. Our sympathy can never be supposed to constitute an action right or wrong; but it enables us to apply to individual cases a principle of right and wrong derived from another source;—and to clear our judgment in doing so, from the blinding influence of those selfish feelings by which we are so apt to be misled when we apply it directly to ourselves. In estimating our own conduct, we then apply to it those conclusions which we have made with regard to the conduct of others,—or we imagine others applying the same process in regard to us, and consider how our conduct would appeal to an impartial observer.
This, however, is a most important principle in regard to our moral decisions,—namely, the process by which we view an action, or a course of conduct, in another, and then apply the decision to ourselves. When the power of moral judgment is obscured or deadened in regard to our own conduct, by self-love or deranged moral habits, all the correctness of judgment is often preserved respecting the actions of others. It is thus that men are led on by interest or passion into courses of action, which, if viewed calmly and dispassionately, they would not deliberately defend even in themselves, and which, when viewed in others, they promptly condemn. This principle is beautifully illustrated in the sacred writings, when the prophet went to the king of Israel, and laid before him the hypothetical case of a rich man, who had committed an act of gross and unfeeling injustice against a poor neighbour. The monarch was instantly roused to indignation, and pronounced a sentence of severe but righteous vengeance against the oppressor,—when the prophet turned upon him with the solemn denunciation, "Thou art the man." His moral feeling in regard to his own conduct was dead; but his power of correct moral decision when applied to another was undiminished.