The subject of this Essay is not the so-called Liberty of the Will, so unfortunately opposed to the misnamed doctrine of Philosophical Necessity; but Civil, or Social Liberty: the nature and limits of the power which can be legitimately exercised by society over the individual. A question seldom stated, and hardly ever discussed, in general terms, but which profoundly influences the practical controversies of the age by its latent presence, and is likely soon to make itself recognised as the vital question of the future. It is so far from being new, that in a certain sense, it has divided mankind, almost from the remotest ages; but in the stage of progress into which the more civilised portions of the species have now entered, it presents itself under new conditions, and requires a different and more fundamental treatment.
The subject of this Essay is not the so-called Liberty of the Will, which is so unfortunately set against the misnamed doctrine of Philosophical Necessity. Its subject is Civil, or Social, Liberty: the nature and limits of the power that society can legitimately exercise over the individual. This question is seldom stated, and hardly ever discussed, in general terms. But its hidden presence deeply influences the practical controversies of our age, and it is likely soon to be recognized as the vital question of the future. It is so far from new that, in a certain sense, it has divided mankind almost from the most distant ages. But the more civilized parts of the human species have now entered a new stage of progress. In this stage it presents itself under new conditions, and it requires a different and more fundamental treatment.
The struggle between Liberty and Authority is the most conspicuous feature in the portions of history with which we are earliest familiar, particularly in that of Greece, Rome, and England. But in old times this contest was between subjects, or some classes of subjects, and the government. By liberty, was meant protection against the tyranny of the political rulers. The rulers were conceived (except in some of the popular governments of Greece) as in a necessarily antagonistic position to the people whom they ruled. They consisted of a governing One, or a governing tribe or caste, who derived their authority from inheritance or conquest, who, at all events, did not hold it at the pleasure of the governed, and whose supremacy men did not venture, perhaps did not desire, to contest, whatever precautions might be taken against its oppressive exercise. Their power was regarded as necessary, but also as highly dangerous; as a weapon which they would attempt to use against their subjects, no less than against external enemies. To prevent the weaker members of the community from being preyed upon by innumerable vultures, it was needful that there should be an animal of prey stronger than the rest, commissioned to keep them down. But as the king of the vultures would be no less bent upon preying on the flock than any of the minor harpies, it was indispensable to be in a perpetual attitude of defence against his beak and claws. The aim, therefore, of patriots, was to set limits to the power which the ruler should be suffered to exercise over the community; and this limitation was what they meant by liberty. It was attempted in two ways. First, by obtaining a recognition of certain immunities, called political liberties or rights, which it was to be regarded as a breach of duty in the ruler to infringe, and which if he did infringe, specific resistance, or general rebellion, was held to be justifiable. A second, and generally a later expedient, was the establishment of constitutional checks; by which the consent of the community, or of a body of some sort, supposed to represent its interests, was made a necessary condition to some of the more important acts of the governing power. To the first of these modes of limitation, the ruling power, in most European countries, was compelled, more or less, to submit. It was not so with the second; and to attain this, or when already in some degree possessed, to attain it more completely, became everywhere the principal object of the lovers of liberty. And so long as mankind were content to combat one enemy by another, and to be ruled by a master, on condition of being guaranteed more or less efficaciously against his tyranny, they did not carry their aspirations beyond this point.
The struggle between Liberty and Authority is the most conspicuous feature in the parts of history we first become familiar with, especially the history of Greece, Rome, and England. But in old times this contest was between subjects, or some classes of subjects, and the government. By liberty was meant protection against the tyranny of the political rulers. The rulers were thought of (except in some of the popular governments of Greece) as necessarily opposed to the people they ruled. They were a governing One, or a governing tribe or caste. They got their authority by inheritance or conquest. At any rate, they did not hold it at the pleasure of the governed. Men did not dare, and perhaps did not wish, to challenge their supremacy, whatever precautions they might take against its oppressive use. Their power was seen as necessary, but also as highly dangerous. It was a weapon the rulers would try to use against their own subjects, as much as against foreign enemies. To keep the weaker members of the community from being preyed on by countless vultures, there had to be a beast of prey stronger than the rest, given the task of keeping them down. But the king of the vultures would be just as eager to prey on the flock as any of the lesser harpies. So it was essential to stay always on guard against his beak and claws. The aim of patriots, therefore, was to set limits to the power the ruler should be allowed to exercise over the community. This limitation was what they meant by liberty. They attempted it in two ways. The first was to win recognition of certain immunities, called political liberties or rights. It was to be considered a breach of duty for the ruler to violate them. If he did violate them, specific resistance or general rebellion was held to be justified. A second method, generally a later one, was to set up constitutional checks. Under these, the consent of the community, or of some body supposed to represent its interests, was made a necessary condition for some of the more important acts of the governing power. In most European countries the ruling power was forced, more or less, to submit to the first of these kinds of limitation. It was not so with the second. So everywhere the main goal of the lovers of liberty became to win the second, or, where they already had it to some degree, to win it more completely. As long as mankind were content to fight one enemy with another, and to be ruled by a master on condition of some more or less effective guarantee against his tyranny, they did not carry their hopes beyond this point.
A time, however, came, in the progress of human affairs, when men ceased to think it a necessity of nature that their governors should be an independent power, opposed in interest to themselves. It appeared to them much better that the various magistrates of the State should be their tenants or delegates, revocable at their pleasure. In that way alone, it seemed, could they have complete security that the powers of government would never be abused to their disadvantage. By degrees, this new demand for elective and temporary rulers became the prominent object of the exertions of the popular party, wherever any such party existed; and superseded, to a considerable extent, the previous efforts to limit the power of rulers. As the struggle proceeded for making the ruling power emanate from the periodical choice of the ruled, some persons began to think that too much importance had been attached to the limitation of the power itself. That (it might seem) was a resource against rulers whose interests were habitually opposed to those of the people. What was now wanted was, that the rulers should be identified with the people; that their interest and will should be the interest and will of the nation. The nation did not need to be protected against its own will. There was no fear of its tyrannising over itself. Let the rulers be effectually responsible to it, promptly removable by it, and it could afford to trust them with power of which it could itself dictate the use to be made. Their power was but the nation's own power, concentrated, and in a form convenient for exercise. This mode of thought, or rather perhaps of feeling, was common among the last generation of European liberalism, in the Continental section of which it still apparently predominates. Those who admit any limit to what a government may do, except in the case of such governments as they think ought not to exist, stand out as brilliant exceptions among the political thinkers of the Continent. A similar tone of sentiment might by this time have been prevalent in our own country, if the circumstances which for a time encouraged it, had continued unaltered.
A time came, however, as human affairs progressed, when people stopped thinking it was a law of nature that their rulers should be an independent power with interests opposed to their own. It seemed much better for the various officials of the State to be their tenants or delegates, removable whenever the people chose. Only in that way, it seemed, could they be completely sure that the powers of government would never be abused against them. Gradually, this new demand for elected and temporary rulers became the main goal of the popular party, wherever such a party existed. To a large extent, it replaced the earlier efforts to limit the power of rulers. As the struggle went on to make the ruling power come from the regular choice of the ruled, some people began to think that too much importance had been given to limiting power itself. That (it might seem) was a defense against rulers whose interests were usually opposed to those of the people. What was now needed was for the rulers to be identified with the people, so that their interest and will would be the interest and will of the nation. The nation did not need protection against its own will. There was no fear of it tyrannizing over itself. If the rulers were truly answerable to the nation and could be removed by it promptly, the nation could trust them with power, since it could dictate how that power was used. Their power was simply the nation's own power, concentrated in a form convenient to use. This way of thinking, or perhaps rather of feeling, was common among the last generation of European liberals, and it apparently still dominates among those on the Continent. Most Continental political thinkers would limit only governments they think should not exist at all. Those who accept any limit on what other governments may do stand out as brilliant exceptions. A similar mood might by now have spread in our own country, if the circumstances that encouraged it for a time had stayed the same.
But, in political and philosophical theories, as well as in persons, success discloses faults and infirmities which failure might have concealed from observation. The notion, that the people have no need to limit their power over themselves, might seem axiomatic, when popular government was a thing only dreamed about, or read of as having existed at some distant period of the past. Neither was that notion necessarily disturbed by such temporary aberrations as those of the French Revolution, the worst of which were the work of a usurping few, and which, in any case, belonged, not to the permanent working of popular institutions, but to a sudden and convulsive outbreak against monarchical and aristocratic despotism. In time, however, a democratic republic came to occupy a large portion of the earth's surface, and made itself felt as one of the most powerful members of the community of nations; and elective and responsible government became subject to the observations and criticisms which wait upon a great existing fact. It was now perceived that such phrases as "self-government," and "the power of the people over themselves," do not express the true state of the case. The "people" who exercise the power are not always the same people with those over whom it is exercised; and the "self-government" spoken of is not the government of each by himself, but of each by all the rest. The will of the people, moreover, practically means, the will of the most numerous or the most active part of the people; the majority, or those who succeed in making themselves accepted as the majority: the people, consequently, may desire to oppress a part of their number; and precautions are as much needed against this, as against any other abuse of power. The limitation, therefore, of the power of government over individuals, loses none of its importance when the holders of power are regularly accountable to the community, that is, to the strongest party therein. This view of things, recommending itself equally to the intelligence of thinkers and to the inclination of those important classes in European society to whose real or supposed interests democracy is adverse, has had no difficulty in establishing itself; and in political speculations "the tyranny of the majority" is now generally included among the evils against which society requires to be on its guard.
But in political and philosophical theories, as in people, success reveals faults and weaknesses that failure might have hidden from view. The idea that the people have no need to limit their power over themselves might seem self-evident while popular government was only dreamed of, or read about as having existed in some distant past. Nor was that idea necessarily shaken by temporary aberrations such as those of the French Revolution. The worst of these were the work of a usurping few. In any case, they belonged not to the permanent working of popular institutions, but to a sudden and convulsive outbreak against monarchical and aristocratic despotism. In time, however, a democratic republic came to occupy a large part of the earth's surface. It made itself felt as one of the most powerful members of the community of nations. Elective and responsible government then became subject to the observation and criticism that always attend a great existing fact. It was now seen that phrases like "self-government" and "the power of the people over themselves" do not express the true state of the case. The "people" who exercise the power are not always the same people as those over whom it is exercised. And the "self-government" spoken of is not the government of each by himself, but of each by all the rest. Moreover, the will of the people in practice means the will of the most numerous or the most active part of the people. That is, the majority, or those who succeed in getting themselves accepted as the majority. The people, therefore, may wish to oppress a part of their number. Precautions are needed against this as much as against any other abuse of power. So limiting the power of government over individuals loses none of its importance when those who hold power are regularly accountable to the community, that is, to the strongest party in it. This view appeals equally to the intelligence of thinkers and to the inclination of those important classes in European society whose real or supposed interests democracy goes against. So it has had no difficulty establishing itself. In political thought, "the tyranny of the majority" is now generally counted among the evils society must guard against.
Like other tyrannies, the tyranny of the majority was at first, and is still vulgarly, held in dread, chiefly as operating through the acts of the public authorities. But reflecting persons perceived that when society is itself the tyrant—society collectively, over the separate individuals who compose it—its means of tyrannising are not restricted to the acts which it may do by the hands of its political functionaries. Society can and does execute its own mandates: and if it issues wrong mandates instead of right, or any mandates at all in things with which it ought not to meddle, it practises a social tyranny more formidable than many kinds of political oppression, since, though not usually upheld by such extreme penalties, it leaves fewer means of escape, penetrating much more deeply into the details of life, and enslaving the soul itself. Protection, therefore, against the tyranny of the magistrate is not enough: there needs protection also against the tyranny of the prevailing opinion and feeling; against the tendency of society to impose, by other means than civil penalties, its own ideas and practices as rules of conduct on those who dissent from them; to fetter the development, and, if possible, prevent the formation, of any individuality not in harmony with its ways, and compel all characters to fashion themselves upon the model of its own. There is a limit to the legitimate interference of collective opinion with individual independence: and to find that limit, and maintain it against encroachment, is as indispensable to a good condition of human affairs, as protection against political despotism.
Like other tyrannies, the tyranny of the majority was at first feared, and is still commonly feared, chiefly in the form of acts by the public authorities. But thoughtful people saw that when society itself is the tyrant (society as a whole, over the separate individuals who make it up), its means of tyranny are not limited to what it may do through its political officials. Society can and does carry out its own orders. Suppose it issues wrong orders instead of right ones, or any orders at all on matters it ought not to meddle with. Then it practises a social tyranny more formidable than many kinds of political oppression. This tyranny is not usually backed by such extreme penalties. But it leaves fewer means of escape, because it reaches much more deeply into the details of life and enslaves the soul itself. So protection against the tyranny of the magistrate is not enough. There must also be protection against the tyranny of prevailing opinion and feeling. Society tends to impose its own ideas and practices as rules of conduct on those who dissent from them, by means other than civil penalties. It tends to hold back the development of any individuality out of harmony with its ways, and if possible to prevent such individuality from forming at all. It tends to force all characters to shape themselves on its own model. People need protection against all of this. There is a limit to how far collective opinion may legitimately interfere with individual independence. Finding that limit, and defending it against encroachment, is as indispensable to a good condition of human affairs as protection against political despotism.
But though this proposition is not likely to be contested in general terms, the practical question, where to place the limit—how to make the fitting adjustment between individual independence and social control—is a subject on which nearly everything remains to be done. All that makes existence valuable to any one, depends on the enforcement of restraints upon the actions of other people. Some rules of conduct, therefore, must be imposed, by law in the first place, and by opinion on many things which are not fit subjects for the operation of law. What these rules should be, is the principal question in human affairs; but if we except a few of the most obvious cases, it is one of those which least progress has been made in resolving. No two ages, and scarcely any two countries, have decided it alike; and the decision of one age or country is a wonder to another. Yet the people of any given age and country no more suspect any difficulty in it, than if it were a subject on which mankind had always been agreed. The rules which obtain among themselves appear to them self-evident and self-justifying. This all but universal illusion is one of the examples of the magical influence of custom, which is not only, as the proverb says, a second nature, but is continually mistaken for the first. The effect of custom, in preventing any misgiving respecting the rules of conduct which mankind impose on one another, is all the more complete because the subject is one on which it is not generally considered necessary that reasons should be given, either by one person to others, or by each to himself. People are accustomed to believe, and have been encouraged in the belief by some who aspire to the character of philosophers, that their feelings, on subjects of this nature, are better than reasons, and render reasons unnecessary. The practical principle which guides them to their opinions on the regulation of human conduct, is the feeling in each person's mind that everybody should be required to act as he, and those with whom he sympathises, would like them to act. No one, indeed, acknowledges to himself that his standard of judgment is his own liking; but an opinion on a point of conduct, not supported by reasons, can only count as one person's preference; and if the reasons, when given, are a mere appeal to a similar preference felt by other people, it is still only many people's liking instead of one. To an ordinary man, however, his own preference, thus supported, is not only a perfectly satisfactory reason, but the only one he generally has for any of his notions of morality, taste, or propriety, which are not expressly written in his religious creed; and his chief guide in the interpretation even of that. Men's opinions, accordingly, on what is laudable or blamable, are affected by all the multifarious causes which influence their wishes in regard to the conduct of others, and which are as numerous as those which determine their wishes on any other subject. Sometimes their reason—at other times their prejudices or superstitions: often their social affections, not seldom their anti-social ones, their envy or jealousy, their arrogance or contemptuousness: but most commonly, their desires or fears for themselves—their legitimate or illegitimate self-interest. Wherever there is an ascendant class, a large portion of the morality of the country emanates from its class interests, and its feelings of class superiority. The morality between Spartans and Helots, between planters and negroes, between princes and subjects, between nobles and roturiers, between men and women, has been for the most part the creation of these class interests and feelings: and the sentiments thus generated, react in turn upon the moral feelings of the members of the ascendant class, in their relations among themselves. Where, on the other hand, a class, formerly ascendant, has lost its ascendancy, or where its ascendancy is unpopular, the prevailing moral sentiments frequently bear the impress of an impatient dislike of superiority. Another grand determining principle of the rules of conduct, both in act and forbearance, which have been enforced by law or opinion, has been the servility of mankind towards the supposed preferences or aversions of their temporal masters, or of their gods. This servility, though essentially selfish, is not hypocrisy; it gives rise to perfectly genuine sentiments of abhorrence; it made men burn magicians and heretics. Among so many baser influences, the general and obvious interests of society have of course had a share, and a large one, in the direction of the moral sentiments: less, however, as a matter of reason, and on their own account, than as a consequence of the sympathies and antipathies which grew out of them: and sympathies and antipathies which had little or nothing to do with the interests of society, have made themselves felt in the establishment of moralities with quite as great force.
This proposition is not likely to be disputed in general terms. But the practical question is where to place the limit: how to make the right adjustment between individual independence and social control. On that question nearly everything remains to be done. All that makes existence valuable to anyone depends on enforcing restraints on the actions of other people. So some rules of conduct must be imposed. They must be imposed by law in the first place, and by opinion on many things that are not fit subjects for law. What these rules should be is the principal question in human affairs. But apart from a few of the most obvious cases, it is one of the questions on which the least progress has been made. No two ages, and scarcely any two countries, have decided it alike. The decision of one age or country astonishes another. Yet the people of any given age and country no more suspect any difficulty in it than if mankind had always agreed on it. The rules that hold among them seem self-evident and self-justifying. This almost universal illusion is one example of the magical influence of custom. Custom is not only, as the proverb says, a second nature. It is constantly mistaken for the first. Custom keeps people from having any doubts about the rules of conduct they impose on one another. Its effect is all the more complete because on this subject people do not generally think reasons need to be given, either by one person to others or by each to himself. People are used to believing that their feelings on such subjects are better than reasons and make reasons unnecessary. Some who aspire to be called philosophers have encouraged them in this belief. The practical principle that leads them to their opinions on regulating human conduct is a feeling in each person's mind. It is the feeling that everybody should be required to act as he, and those he sympathizes with, would like them to act. No one, indeed, admits to himself that his standard of judgment is his own liking. But an opinion on a point of conduct that is not supported by reasons can only count as one person's preference. And if the reasons given are a mere appeal to a similar preference felt by other people, it is still only many people's liking instead of one person's. To an ordinary man, however, his own preference, supported in this way, is a perfectly satisfactory reason. It is also the only reason he generally has for any of his notions of morality, taste, or propriety that are not expressly written in his religious creed. It is even his chief guide in interpreting that creed. So men's opinions on what is praiseworthy or blameworthy are affected by all the many causes that influence their wishes about the conduct of others. These causes are as numerous as those that shape their wishes on any other subject. Sometimes it is their reason. At other times it is their prejudices or superstitions. Often it is their social feelings, and not seldom their anti-social ones: their envy or jealousy, their arrogance or contempt. But most commonly it is their desires or fears for themselves, their legitimate or illegitimate self-interest. Wherever there is a dominant class, a large part of the country's morality comes from that class's interests and its feelings of class superiority. The morality between Spartans and Helots, between planters and negroes, between princes and subjects, between nobles and roturiers, and between men and women has mostly been the creation of these class interests and feelings. The sentiments produced this way then react in turn on the moral feelings of the dominant class's members in their dealings with one another. On the other hand, where a class that used to dominate has lost its dominance, or where its dominance is unpopular, the prevailing moral sentiments often bear the mark of an impatient dislike of superiority. Another great deciding principle of the rules of conduct enforced by law or opinion, both for what to do and what to refrain from, has been mankind's servility. They are servile toward the supposed likes or dislikes of their earthly masters, or of their gods. This servility, though essentially selfish, is not hypocrisy. It produces perfectly genuine feelings of abhorrence. It made men burn magicians and heretics. Among so many baser influences, the general and obvious interests of society have of course had a share, and a large one, in directing moral sentiments. But this was less a matter of reason, or of those interests for their own sake, than a result of the sympathies and antipathies that grew out of them. And sympathies and antipathies that had little or nothing to do with the interests of society have made themselves felt in establishing moralities with quite as great force.
The likings and dislikings of society, or of some powerful portion of it, are thus the main thing which has practically determined the rules laid down for general observance, under the penalties of law or opinion. And in general, those who have been in advance of society in thought and feeling have left this condition of things unassailed in principle, however they may have come into conflict with it in some of its details. They have occupied themselves rather in inquiring what things society ought to like or dislike, than in questioning whether its likings or dislikings should be a law to individuals. They preferred endeavouring to alter the feelings of mankind on the particular points on which they were themselves heretical, rather than make common cause in defence of freedom, with heretics generally. The only case in which the higher ground has been taken on principle and maintained with consistency, by any but an individual here and there, is that of religious belief: a case instructive in many ways, and not least so as forming a most striking instance of the fallibility of what is called the moral sense: for the odium theologicum, in a sincere bigot, is one of the most unequivocal cases of moral feeling. Those who first broke the yoke of what called itself the Universal Church, were in general as little willing to permit difference of religious opinion as that church itself. But when the heat of the conflict was over, without giving a complete victory to any party, and each church or sect was reduced to limit its hopes to retaining possession of the ground it already occupied; minorities, seeing that they had no chance of becoming majorities, were under the necessity of pleading to those whom they could not convert, for permission to differ. It is accordingly on this battle-field, almost solely, that the rights of the individual against society have been asserted on broad grounds of principle, and the claim of society to exercise authority over dissentients, openly controverted. The great writers to whom the world owes what religious liberty it possesses, have mostly asserted freedom of conscience as an indefeasible right, and denied absolutely that a human being is accountable to others for his religious belief. Yet so natural to mankind is intolerance in whatever they really care about, that religious freedom has hardly anywhere been practically realised, except where religious indifference, which dislikes to have its peace disturbed by theological quarrels, has added its weight to the scale. In the minds of almost all religious persons, even in the most tolerant countries, the duty of toleration is admitted with tacit reserves. One person will bear with dissent in matters of church government, but not of dogma; another can tolerate everybody, short of a Papist or a Unitarian; another, every one who believes in revealed religion; a few extend their charity a little further, but stop at the belief in a God and in a future state. Wherever the sentiment of the majority is still genuine and intense, it is found to have abated little of its claim to be obeyed.
So the likes and dislikes of society, or of some powerful part of it, are the main thing that has in practice decided the rules laid down for everyone to follow, under the penalties of law or opinion. And in general, those who were ahead of society in thought and feeling have left this state of things unchallenged in principle, however much they may have clashed with it in some of its details. They have busied themselves with asking what society ought to like or dislike, rather than questioning whether its likes and dislikes should be a law to individuals. They preferred to try to change mankind's feelings on the particular points where they themselves were heretics, rather than join with heretics in general in defending freedom. The only case in which the higher ground has been taken on principle and held consistently, by anyone but an individual here and there, is religious belief. This case is instructive in many ways. Not least, it is a most striking example of the fallibility of what is called the moral sense. For the odium theologicum (theological hatred) in a sincere bigot is one of the most unmistakable cases of moral feeling. Those who first broke the yoke of what called itself the Universal Church were in general just as unwilling to permit difference of religious opinion as that church itself. But the heat of the conflict passed without giving complete victory to any party. Each church or sect was reduced to hoping only to keep the ground it already held. Then minorities, seeing they had no chance of becoming majorities, were forced to plead for permission to differ with those they could not convert. So it is on this battlefield, almost alone, that the rights of the individual against society have been asserted on broad grounds of principle. Almost solely here, too, has the claim of society to exercise authority over dissenters been openly disputed. The great writers to whom the world owes whatever religious liberty it has mostly asserted freedom of conscience as a right that can never be taken away. They denied absolutely that a human being is accountable to others for his religious belief. Yet intolerance is so natural to mankind in whatever they really care about that religious freedom has hardly anywhere been realized in practice. The only exceptions are where religious indifference, which dislikes having its peace disturbed by theological quarrels, has added its weight to the scale. In the minds of almost all religious people, even in the most tolerant countries, the duty of toleration is accepted with unspoken reservations. One person will put up with dissent in matters of church government, but not of dogma. Another can tolerate everybody short of a Papist or a Unitarian. Another can tolerate everyone who believes in revealed religion. A few extend their charity a little further, but stop at belief in a God and in a future state. Wherever the majority's feeling is still genuine and intense, it is found to have given up little of its claim to be obeyed.
In England, from the peculiar circumstances of our political history, though the yoke of opinion is perhaps heavier, that of law is lighter, than in most other countries of Europe; and there is considerable jealousy of direct interference, by the legislative or the executive power, with private conduct; not so much from any just regard for the independence of the individual, as from the still subsisting habit of looking on the government as representing an opposite interest to the public. The majority have not yet learnt to feel the power of the government their power, or its opinions their opinions. When they do so, individual liberty will probably be as much exposed to invasion from the government, as it already is from public opinion. But, as yet, there is a considerable amount of feeling ready to be called forth against any attempt of the law to control individuals in things in which they have not hitherto been accustomed to be controlled by it; and this with very little discrimination as to whether the matter is, or is not, within the legitimate sphere of legal control; insomuch that the feeling, highly salutary on the whole, is perhaps quite as often misplaced as well grounded in the particular instances of its application. There is, in fact, no recognised principle by which the propriety or impropriety of government interference is customarily tested. People decide according to their personal preferences. Some, whenever they see any good to be done, or evil to be remedied, would willingly instigate the government to undertake the business; while others prefer to bear almost any amount of social evil, rather than add one to the departments of human interests amenable to governmental control. And men range themselves on one or the other side in any particular case, according to this general direction of their sentiments; or according to the degree of interest which they feel in the particular thing which it is proposed that the government should do, or according to the belief they entertain that the government would, or would not, do it in the manner they prefer; but very rarely on account of any opinion to which they consistently adhere, as to what things are fit to be done by a government. And it seems to me that in consequence of this absence of rule or principle, one side is at present as often wrong as the other; the interference of government is, with about equal frequency, improperly invoked and improperly condemned.
In England, because of the peculiar circumstances of our political history, the yoke of opinion is perhaps heavier than in most other countries of Europe, but the yoke of law is lighter. There is considerable jealousy of direct interference with private conduct by the legislative or the executive power. This comes not so much from any just regard for the independence of the individual as from the still lingering habit of seeing the government as representing an interest opposed to the public's. The majority have not yet learned to feel the government's power as their power, or its opinions as their opinions. When they do, individual liberty will probably be as exposed to invasion from the government as it already is from public opinion. But as yet, a considerable amount of feeling is ready to be roused against any attempt by the law to control individuals in things where they have not so far been used to its control. And this happens with very little discrimination as to whether the matter is or is not within the legitimate sphere of legal control. So this feeling, highly healthy on the whole, is perhaps quite as often misplaced as well grounded in the particular cases where it is applied. There is, in fact, no recognized principle by which people usually test whether government interference is proper or improper. People decide according to their personal preferences. Some, whenever they see any good to be done or evil to be remedied, would gladly urge the government to take on the task. Others prefer to bear almost any amount of social evil rather than add one more to the areas of human interest subject to government control. And in any particular case, men line up on one side or the other according to this general direction of their feelings. Or they decide by how much interest they feel in the particular thing the government is asked to do. Or they decide by whether they believe the government would or would not do it in the way they prefer. But they very rarely decide because of any opinion they consistently hold about what things a government is fit to do. And it seems to me that because of this lack of rule or principle, one side is at present as often wrong as the other. Government interference is, about equally often, improperly called for and improperly condemned.
The object of this Essay is to assert one very simple principle, as entitled to govern absolutely the dealings of society with the individual in the way of compulsion and control, whether the means used be physical force in the form of legal penalties, or the moral coercion of public opinion. That principle is, that the sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. He cannot rightfully be compelled to do or forbear because it will be better for him to do so, because it will make him happier, because, in the opinions of others, to do so would be wise, or even right. These are good reasons for remonstrating with him, or reasoning with him, or persuading him, or entreating him, but not for compelling him, or visiting him with any evil in case he do otherwise. To justify that, the conduct from which it is desired to deter him must be calculated to produce evil to some one else. The only part of the conduct of any one, for which he is amenable to society, is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign.
The object of this Essay is to assert one very simple principle. That principle is entitled to govern absolutely how society deals with the individual by way of compulsion and control. This holds whether the means used is physical force in the form of legal penalties, or the moral coercion of public opinion. The principle is this. The sole end for which mankind are justified, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number is self-protection. The only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. He cannot rightfully be compelled to do something, or to refrain from it, because it will be better for him, because it will make him happier, or because, in the opinion of others, doing so would be wise, or even right. These are good reasons for protesting to him, reasoning with him, persuading him, or pleading with him. But they are not reasons for compelling him, or for inflicting any evil on him if he acts otherwise. To justify that, the conduct we want to deter him from must be likely to produce evil to someone else. The only part of anyone's conduct for which he is answerable to society is the part that concerns others. In the part that merely concerns himself, his independence is, by right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign.
It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to say that this doctrine is meant to apply only to human beings in the maturity of their faculties. We are not speaking of children, or of young persons below the age which the law may fix as that of manhood or womanhood. Those who are still in a state to require being taken care of by others, must be protected against their own actions as well as against external injury. For the same reason, we may leave out of consideration those backward states of society in which the race itself may be considered as in its nonage. The early difficulties in the way of spontaneous progress are so great, that there is seldom any choice of means for overcoming them; and a ruler full of the spirit of improvement is warranted in the use of any expedients that will attain an end, perhaps otherwise unattainable. Despotism is a legitimate mode of government in dealing with barbarians, provided the end be their improvement, and the means justified by actually effecting that end. Liberty, as a principle, has no application to any state of things anterior to the time when mankind have become capable of being improved by free and equal discussion. Until then, there is nothing for them but implicit obedience to an Akbar or a Charlemagne, if they are so fortunate as to find one. But as soon as mankind have attained the capacity of being guided to their own improvement by conviction or persuasion (a period long since reached in all nations with whom we need here concern ourselves), compulsion, either in the direct form or in that of pains and penalties for non-compliance, is no longer admissible as a means to their own good, and justifiable only for the security of others.
It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that this doctrine is meant to apply only to human beings in the maturity of their faculties. We are not speaking of children, or of young people below the age the law may fix as that of manhood or womanhood. Those who are still in a state that requires others to take care of them must be protected against their own actions as well as against harm from outside. For the same reason, we may leave out of consideration those backward states of society in which the race itself may be considered as still in its childhood. The early difficulties in the way of spontaneous progress are so great that there is seldom any choice of means for overcoming them. A ruler full of the spirit of improvement is justified in using any measures that will reach an end that is perhaps otherwise unreachable. Despotism is a legitimate mode of government in dealing with barbarians, provided the end is their improvement, and the means are justified by actually achieving that end. Liberty, as a principle, has no application to any state of things before the time when mankind have become capable of being improved by free and equal discussion. Until then, there is nothing for them but implicit obedience to an Akbar or a Charlemagne, if they are lucky enough to find one. But at some point mankind reach the capacity to be guided to their own improvement by conviction or persuasion. (All the nations we need to concern ourselves with here reached that stage long ago.) As soon as they do, compulsion is no longer admissible as a means to their own good, whether it is direct or takes the form of pains and penalties for non-compliance. It is justifiable only for the security of others.
It is proper to state that I forego any advantage which could be derived to my argument from the idea of abstract right, as a thing independent of utility. I regard utility as the ultimate appeal on all ethical questions; but it must be utility in the largest sense, grounded on the permanent interests of man as a progressive being. Those interests, I contend, authorise the subjection of individual spontaneity to external control, only in respect to those actions of each, which concern the interest of other people. If any one does an act hurtful to others, there is a primâ facie case for punishing him, by law, or, where legal penalties are not safely applicable, by general disapprobation. There are also many positive acts for the benefit of others, which he may rightfully be compelled to perform; such as, to give evidence in a court of justice; to bear his fair share in the common defence, or in any other joint work necessary to the interest of the society of which he enjoys the protection; and to perform certain acts of individual beneficence, such as saving a fellow-creature's life, or interposing to protect the defenceless against ill-usage, things which whenever it is obviously a man's duty to do, he may rightfully be made responsible to society for not doing. A person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction, and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury. The latter case, it is true, requires a much more cautious exercise of compulsion than the former. To make any one answerable for doing evil to others, is the rule; to make him answerable for not preventing evil, is, comparatively speaking, the exception. Yet there are many cases clear enough and grave enough to justify that exception. In all things which regard the external relations of the individual, he is de jure amenable to those whose interests are concerned, and if need be, to society as their protector. There are often good reasons for not holding him to the responsibility; but these reasons must arise from the special expediencies of the case: either because it is a kind of case in which he is on the whole likely to act better, when left to his own discretion, than when controlled in any way in which society have it in their power to control him; or because the attempt to exercise control would produce other evils, greater than those which it would prevent. When such reasons as these preclude the enforcement of responsibility, the conscience of the agent himself should step into the vacant judgment seat, and protect those interests of others which have no external protection; judging himself all the more rigidly, because the case does not admit of his being made accountable to the judgment of his fellow-creatures.
I should state that I give up any advantage my argument could gain from the idea of abstract right, as a thing independent of utility. I regard utility as the final appeal on all ethical questions. But it must be utility in the largest sense, grounded on the permanent interests of man as a progressive being. Those interests, I contend, justify subjecting individual spontaneity to outside control only in respect of those actions of each person that concern the interests of other people. If anyone does an act harmful to others, there is a primâ facie case for punishing him. This can be by law, or, where legal penalties cannot safely be applied, by general disapproval. There are also many positive acts for the benefit of others that he may rightfully be compelled to perform. Examples are giving evidence in a court of justice, and bearing his fair share in the common defence, or in any other joint work necessary to the interest of the society whose protection he enjoys. Others are certain acts of individual kindness, such as saving a fellow creature's life, or stepping in to protect the defenceless against ill-treatment. Whenever it is obviously a man's duty to do such things, he may rightfully be made responsible to society for not doing them. A person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction. In either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury. The second case, it is true, calls for a much more cautious use of compulsion than the first. To make anyone answerable for doing evil to others is the rule. To make him answerable for not preventing evil is, comparatively speaking, the exception. Yet there are many cases clear enough and serious enough to justify that exception. In all things that concern the individual's dealings with others, he is de jure (by right) answerable to those whose interests are concerned, and if need be, to society as their protector. There are often good reasons for not holding him to this responsibility. But these reasons must arise from the special circumstances of the case. In one kind of case, he is, on the whole, likely to act better when left to his own judgment than when controlled in any way society has the power to control him. In another, the attempt to exercise control would produce other evils, greater than those it would prevent. When reasons like these rule out enforcing responsibility, the agent's own conscience should step into the empty judgment seat. It should protect those interests of others that have no outside protection. And he should judge himself all the more strictly because the case does not allow him to be held accountable to the judgment of his fellow creatures.
But there is a sphere of action in which society, as distinguished from the individual, has, if any, only an indirect interest; comprehending all that portion of a person's life and conduct which affects only himself, or if it also affects others, only with their free, voluntary, and undeceived consent and participation. When I say only himself, I mean directly, and in the first instance: for whatever affects himself, may affect others through himself; and the objection which may be grounded on this contingency, will receive consideration in the sequel. This, then, is the appropriate region of human liberty. It comprises, first, the inward domain of consciousness; demanding liberty of conscience, in the most comprehensive sense; liberty of thought and feeling; absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral, or theological. The liberty of expressing and publishing opinions may seem to fall under a different principle, since it belongs to that part of the conduct of an individual which concerns other people; but, being almost of as much importance as the liberty of thought itself, and resting in great part on the same reasons, is practically inseparable from it. Secondly, the principle requires liberty of tastes and pursuits; of framing the plan of our life to suit our own character; of doing as we like, subject to such consequences as may follow: without impediment from our fellow-creatures, so long as what we do does not harm them, even though they should think our conduct foolish, perverse, or wrong. Thirdly, from this liberty of each individual, follows the liberty, within the same limits, of combination among individuals; freedom to unite, for any purpose not involving harm to others: the persons combining being supposed to be of full age, and not forced or deceived.
But there is a sphere of action in which society, as distinct from the individual, has only an indirect interest, if any. It includes all the part of a person's life and conduct that affects only himself. Or if it also affects others, it does so only with their free, voluntary, and undeceived consent and participation. When I say only himself, I mean directly, and in the first instance. For whatever affects himself may affect others through himself. The objection that may be based on this possibility will be considered later in this essay. This, then, is the proper region of human liberty. It includes, first, the inward domain of consciousness. This demands liberty of conscience in the widest sense, and liberty of thought and feeling. It demands absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral, or theological. The liberty of expressing and publishing opinions may seem to fall under a different principle, since it belongs to the part of a person's conduct that concerns other people. But it is almost as important as liberty of thought itself, and rests largely on the same reasons. So in practice it cannot be separated from it. Second, the principle requires liberty of tastes and pursuits. It requires freedom to frame the plan of our life to suit our own character, and to do as we like, subject to whatever consequences may follow. Our fellow creatures should not hinder us, so long as what we do does not harm them, even if they think our conduct foolish, perverse, or wrong. Third, from this liberty of each individual follows the liberty, within the same limits, of individuals to combine. This is freedom to unite for any purpose not involving harm to others. The people combining are assumed to be of full age, and not forced or deceived.
No society in which these liberties are not, on the whole, respected, is free, whatever may be its form of government; and none is completely free in which they do not exist absolute and unqualified. The only freedom which deserves the name, is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental and spiritual. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest.
A society that does not generally respect these liberties is not free, no matter its government. No society is fully free unless those liberties are absolute and unqualified. True freedom is pursuing our own good in our own way. This applies only so long as we do not try to deprive others of theirs or block their efforts to obtain it. Each person is the proper guardian of their own health, bodily, mental, and spiritual. We gain more by allowing each other to live as we see fit than by forcing everyone to live as others think best.
Though this doctrine is anything but new, and, to some persons, may have the air of a truism, there is no doctrine which stands more directly opposed to the general tendency of existing opinion and practice. Society has expended fully as much effort in the attempt (according to its lights) to compel people to conform to its notions of personal, as of social excellence. The ancient commonwealths thought themselves entitled to practise, and the ancient philosophers countenanced, the regulation of every part of private conduct by public authority, on the ground that the State had a deep interest in the whole bodily and mental discipline of every one of its citizens; a mode of thinking which may have been admissible in small republics surrounded by powerful enemies, in constant peril of being subverted by foreign attack or internal commotion, and to which even a short interval of relaxed energy and self-command might so easily be fatal, that they could not afford to wait for the salutary permanent effects of freedom. In the modern world, the greater size of political communities, and above all, the separation between spiritual and temporal authority (which placed the direction of men's consciences in other hands than those which controlled their worldly affairs), prevented so great an interference by law in the details of private life; but the engines of moral repression have been wielded more strenuously against divergence from the reigning opinion in self-regarding, than even in social matters; religion, the most powerful of the elements which have entered into the formation of moral feeling, having almost always been governed either by the ambition of a hierarchy, seeking control over every department of human conduct, or by the spirit of Puritanism. And some of those modern reformers who have placed themselves in strongest opposition to the religions of the past, have been noway behind either churches or sects in their assertion of the right of spiritual domination: M. Comte, in particular, whose social system, as unfolded in his Traité de Politique Positive, aims at establishing (though by moral more than by legal appliances) a despotism of society over the individual, surpassing anything contemplated in the political ideal of the most rigid disciplinarian among the ancient philosophers.
This doctrine is anything but new, and to some people it may sound like a truism. Yet no doctrine stands more directly opposed to the general tendency of existing opinion and practice. Society has spent fully as much effort trying (by its own lights) to force people to conform to its notions of personal excellence as of social excellence. The ancient commonwealths thought they had the right to regulate every part of private conduct by public authority, and the ancient philosophers approved. Their ground was that the State had a deep interest in the whole bodily and mental discipline of every one of its citizens. This way of thinking may have been acceptable in small republics surrounded by powerful enemies. They were in constant danger of being overthrown by foreign attack or internal unrest. Even a short period of relaxed energy and self-control could so easily be fatal to them that they could not afford to wait for the healthy, lasting effects of freedom. In the modern world, two things prevented such great interference by law in the details of private life. One was the greater size of political communities. The other, above all, was the separation between spiritual and temporal authority, which put the direction of men's consciences in different hands from those that controlled their worldly affairs. But the engines of moral repression have been used more vigorously against departures from the reigning opinion in self-regarding matters than even in social ones. For religion, the most powerful of the elements that have shaped moral feeling, has almost always been governed by one of two things. One is the ambition of a hierarchy seeking control over every area of human conduct. The other is the spirit of Puritanism. And some modern reformers who have set themselves most strongly against the religions of the past have been in no way behind churches or sects in asserting the right of spiritual domination. M. Comte is a notable example. His social system, as set out in his Traité de Politique Positive, aims to establish a despotism of society over the individual, though by moral more than by legal means. It goes beyond anything imagined in the political ideal of the strictest disciplinarian among the ancient philosophers.
Apart from the peculiar tenets of individual thinkers, there is also in the world at large an increasing inclination to stretch unduly the powers of society over the individual, both by the force of opinion and even by that of legislation: and as the tendency of all the changes taking place in the world is to strengthen society, and diminish the power of the individual, this encroachment is not one of the evils which tend spontaneously to disappear, but, on the contrary, to grow more and more formidable. The disposition of mankind, whether as rulers or as fellow-citizens to impose their own opinions and inclinations as a rule of conduct on others, is so energetically supported by some of the best and by some of the worst feelings incident to human nature, that it is hardly ever kept under restraint by anything but want of power; and as the power is not declining, but growing, unless a strong barrier of moral conviction can be raised against the mischief, we must expect, in the present circumstances of the world, to see it increase.
Apart from the peculiar beliefs of individual thinkers, there is also in the world at large a growing tendency to stretch the powers of society over the individual too far. This happens both through the force of opinion and even through legislation. And the tendency of all the changes taking place in the world is to strengthen society and lessen the power of the individual. So this encroachment is not one of the evils that tend to disappear on their own. On the contrary, it tends to grow more and more formidable. Mankind, whether as rulers or as fellow citizens, are inclined to impose their own opinions and inclinations on others as a rule of conduct. Some of the best and some of the worst feelings in human nature support this inclination so strongly that hardly anything but lack of power ever restrains it. And the power is not declining but growing. So unless a strong barrier of moral conviction can be raised against the harm, we must expect, in the present circumstances of the world, to see it increase.
It will be convenient for the argument, if, instead of at once entering upon the general thesis, we confine ourselves in the first instance to a single branch of it, on which the principle here stated is, if not fully, yet to a certain point, recognised by the current opinions. This one branch is the Liberty of Thought: from which it is impossible to separate the cognate liberty of speaking and of writing. Although these liberties, to some considerable amount, form part of the political morality of all countries which profess religious toleration and free institutions, the grounds, both philosophical and practical, on which they rest, are perhaps not so familiar to the general mind, nor so thoroughly appreciated by many even of the leaders of opinion, as might have been expected. Those grounds, when rightly understood, are of much wider application than to only one division of the subject, and a thorough consideration of this part of the question will be found the best introduction to the remainder. Those to whom nothing which I am about to say will be new, may therefore, I hope, excuse me, if on a subject which for now three centuries has been so often discussed, I venture on one discussion more.
It will help the argument if, instead of starting with the general thesis right away, we first focus on a single branch of it. On this branch, current opinion already accepts the principle stated here, if not fully, then to a certain point. This branch is the Liberty of Thought, which cannot be separated from the related liberty of speaking and of writing. To a considerable degree, these liberties are part of the political morality of every country that professes religious toleration and free institutions. Yet the grounds they rest on, both philosophical and practical, are perhaps not as familiar to the general public as one might expect. Nor are they as fully appreciated by many even among the leaders of opinion. Rightly understood, these grounds apply far more widely than to this one part of the subject, and a thorough look at this part of the question will prove the best introduction to the rest. So I hope that readers who will find nothing new in what I am about to say will excuse me if, on a subject discussed so often for three centuries now, I venture one discussion more.