The Method of Pure Practical Reason

By the methodology of pure practical reason we are not to understand the mode of proceeding with pure practical principles (whether in study or in exposition), with a view to a scientific knowledge of them, which alone is what is properly called method elsewhere in theoretical philosophy (for popular knowledge requires a manner, science a method, i.e., a process according to principles of reason by which alone the manifold of any branch of knowledge can become a system). On the contrary, by this methodology is understood the mode in which we can give the laws of pure practical reason access to the human mind and influence on its maxims, that is, by which we can make the objectively practical reason subjectively practical also.

By the methodology of pure practical reason, I do not mean a way of studying or presenting pure practical principles to gain scientific knowledge of them. In theoretical philosophy, that alone is properly called method. Popular knowledge requires a manner of presentation, while science requires a method. A method is a process based on principles of reason. Only such a process can turn the many elements of a field of knowledge into a system. On the contrary, by this methodology I mean the way we can give the laws of pure practical reason access to the human mind and influence over its maxims. In other words, it is the way we can make objectively practical reason subjectively practical as well.

Now it is clear enough that those determining principles of the will which alone make maxims properly moral and give them a moral worth, namely, the direct conception of the law and the objective necessity of obeying it as our duty, must be regarded as the proper springs of actions, since otherwise legality of actions might be produced, but not morality of character. But it is not so clear; on the contrary, it must at first sight seem to every one very improbable that even subjectively that exhibition of pure virtue can have more power over the human mind, and supply a far stronger spring even for effecting that legality of actions, and can produce more powerful resolutions to prefer the law, from pure respect for it, to every other consideration, than all the deceptive allurements of pleasure or of all that may be reckoned as happiness, or even than all threatenings of pain and misfortune. Nevertheless, this is actually the case, and if human nature were not so constituted, no mode of presenting the law by roundabout ways and indirect recommendations would ever produce morality of character. All would be simple hypocrisy; the law would be hated, or at least despised, while it was followed for the sake of one's own advantage. The letter of the law (legality) would be found in our actions, but not the spirit of it in our minds (morality); and as with all our efforts we could not quite free ourselves from reason in our judgement, we must inevitably appear in our own eyes worthless, depraved men, even though we should seek to compensate ourselves for this mortification before the inner tribunal, by enjoying the pleasure that a supposed natural or divine law might be imagined to have connected with it a sort of police machinery, regulating its operations by what was done without troubling itself about the motives for doing it.

It is clear enough what alone makes our maxims genuinely moral and gives them moral worth. These are the principles that determine our will: directly conceiving the law and recognizing the objective necessity of obeying it as our duty. These principles must be our real motives for acting. Otherwise, our actions might conform to the law, but our character would not be moral. But another point is less clear. At first, everyone must find it very unlikely that presenting pure virtue can have greater power over the human mind. It seems unlikely that pure virtue can provide a much stronger motive, even for bringing actions into conformity with the law. It also seems unlikely that pure virtue can produce stronger resolutions to prefer the law to every other consideration, out of pure respect for it. Yet the claim is that pure virtue can do this more effectively than all the deceptive attractions of pleasure or anything counted as happiness. It can do so even more effectively than all threats of pain and misfortune. Nevertheless, this is actually the case. If human nature were not made this way, no indirect way of presenting or recommending the law would ever produce morality of character. All would be simple hypocrisy. We would hate the law, or at least despise it, while following it for our own advantage. Our actions would follow the letter of the law (legality), but its spirit would not be present in our minds (morality). And despite all our efforts, we could not entirely free ourselves from reason when judging ourselves. We would inevitably see ourselves as worthless, corrupt people. This would be true even if we tried to make up for our humiliation before this inner court by enjoying pleasure. We might imagine that some natural or divine law had linked pleasure to obeying the law. We might imagine the law as a kind of police system, operating according to what people did without concerning itself with their motives.

It cannot indeed be denied that in order to bring an uncultivated or degraded mind into the track of moral goodness some preparatory guidance is necessary, to attract it by a view of its own advantage, or to alarm it by fear of loss; but as soon as this mechanical work, these leading-strings have produced some effect, then we must bring before the mind the pure moral motive, which, not only because it is the only one that can be the foundation of a character (a practically consistent habit of mind with unchangeable maxims), but also because it teaches a man to feel his own dignity, gives the mind a power unexpected even by himself, to tear himself from all sensible attachments so far as they would fain have the rule, and to find a rich compensation for the sacrifice he offers, in the independence of his rational nature and the greatness of soul to which he sees that he is destined. We will therefore show, by such observations as every one can make, that this property of our minds, this receptivity for a pure moral interest, and consequently the moving force of the pure conception of virtue, when it is properly applied to the human heart, is the most powerful spring and, when a continued and punctual observance of moral maxims is in question, the only spring of good conduct. It must, however, be remembered that if these observations only prove the reality of such a feeling, but do not show any moral improvement brought about by it, this is no argument against the only method that exists of making the objectively practical laws of pure reason subjectively practical, through the mere force of the conception of duty; nor does it prove that this method is a vain delusion. For as it has never yet come into vogue, experience can say nothing of its results; one can only ask for proofs of the receptivity for such springs, and these I will now briefly present, and then sketch the method of founding and cultivating genuine moral dispositions.

We cannot deny that an uncultivated or degraded mind needs some initial guidance to set it on the path to moral goodness. We must appeal to its self-interest or frighten it with the prospect of loss. But once these mechanical aids, these guiding reins, have had some effect, we must present the pure moral motive. This motive alone can provide the foundation for character, a practically consistent habit of mind with unchanging principles. It also teaches a person to feel their own dignity. In doing so, it gives the mind a power even the person did not expect. It enables them to break free from all attachments to things of the senses, insofar as those attachments seek to rule them. And it enables them to find rich compensation for their sacrifice in the independence of their rational nature. They also find compensation in the greatness of soul they see they are destined for. We will therefore draw on observations anyone can make. These will show that our minds have a capacity to respond to a pure moral interest. They will also show the motivating power of the pure idea of virtue when it is properly brought home to the human heart. This power is the strongest motive for good conduct. When what matters is steady and faithful observance of moral principles, it is the only motive. But we must remember that these observations may prove only that such a feeling exists. They may not show that it has brought about any moral improvement. Even so, that would not be an argument against this method. It is the only method of making the practical laws of pure reason, which are objectively valid, effective in the individual through the force of the idea of duty alone. Nor would the lack of evidence of improvement prove that the method is a useless delusion. The method has never yet come into common use, so experience can tell us nothing about its results. We can only ask for evidence that people can respond to such motives. I will now briefly present that evidence, then outline the method of establishing and cultivating genuine moral dispositions.

When we attend to the course of conversation in mixed companies, consisting not merely of learned persons and subtle reasoners, but also of men of business or of women, we observe that, besides story-telling and jesting, another kind of entertainment finds a place in them, namely, argument; for stories, if they are to have novelty and interest, are soon exhausted, and jesting is likely to become insipid. Now of all argument there is none in which persons are more ready to join who find any other subtle discussion tedious, none that brings more liveliness into the company, than that which concerns the moral worth of this or that action by which the character of some person is to be made out. Persons, to whom in other cases anything subtle and speculative in theoretical questions is dry and irksome, presently join in when the question is to make out the moral import of a good or bad action that has been related, and they display an exactness, a refinement, a subtlety, in excogitating everything that can lessen the purity of purpose, and consequently the degree of virtue in it, which we do not expect from them in any other kind of speculation. In these criticisms, persons who are passing judgement on others often reveal their own character: some, in exercising their judicial office, especially upon the dead, seem inclined chiefly to defend the goodness that is related of this or that deed against all injurious charges of insincerity, and ultimately to defend the whole moral worth of the person against the reproach of dissimulation and secret wickedness; others, on the contrary, turn their thoughts more upon attacking this worth by accusation and fault finding. We cannot always, however, attribute to these latter the intention of arguing away virtue altogether out of all human examples in order to make it an empty name; often, on the contrary, it is only well-meant strictness in determining the true moral import of actions according to an uncompromising law. Comparison with such a law, instead of with examples, lowers self-conceit in moral matters very much, and not merely teaches humility, but makes every one feel it when he examines himself closely. Nevertheless, we can for the most part observe, in those who defend the purity of purpose in giving examples that where there is the presumption of uprightness they are anxious to remove even the least spot, lest, if all examples had their truthfulness disputed, and if the purity of all human virtue were denied, it might in the end be regarded as a mere phantom, and so all effort to attain it be made light of as vain affectation and delusive conceit.

When we listen to conversations in mixed company, we notice something besides storytelling and joking: people also enjoy arguing. Such company includes not only scholars and subtle thinkers, but also businesspeople and women. Stories soon run out if they are to remain fresh and interesting, while jokes are likely to become tiresome. Of all arguments, none attracts more participation from people who find other subtle discussions tedious. None brings more life to the company. These are arguments about the moral worth of an action and what the action reveals about a person's character. People who usually find subtle, speculative questions about theory dry and tiresome quickly join in. They do so when asked to judge the moral significance of a good or bad action someone has described. They show a precision, refinement, and subtlety we would not expect from them in any other kind of speculation. They work out everything that might diminish the purity of the person's purpose and, therefore, the degree of virtue in the action. In judging others, people often reveal their own character. Some, when acting as judges, especially of the dead, seem chiefly inclined to defend the reported goodness of a deed. They defend the deed against damaging charges of insincerity. Ultimately, they defend the person's whole moral worth against accusations of pretense and hidden wickedness. Others, by contrast, focus more on attacking that worth through accusations and fault finding. Yet we cannot always assume that the latter intend to argue that no human example shows virtue, making virtue an empty name. Often, on the contrary, they mean well. They are simply strict in judging the true moral significance of actions according to an uncompromising law. Comparing ourselves with such a law, rather than with examples, greatly reduces our self-importance in moral matters. It not only teaches humility but makes everyone feel humble when examining themselves closely. Nevertheless, we can generally observe a concern among those who defend purity of purpose in examples of virtuous action. Where a person is presumed upright, they are anxious to remove even the smallest stain on that person's character. They worry about what might happen if the truth of every example were disputed and the purity of all human virtue denied. Virtue might finally be regarded as a mere phantom. Then every effort to attain virtue might be dismissed as empty posing and mistaken pride.

I do not know why the educators of youth have not long since made use of this propensity of reason to enter with pleasure upon the most subtle examination of the practical questions that are thrown up; and why they have not, after first laying the foundation of a purely moral catechism, searched through the biographies of ancient and modern times with the view of having at hand instances of the duties laid down, in which, especially by comparison of similar actions under different circumstances, they might exercise the critical judgement of their scholars in remarking their greater or less moral significance. This is a thing in which they would find that even early youth, which is still unripe for speculation of other kinds, would soon Become very acute and not a little interested, because it feels the progress of its faculty of judgement; and, what is most important, they could hope with confidence that the frequent practice of knowing and approving good conduct in all its purity, and on the other hand of remarking with regret or contempt the least deviation from it, although it may be pursued only as a sport in which children may compete with one another, yet will leave a lasting impression of esteem on the one hand and disgust on the other; and so, by the mere habit of looking on such actions as deserving approval or blame, a good foundation would be laid for uprightness in the future course of life. Only I wish they would spare them the example of so-called noble (super-meritorious) actions, in which our sentimental books so much abound, and would refer all to duty merely, and to the worth that a man can and must give himself in his own eyes by the consciousness of not having transgressed it, since whatever runs up into empty wishes and longings after inaccessible perfection produces mere heroes of romance, who, while they pique themselves on their feeling for transcendent greatness, release themselves in return from the observance of common and every-day obligations, which then seem to them petty and insignificant. *

I do not know why educators of young people have not long since made use of reason’s tendency to enjoy examining practical questions in the finest detail. They could first lay the foundation of a purely moral catechism. Then they could search ancient and modern biographies for examples of the duties it sets out. By comparing similar actions in different circumstances, they could train students to judge their greater or lesser moral significance. Educators would find that even young children, who are not yet ready for other kinds of abstract thought, would soon become very perceptive and quite interested. This is because children feel their own judgment improving. More importantly, educators could confidently hope that frequent practice would leave a lasting impression. Children would learn to recognize and approve good conduct in all its purity. They would also learn to notice even the slightest departure from it with regret or contempt. Even if they did this only as a game, competing with one another, it would leave a lasting impression of respect for good conduct and disgust at departures from it. Simply becoming accustomed to seeing such actions as deserving approval or blame would lay a good foundation for uprightness later in life. I only wish educators would spare children the examples of so-called noble actions, supposedly beyond what duty requires, that fill our sentimental books. Instead, they should relate everything to duty alone. They should point to the worth people can and must give themselves in their own eyes by knowing they have not failed in their duty. Empty wishes and longings for an impossible perfection produce mere heroes of romance. Such people pride themselves on their feeling for extraordinary greatness. In return, they excuse themselves from ordinary, everyday obligations, which then seem petty and insignificant to them. *

But if it is asked: "What, then, is really pure morality, by which as a touchstone we must test the moral significance of every action," then I must admit that it is only philosophers that can make the decision of this question doubtful, for to common sense it has been decided long ago, not indeed by abstract general formulae, but by habitual use, like the distinction between the right and left hand. We will then point out the criterion of pure virtue in an example first, and, imagining that it is set before a boy, of say ten years old, for his judgement, we will see whether he would necessarily judge so of himself without being guided by his teacher. Tell him the history of an honest man whom men want to persuade to join the calumniators of an innocent and powerless person (say Anne Boleyn, accused by Henry VIII of England). He is offered advantages, great gifts, or high rank; he rejects them. This will excite mere approbation and applause in the mind of the hearer. Now begins the threatening of loss. Amongst these traducers are his best friends, who now renounce his friendship; near kinsfolk, who threaten to disinherit him (he being without fortune); powerful persons, who can persecute and harass him in all places and circumstances; a prince, who threatens him with loss of freedom, yea, loss of life. Then to fill the measure of suffering, and that he may feel the pain that only the morally good heart can feel very deeply, let us conceive his family threatened with extreme distress and want, entreating him to yield; conceive himself, though upright, yet with feelings not hard or insensible either to compassion or to his own distress; conceive him, I say, at the moment when he wishes that he had never lived to see the day that exposed him to such unutterable anguish, yet remaining true to his uprightness of purpose, without wavering or even doubting; then will my youthful hearer be raised gradually from mere approval to admiration, from that to amazement, and finally to the greatest veneration, and a lively wish that he himself could be such a man (though certainly not in such circumstances). Yet virtue is here worth so much only because it costs so much, not because it brings any profit. All the admiration, and even the endeavour to resemble this character, rest wholly on the purity of the moral principle, which can only be strikingly shown by removing from the springs of action everything that men may regard as part of happiness. Morality, then, must have the more power over the human heart the more purely it is exhibited. Whence it follows that, if the law of morality and the image of holiness and virtue are to exercise any influence at all on our souls, they can do so only so far as they are laid to heart in their purity as motives, unmixed with any view to prosperity, for it is in suffering that they display themselves most nobly. Now that whose removal strengthens the effect of a moving force must have been a hindrance, consequently every admixture of motives taken from our own happiness is a hindrance to the influence of the moral law on the heart. I affirm further that even in that admired action, if the motive from which it was done was a high regard for duty, then it is just this respect for the law that has the greatest influence on the mind of the spectator, not any pretension to a supposed inward greatness of mind or noble meritorious sentiments; consequently duty, not merit, must have not only the most definite, but, when it is represented in the true light of its inviolability, the most penetrating, influence on the mind.

But suppose someone asks: "What, then, is pure morality? What is the standard by which we must test the moral significance of every action?" I must admit that only philosophers can make the answer to this question seem doubtful. Common sense settled it long ago. It did so not through abstract general formulas, but through habitual practice, like distinguishing the right hand from the left. Let us first show the test of pure virtue through an example. Imagine presenting it to a boy of about ten and asking for his judgment. We shall see whether he would necessarily judge for himself in this way, without guidance from his teacher. Tell him the story of an honest man whom others want to persuade to join in slandering an innocent, powerless person. Let us say it is Anne Boleyn, accused by Henry VIII of England. They offer him benefits, great gifts, or high rank, but he refuses them. The boy listening to the story will simply approve and applaud. Now the threats of loss begin. Among the slanderers are his closest friends, who now reject his friendship. Close relatives threaten to disinherit him, though he has no fortune of his own. Powerful people can persecute and harass him wherever he goes and whatever his circumstances. A prince threatens to take away his freedom, even his life. Now, to complete his suffering, let us imagine his family threatened with extreme hardship and poverty, begging him to give in. This will make him feel a pain that only a morally good heart can feel very deeply. Imagine that, although he is upright, he is neither hard nor insensitive to pity or to his own distress. Imagine him at the moment when he wishes he had never lived to see the day that exposed him to such unspeakable anguish. Yet he remains true to his upright purpose, without wavering or even doubting. Then my young listener will gradually rise from simple approval to admiration, from admiration to amazement, and finally to the deepest reverence. He will also feel a strong wish to be such a man himself, though certainly not in such circumstances. Yet virtue is worth so much here only because it costs so much, not because it brings any profit. All the admiration, and even the effort to resemble this character, rests entirely on the purity of the moral principle. This purity can be shown strikingly only by removing from the motives for action everything people might regard as part of happiness. Morality, then, must have more power over the human heart the more purely it is shown. It follows that the moral law and the image of holiness and virtue can influence our souls only when we take them to heart as pure motives, unmixed with any thought of prosperity. For they show themselves most nobly in suffering. When removing something strengthens the effect of a moving force, that thing must have been a hindrance. Therefore, mixing in any motives drawn from our own happiness hinders the moral law's influence on the heart. I further maintain that, even in the action we admire, the motive may be a deep respect for duty. If so, it is precisely this respect for the law that has the greatest influence on the spectator's mind. It is not any claim to some supposed inner greatness of mind or noble, praiseworthy feelings. Therefore duty, not merit, must have not only the clearest influence on the mind, but also the deepest, when it is shown in the true light of its inviolability.

It is more necessary than ever to direct attention to this method in our times, when men hope to produce more effect on the mind with soft, tender feelings, or high-flown, puffing-up pretensions, which rather wither the heart than strengthen it, than by a plain and earnest representation of duty, which is more suited to human imperfection and to progress in goodness. To set before children, as a pattern, actions that are called noble, magnanimous, meritorious, with the notion of captivating them by infusing enthusiasm for such actions, is to defeat our end. For as they are still so backward in the observance of the commonest duty, and even in the correct estimation of it, this means simply to make them fantastical romancers betimes. But, even with the instructed and experienced part of mankind, this supposed spring has, if not an injurious, at least no genuine, moral effect on the heart, which, however, is what it was desired to produce.

It is more necessary than ever to draw attention to this method today. People now hope to influence the mind more through soft, tender feelings or lofty, inflated claims than through a plain and earnest account of duty. Such feelings and claims tend to weaken the heart rather than strengthen it. A plain and earnest account of duty is better suited to human imperfection and to progress in goodness. We defeat our purpose when we hold up actions called noble, generous, or praiseworthy as examples for children. We hope to captivate them by filling them with enthusiasm for such actions. But children are still far from observing even the most ordinary duties or judging them correctly. So this approach simply turns them into fanciful dreamers at an early age. Even among educated and experienced people, this supposed source of motivation has no genuine moral effect on the heart, if it does not actually harm it. Yet a genuine moral effect is precisely what was intended.

All feelings, especially those that are to produce unwonted exertions, must accomplish their effect at the moment they are at their height and before the calm down; otherwise they effect nothing; for as there was nothing to strengthen the heart, but only to excite it, it naturally returns to its normal moderate tone and, thus, falls back into its previous languor. Principles must be built on conceptions; on any other basis there can only be paroxysms, which can give the person no moral worth, nay, not even confidence in himself, without which the highest good in man, consciousness of the morality of his mind and character, cannot exist. Now if these conceptions are to become subjectively practical, we must not rest satisfied with admiring the objective law of morality, and esteeming it highly in reference to humanity, but we must consider the conception of it in relation to man as an individual, and then this law appears in a form indeed that is highly deserving of respect, but not so pleasant as if it belonged to the element to which he is naturally accustomed; but on the contrary as often compelling him to quit this element, not without self-denial, and to betake himself to a higher, in which he can only maintain himself with trouble and with unceasing apprehension of a relapse. In a word, the moral law demands obedience, from duty not from predilection, which cannot and ought not to be presupposed at all.

All feelings must have their effect at their height, before they subside. This is especially true of feelings meant to produce unusual effort. Otherwise, they achieve nothing. For nothing has strengthened the heart, only stirred it. The heart naturally returns to its normal, moderate state and falls back into its former sluggishness. Principles must be built on concepts. Any other foundation produces only outbursts of feeling. These can give a person no moral worth, nor even confidence in themselves. Without such confidence, the highest good in a person cannot exist: awareness of the morality of their mind and character. Now, if these concepts are to guide our actions, we must do more than admire the moral law itself. We must also do more than hold it in high regard as it relates to humanity. We must consider the concept of the moral law in relation to each individual. Then the law appears highly deserving of respect, but less pleasant than if it belonged to a person’s natural element. On the contrary, the law often forces a person to leave that element, not without self-denial. It forces them to enter a higher element, where they can remain only with effort and constant fear of falling back. In short, the moral law demands obedience from duty, not from inclination. Such an inclination cannot and should not be assumed at all.

Let us now see, in an example, whether the conception of an action, as a noble and magnanimous one, has more subjective moving power than if the action is conceived merely as duty in relation to the solemn law of morality. The action by which a man endeavours at the greatest peril of life to rescue people from shipwreck, at last losing his life in the attempt, is reckoned on one side as duty, but on the other and for the most part as a meritorious action, but our esteem for it is much weakened by the notion of duty to himself which seems in this case to be somewhat infringed. More decisive is the magnanimous sacrifice of life for the safety of one's country; and yet there still remains some scruple whether it is a perfect duty to devote one's self to this purpose spontaneously and unbidden, and the action has not in itself the full force of a pattern and impulse to imitation. But if an indispensable duty be in question, the transgression of which violates the moral law itself, and without regard to the welfare of mankind, and as it were tramples on its holiness (such as are usually called duties to God, because in Him we conceive the ideal of holiness in substance), then we give our most perfect esteem to the pursuit of it at the sacrifice of all that can have any value for the dearest inclinations, and we find our soul strengthened and elevated by such an example, when we convince ourselves by contemplation of it that human nature is capable of so great an elevation above every motive that nature can oppose to it. Juvenal describes such an example in a climax which makes the reader feel vividly the force of the spring that is contained in the pure law of duty, as duty:

Let us consider an example. Does thinking of an action as noble and generous move us more than thinking of it simply as a duty under the solemn moral law? Suppose a man risks his life to rescue people from a shipwreck and dies in the attempt. On the one hand, we consider his action a duty. On the other hand, and for the most part, we consider it praiseworthy. But our esteem for the action is greatly weakened by the thought that he seems to have somewhat neglected his duty to himself. A more decisive example is the generous sacrifice of one's life for the safety of one's country. Yet we still have some doubt about whether it is an absolute duty to offer one's life for this purpose without being asked. So the action does not in itself have the full force of an example that moves us to imitate it. But suppose the duty is one that cannot be set aside. To violate such a duty would violate the moral law itself, regardless of humanity's welfare. It would, as it were, trample on the law's holiness. Such duties are usually called duties to God, because we conceive the ideal of holiness as embodied in him. Then we give our fullest esteem to someone who carries out that duty, sacrificing everything that could be of value to their dearest desires. Such an example strengthens and elevates our spirit. For, by reflecting on it, we become convinced that human nature is capable of rising so far above every motive that nature can oppose to it. Juvenal describes such an example in a climax that makes the reader feel vividly the motivating force contained in the pure law of duty, as duty:

Esto bonus miles, tutor bonus, arbiter idem

Be a good soldier, a good guardian, and a judge as well.

Integer; ambiguae si quando citabere testis

If you are ever called to testify in a disputed case, as an honest person

Incertaeque rei, Phalaris licet imperet ut sis

And of an uncertain matter, even if Phalaris orders you to be

Falsus, et admoto dictet periuria tauro,

A liar, he dictates false oaths with the bull brought close.

Summum crede nefas animam praeferre pudori,

Consider it the greatest wrong to put your life before your honor,

Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. *

And for the sake of life, lose the reasons for living. *

When we can bring any flattering thought of merit into our action, then the motive is already somewhat alloyed with self-love and has therefore some assistance from the side of the sensibility. But to postpone everything to the holiness of duty alone, and to be conscious that we can because our own reason recognises this as its command and says that we ought to do it, this is, as it were, to raise ourselves altogether above the world of sense, and there is inseparably involved in the same a consciousness of the law, as a spring of a faculty that controls the sensibility; and although this is not always attended with effect, yet frequent engagement with this spring, and the at first minor attempts at using it, give hope that this effect may be wrought, and that by degrees the greatest, and that a purely moral interest in it may be produced in us.

When we allow a flattering thought about our own merit into an action, self-love has already partly mixed with our motive. Our feelings are therefore giving the motive some support. But we can set everything else aside for the holiness of duty alone. We can also be aware that we can do this because our own reason recognizes duty as its command and tells us we ought to follow it. In doing so, we raise ourselves, as it were, completely above the world of sense. This also brings an inseparable awareness of the law as the source of a power that controls our feelings. Although using this power does not always have an effect, we may engage with it often and at first make small attempts to use it. These attempts give us hope that the effect may be achieved, and that, gradually, the greatest effect may be achieved. They also give us hope that a purely moral interest in this effect may develop in us.

The method then takes the following course. At first we are only concerned to make the judging of actions by moral laws a natural employment accompanying all our own free actions, as well as the observation of those of others, and to make it as it were a habit, and to sharpen this judgement, asking first whether the action conforms objectively to the moral law, and to what law; and we distinguish the law that merely furnishes a principle of obligation from that which is really obligatory (leges obligandi a legibus obligantibus); as, for instance, the law of what men's wants require from me, as contrasted with that which their rights demand, the latter of which prescribes essential, the former only non-essential duties; and thus we teach how to distinguish different kinds of duties which meet in the same action. The other point to which attention must be directed is the question whether the action was also (subjectively) done for the sake of the moral law, so that it not only is morally correct as a deed, but also, by the maxim from which it is done, has moral worth as a disposition. Now there is no doubt that this practice, and the resulting culture of our reason in judging merely of the practical, must gradually produce a certain interest even in the law of reason, and consequently in morally good actions. For we ultimately take a liking for a thing, the contemplation of which makes us feel that the use of our cognitive faculties is extended; and this extension is especially furthered by that in which we find moral correctness, since it is only in such an order of things that reason, with its faculty of determining a priori on principle what ought to be done, can find satisfaction. An observer of nature takes liking at last to objects that at first offended his senses, when he discovers in them the great adaptation of their organization to design, so that his reason finds food in its contemplation. So Leibnitz spared an insect that he had carefully examined with the microscope, and replaced it on its leaf, because he had found himself instructed by the view of it and had, as it were, received a benefit from it.

The method proceeds as follows. First, we aim to make judging actions by moral laws a natural part of everything we freely do. We also aim to make it a natural part of observing the actions of others. We make this judgment a habit, as it were, and sharpen it. We first ask whether the action objectively conforms to moral law, and to which law. We distinguish laws that merely provide a principle of obligation from laws that actually impose an obligation (leges obligandi a legibus obligantibus). For example, we distinguish the law concerning what people's needs require of me from the law concerning what their rights demand. The law of rights prescribes essential duties, while the law of needs prescribes only non-essential duties. In this way, we teach how to distinguish the different kinds of duties that come together in a single action. The other point to consider is whether the action was also done subjectively for the sake of moral law. If so, the action is not only morally correct as a deed. It also has moral worth as a disposition, because of the maxim from which it is done. There is no doubt that this practice gradually develops our reason's ability to judge practical matters. This development must also gradually produce an interest in the law of reason and, consequently, in morally good actions. For we eventually come to like something when thinking about it makes us feel that our powers of understanding are expanding. Finding moral correctness especially promotes this expansion. Only in such an order of things can reason find satisfaction. For reason has the power to determine a priori, from principle, what ought to be done. An observer of nature eventually comes to like objects that at first offended the senses. This happens when the observer discovers how well their structure is adapted to its purpose. Reason then finds food for thought in contemplating them. Thus, Leibnitz spared an insect he had carefully examined under a microscope and put it back on its leaf. He did so because looking at the insect had taught him something, and he had, as it were, received a benefit from it.

But this employment of the faculty of judgement, which makes us feel our own cognitive powers, is not yet the interest in actions and in their morality itself. It merely causes us to take pleasure in engaging in such criticism, and it gives to virtue or the disposition that conforms to moral laws a form of beauty, which is admired, but not on that account sought after (laudatur et alget); as everything the contemplation of which produces a consciousness of the harmony of our powers of conception, and in which we feel the whole of our faculty of knowledge (understanding and imagination) strengthened, produces a satisfaction, which may also be communicated to others, while nevertheless the existence of the object remains indifferent to us, being only regarded as the occasion of our becoming aware of the capacities in us which are elevated above mere animal nature. Now, however, the second exercise comes in, the living exhibition of morality of character by examples, in which attention is directed to purity of will, first only as a negative perfection, in so far as in an action done from duty no motives of inclination have any influence in determining it. By this the pupil's attention is fixed upon the consciousness of his freedom, and although this renunciation at first excites a feeling of pain, nevertheless, by its withdrawing the pupil from the constraint of even real wants, there is proclaimed to him at the same time a deliverance from the manifold dissatisfaction in which all these wants entangle him, and the mind is made capable of receiving the sensation of satisfaction from other sources. The heart is freed and lightened of a burden that always secretly presses on it, when instances of pure moral resolutions reveal to the man an inner faculty of which otherwise he has no right knowledge, the inward freedom to release himself from the boisterous importunity of inclinations, to such a degree that none of them, not even the dearest, shall have any influence on a resolution, for which we are now to employ our reason. Suppose a case where I alone know that the wrong is on my side, and although a free confession of it and the offer of satisfaction are so strongly opposed by vanity, selfishness, and even an otherwise not illegitimate antipathy to the man whose rights are impaired by me, I am nevertheless able to discard all these considerations; in this there is implied a consciousness of independence on inclinations and circumstances, and of the possibility of being sufficient for myself, which is salutary to me in general for other purposes also. And now the law of duty, in consequence of the positive worth which obedience to it makes us feel, finds easier access through the respect for ourselves in the consciousness of our freedom. When this is well established, when a man dreads nothing more than to find himself, on self-examination, worthless and contemptible in his own eyes, then every good moral disposition can be grafted on it, because this is the best, nay, the only guard that can keep off from the mind the pressure of ignoble and corrupting motives.

But this use of judgment, which makes us aware of our own powers of thought, is not yet an interest in actions and their morality as such. It merely makes us enjoy judging such matters. It also gives virtue, or the disposition to act according to moral laws, a kind of beauty. We admire this beauty, but do not therefore seek it (laudatur et alget). We take pleasure in contemplating anything that makes us aware of our mental powers working in harmony. In such contemplation, we feel our whole capacity for knowledge, both understanding and imagination, grow stronger. We may also share this pleasure with others. Yet we remain indifferent to whether the object actually exists. We regard it only as an occasion to become aware of capacities that lift us above mere animal nature. Now comes the second exercise: showing morality of character through living examples. Here, attention is directed to purity of will, first only as a negative perfection. This purity is present when no inclinations influence an action done from duty. The pupil’s attention is thus fixed on the awareness of freedom. Giving up these inclinations may at first cause pain. Yet it also frees the pupil from the hold of even genuine needs. In doing so, it promises release from the many dissatisfactions in which all these needs entangle us. It also makes the mind capable of finding satisfaction elsewhere. Examples of purely moral decisions reveal an inner power that a person would otherwise have no real knowledge of. They reveal the inner freedom to escape the noisy demands of inclination. This freedom can be so complete that no inclination, not even the dearest, influences a decision we are to make by reason. When a person recognizes this power, the heart is freed and relieved of a burden that always weighs on it in secret. Suppose I alone know that I am in the wrong. Vanity, selfishness, and even an otherwise legitimate dislike of the person whose rights I have violated strongly oppose an open admission and an offer to make amends. Yet I am able to set all these considerations aside. This shows an awareness that I am independent of inclinations and circumstances, and that I can be self sufficient. This awareness is generally beneficial to me for other purposes too. Obedience to the law of duty makes us feel its positive worth. As a result, the law finds easier access to us through the self respect that comes with awareness of our freedom. Once this is firmly established, a person fears nothing more than finding himself worthless and contemptible in his own eyes upon examining himself. Then every good moral disposition can be built on this foundation. For this is the best, indeed the only, safeguard against the pressure of base and corrupting motives on the mind.

I have only intended to point out the most general maxims of the methodology of moral cultivation and exercise. As the manifold variety of duties requires special rules for each kind, and this would be a prolix affair, I shall be readily excused if in a work like this, which is only preliminary, I content myself with these outlines.

I have only meant to outline the most general principles for cultivating and practicing morality. The many different kinds of duty require special rules for each kind, and setting these out would take a long time. Since this work is only preliminary, I trust I will be excused for limiting myself to these outlines.