The Utility Principle’s Ultimate Binding Force

The question is often asked, and properly so, in regard to any supposed moral standard—What is its sanction? what are the motives to obey it? or more specifically, what is the source of its obligation? whence does it derive its binding force? It is a necessary part of moral philosophy to provide the answer to this question; which, though frequently assuming the shape of an objection to the utilitarian morality, as if it had some special applicability to that above others, really arises in regard to all standards. It arises, in fact, whenever a person is called on to adopt a standard or refer morality to any basis on which he has not been accustomed to rest it. For the customary morality, that which education and opinion have consecrated, is the only one which presents itself to the mind with the feeling of being in itself obligatory; and when a person is asked to believe that this morality derives its obligation from some general principle round which custom has not thrown the same halo, the assertion is to him a paradox; the supposed corollaries seem to have a more binding force than the original theorem; the superstructure seems to stand better without, than with, what is represented as its foundation. He says to himself, I feel that I am bound not to rob or murder, betray or deceive; but why am I bound to promote the general happiness? If my own happiness lies in something else, why may I not give that the preference?

People often ask, quite rightly, these questions about any proposed moral standard: What gives it authority? What motives do we have to obey it? More specifically, where does our obligation to follow it come from? What makes it binding? Answering these questions is a necessary part of moral philosophy. They are often raised as an objection to utilitarian morality, as if they applied especially to utilitarianism. But these questions really arise for all moral standards. They arise whenever someone is asked to adopt an unfamiliar standard or ground morality in an unfamiliar basis. Only familiar morality, made authoritative by education and public opinion, feels binding in itself. Suppose someone is told that familiar morality derives its binding force from a general principle lacking the same customary authority. That claim seems paradoxical to them. The supposed conclusions seem more binding than the principle from which they follow. The structure seems to stand better without its supposed foundation than with it. The person says to himself, I feel bound not to rob or murder, betray or deceive. But why am I bound to promote everyone's happiness? If my own happiness lies in something else, why may I not put my own happiness first?

If the view adopted by the utilitarian philosophy of the nature of the moral sense be correct, this difficulty will always present itself, until the influences which form moral character have taken the same hold of the principle which they have taken of some of the consequences—until, by the improvement of education, the feeling of unity with our fellow creatures shall be (what it cannot be doubted that Christ intended it to be) as deeply rooted in our character, and to our own consciousness as completely a part of our nature, as the horror of crime is in an ordinarily well-brought-up young person. In the mean time, however, the difficulty has no peculiar application to the doctrine of utility, but is inherent in every attempt to analyse morality and reduce it to principles; which, unless the principle is already in men's minds invested with as much sacredness as any of its applications, always seems to divest them of a part of their sanctity.

If utilitarian philosophy is right about the nature of our moral sense, this difficulty will persist until moral education changes. The influences that shape moral character must give the principle the same hold they have given some of its consequences. Education must improve until our sense of unity with our fellow creatures becomes deeply rooted in our character. We must feel that unity to be as fully part of our nature as an ordinarily well-raised young person’s horror of crime. There can be no doubt that Christ intended our sense of unity to become this deeply rooted. Meanwhile, however, the difficulty is not unique to the doctrine of utility. It is inherent in every attempt to analyze morality and explain it through principles. Unless people already regard a principle as sacred as any of its applications, such analysis always seems to diminish those applications’ sacredness.

The principle of utility either has, or there is no reason why it might not have, all the sanctions which belong to any other system of morals. Those sanctions are either external or internal. Of the external sanctions it is not necessary to speak at any length. They are, the hope of favour and the fear of displeasure from our fellow creatures or from the Ruler of the Universe, along with whatever we may have of sympathy or affection for them or of love and awe of Him, inclining us to do His will independently of selfish consequences. There is evidently no reason why all these motives for observance should not attach themselves to the utilitarian morality, as completely and as powerfully as to any other. Indeed, those of them which refer to our fellow creatures are sure to do so, in proportion to the amount of general intelligence; for whether there be any other ground of moral obligation than the general happiness or not, men do desire happiness; and however imperfect may be their own practice, they desire and commend all conduct in others towards themselves, by which they think their happiness is promoted. With regard to the religious motive, if men believe, as most profess to do, in the goodness of God, those who think that conduciveness to the general happiness is the essence, or even only the criterion, of good, must necessarily believe that it is also that which God approves. The whole force therefore of external reward and punishment, whether physical or moral, and whether proceeding from God or from our fellow men, together with all that the capacities of human nature admit, of disinterested devotion to either, become available to enforce the utilitarian morality, in proportion as that morality is recognized; and the more powerfully, the more the appliances of education and general cultivation are bent to the purpose.

The principle of utility either has all the sources of moral authority that any other moral system has, or could have them. There is no reason why it could not. These sources are either external or internal. We need not discuss the external sources at length. They include the hope of approval and fear of displeasure from other people or from the Ruler of the Universe. They also include whatever sympathy or affection we have for others, or love and awe we feel toward God. These feelings incline us to do his will, regardless of any consequences for ourselves. Clearly, there is no reason these motives should not support utilitarian morality as fully and powerfully as any other morality. Indeed, motives involving other people are certain to support utilitarian morality more strongly as general understanding increases. For people do desire happiness, whether or not moral obligation has any basis besides general happiness. However imperfectly people behave themselves, they want and praise behavior toward them that they believe promotes their happiness. As for religious motives, suppose people believe in God's goodness, as most claim to do. Those who consider promoting general happiness the essence of goodness must then believe that God also approves of it. The same follows for those who consider promoting general happiness merely the test of goodness. So the full force of external rewards and punishments can support utilitarian morality as that morality gains recognition. This includes physical and moral rewards and punishments, whether they come from God or from other people. It also includes all the selfless devotion to God or other people that human nature allows. These sources of support become more powerful as education and general intellectual and cultural development are directed toward that purpose.

So far as to external sanctions. The internal sanction of duty, whatever our standard of duty may be, is one and the same—a feeling in our own mind; a pain, more or less intense, attendant on violation of duty, which in properly cultivated moral natures rises, in the more serious cases, into shrinking from it as an impossibility. This feeling, when disinterested, and connecting itself with the pure idea of duty, and not with some particular form of it, or with any of the merely accessory circumstances, is the essence of Conscience; though in that complex phenomenon as it actually exists, the simple fact is in general all encrusted over with collateral associations, derived from sympathy, from love, and still more from fear; from all the forms of religious feeling; from the recollections of childhood and of all our past life; from self-esteem, desire of the esteem of others, and occasionally even self-abasement. This extreme complication is, I apprehend, the origin of the sort of mystical character which, by a tendency of the human mind of which there are many other examples, is apt to be attributed to the idea of moral obligation, and which leads people to believe that the idea cannot possibly attach itself to any other objects than those which, by a supposed mysterious law, are found in our present experience to excite it. Its binding force, however, consists in the existence of a mass of feeling which must be broken through in order to do what violates our standard of right, and which, if we do nevertheless violate that standard, will probably have to be encountered afterwards in the form of remorse. Whatever theory we have of the nature or origin of conscience, this is what essentially constitutes it.

So much for external sanctions. The internal sanction of duty is always the same, whatever our standard of duty may be. It is a feeling in our own minds: pain, more or less intense, that comes with violating duty. In people with properly developed moral feelings, serious violations can become something they recoil from as impossible. This feeling is the essence of conscience when it is free from self-interest and tied to duty itself. It must not be tied to any particular form of duty or to circumstances that merely accompany duty. Yet conscience, as we actually experience it, is complex. This basic feeling is generally covered by layers of associations drawn from sympathy, love, and, even more, fear. These associations also come from every form of religious feeling, memories of childhood, and memories of our entire past lives. They come from self-esteem, the desire for others’ esteem, and occasionally even self-abasement. I believe this extreme complexity explains the seemingly mystical character often attributed to moral obligation. The human mind has a tendency to make such attributions, and there are many other examples of this tendency. This mystical view leads people to believe that moral obligation cannot possibly become attached to anything beyond its current objects. They suppose some mysterious law limits moral obligation to the things that, in our present experience, arouse it. Yet moral obligation gets its binding force from a body of feeling we must overcome to violate our moral standard. If we nevertheless violate that standard, we will probably face those feelings afterward as remorse. Whatever our theory about the nature or origin of conscience, these feelings are what essentially make up conscience.

The ultimate sanction, therefore, of all morality (external motives apart) being a subjective feeling in our own minds, I see nothing embarrassing to those whose standard is utility, in the question, what is the sanction of that particular standard? We may answer, the same as of all other moral standards—the conscientious feelings of mankind. Undoubtedly this sanction has no binding efficacy on those who do not possess the feelings it appeals to; but neither will these persons be more obedient to any other moral principle than to the utilitarian one. On them morality of any kind has no hold but through the external sanctions. Meanwhile the feelings exist, a feet in human nature, the reality of which, and the great power with which they are capable of acting on those in whom they have been duly cultivated, are proved by experience. No reason has ever been shown why they may not be cultivated to as great intensity in connection with the utilitarian, as with any other rule of morals.

Apart from external motives, the ultimate source of all morality’s binding force is a subjective feeling in our own minds. So I see no difficulty for those who take utility as their standard when asked what gives that standard authority. We may answer that its authority comes from the same source as every other moral standard: humanity’s feelings of conscience. Certainly, conscience has no binding force for people who lack the feelings it appeals to. But these people will be no more obedient to any other moral principle than to the utilitarian principle. Morality of any kind can influence them only through external rewards and punishments. Still, feelings of conscience exist as a fact of human nature. Experience proves both their reality and their great power over people whose feelings of conscience have been properly developed. No one has ever shown why these feelings cannot be developed just as strongly in support of the utilitarian standard as of any other moral rule.

There is, I am aware, a disposition to believe that a person who sees in moral obligation a transcendental fact, an objective reality belonging to the province of "Things in themselves," is likely to be more obedient to it than one who believes it to be entirely subjective, having its seat in human consciousness only. But whatever a person's opinion may be on this point of Ontology, the force he is really urged by is his own subjective feeling, and is exactly measured by its strength. No one's belief that Duty is an objective reality is stronger than the belief that God is so; yet the belief in God, apart from the expectation of actual reward and punishment, only operates on conduct through, and in proportion to, the subjective religious feeling. The sanction, so far as it is disinterested, is always in the mind itself; and the notion, therefore, of the transcendental moralists must be, that this sanction will not exist in the mind unless it is believed to have its root out of the mind; and that if a person is able to say to himself, That which is restraining me, and which is called my conscience, is only a feeling in my own mind, he may possibly draw the conclusion that when the feeling ceases the obligation ceases, and that if he find the feeling inconvenient, he may disregard it, and endeavour to get rid of it. But is this danger confined to the utilitarian morality? Does the belief that moral obligation has its seat outside the mind make the feeling of it too strong to be got rid of? The fact is so far otherwise, that all moralists admit and lament the ease with which, in the generality of minds, conscience can be silenced or stifled. The question, Need I obey my conscience? is quite as often put to themselves by persons who never heard of the principle of utility, as by its adherents. Those whose conscientious feelings are so weak as to allow of their asking this question, if they answer it affirmatively, will not do so because they believe in the transcendental theory, but because of the external sanctions.

I know there is a tendency to think that seeing moral obligation as an objective reality makes people more obedient. On this view, moral obligation exists beyond human experience, in the realm of "Things in themselves." People who hold this view supposedly obey more readily than those who see moral obligation as existing only in human consciousness. But whatever people believe about the nature of reality, their own subjective feelings are what actually move them. The force of those feelings depends entirely on their strength. No one's belief that Duty is an objective reality is stronger than the belief that God is real. Yet without the expectation of actual rewards and punishments, belief in God influences conduct only through subjective religious feeling. Its influence is proportional to the strength of that feeling. Whenever the motive for obedience is free from self-interest, that motive is always within the mind itself. Those who believe morality has a reality beyond human experience must therefore hold a particular view. They must believe this motive cannot exist in the mind unless people believe its source lies outside the mind. Their concern must be that someone might say: What restrains me, and is called my conscience, is only a feeling in my mind. That person may possibly conclude that when the feeling ends, the obligation ends too. And if the feeling becomes inconvenient, the person may disregard it and try to get rid of it. But is this danger limited to utilitarian morality? Does believing that moral obligation exists outside the mind make the feeling of obligation too strong to overcome? The facts are quite the opposite. All moral thinkers acknowledge and regret how easily conscience can be silenced or suppressed in most minds. People who have never heard of the principle of utility ask themselves, Must I obey my conscience? They ask this question just as often as followers of that principle do. Some people's feelings of conscience are weak enough to let them ask this question. If they answer yes, their reason will not be a belief that moral obligation exists beyond the mind. Instead, their reason will be external rewards and punishments.

It is not necessary, for the present purpose, to decide whether the feeling of duty is innate or implanted. Assuming it to be innate, it is an open question to what objects it naturally attaches itself; for the philosophic supporters of that theory are now agreed that the intuitive perception is of principles of morality, and not of the details. If there be anything innate in the matter, I see no reason why the feeling which is innate should not be that of regard to the pleasures and pains of others. If there is any principle of morals which is intuitively obligatory, I should say it must be that. If so, the intuitive ethics would coincide with the utilitarian, and there would be no further quarrel between them. Even as it is, the intuitive moralists, though they believe that there are other intuitive moral obligations, do already believe this to be one; for they unanimously hold that a large portion of morality turns upon the consideration due to the interests of our fellow creatures. Therefore, if the belief in the transcendental origin of moral obligation gives any additional efficacy to the internal sanction, it appears to me that the utilitarian principle has already the benefit of it.

For our present purpose, we need not decide whether the sense of duty is inborn or learned. Even if we assume it is inborn, what it naturally directs us toward remains an open question. Philosophers who support this theory now agree that moral intuition concerns principles, not specific details. If anything about morality is inborn, I see no reason why it should not be concern for others’ pleasures and pains. If any moral principle is intuitively binding, I would say it must be that concern. If so, intuitive ethics would agree with utilitarian ethics, and there would be no further dispute between them. Even now, intuitive moralists already believe that concern for others is one intuitive moral obligation, though they also recognize others. For they all hold that a large part of morality concerns the consideration we owe to our fellow creatures’ interests. So suppose belief in a source of moral obligation beyond experience gives any added force to our inner moral feelings. It seems to me that the utilitarian principle already benefits from that belief.

On the other hand, if, as is my own belief, the moral feelings are not innate, but acquired, they are not for that reason the less natural. It is natural to man to speak, to reason, to build cities, to cultivate the ground, though these are acquired faculties. The moral feelings are not indeed a part of our nature, in the sense of being in any perceptible degree present in all of us; but this, unhappily, is a fact admitted by those who believe the most strenuously in their transcendental origin. Like the other acquired capacities above referred to, the moral faculty, if not a part of our nature, is a natural outgrowth from it; capable, like them, in a certain small degree, of springing up spontaneously; and susceptible of being brought by cultivation to a high degree of development. Unhappily it is also susceptible, by a sufficient use of the external sanctions and of the force of early impressions, of being cultivated in almost any direction: so that there is hardly anything so absurd or so mischievous that it may not, by means of these influences, be made to act on the human mind with all the authority of conscience. To doubt that the same potency might be given by the same means to the principle of utility, even if it had no foundation in human nature, would be flying in the face of all experience.

On the other hand, suppose moral feelings are learned rather than inborn, as I believe. That would not make them any less natural. Speaking, reasoning, building cities, and farming are natural to human beings, though these abilities are learned. Moral feelings are not part of our nature in the sense of being noticeably present in all of us. Unfortunately, even those who most firmly believe moral feelings have a transcendent origin admit this fact. Like the other learned abilities just mentioned, our moral capacity, if not part of our nature, grows naturally from it. Like those abilities, our moral capacity can arise spontaneously to a small degree. And through training, our moral capacity can become highly developed. Unfortunately, sufficient use of external rewards and punishments, together with the power of early impressions, can shape morality in almost any direction. These influences can give almost any belief, however absurd or harmful, all the authority of conscience over the human mind. The same methods could give the principle of utility the same power, even if that principle had no foundation in human nature. To doubt this possibility would go against all experience.

But moral associations which are wholly of artificial creation, when intellectual culture goes on, yield by degrees to the dissolving force of analysis: and if the feeling of duty, when associated with utility, would appear equally arbitrary; if there were no leading department of our nature, no powerful class of sentiments, with which that association would harmonize, which would make us feel it congenial, and incline us not only to foster it in others (for which we have abundant interested motives), but also to cherish it in ourselves; if there were not, in short, a natural basis of sentiment for utilitarian morality, it might well happen that this association also, even after it had been implanted by education, might be analysed away.

But as intellectual understanding develops, purely artificial moral associations gradually break down under analysis. Suppose the connection between duty and utility seemed equally arbitrary. Suppose no major part of our nature, no powerful group of feelings, fitted with that connection. Suppose no such feelings made the connection feel natural and encouraged us to cultivate it in others and ourselves. We have plenty of self-interested reasons to cultivate that connection in others. But suppose, in short, that utilitarian morality had no natural basis in our feelings. Then analysis might well dissolve the connection between duty and utility, even after education had established it.

But there is this basis of powerful natural sentiment; and this it is which, when once the general happiness is recognized as the ethical standard, will constitute the strength of the utilitarian morality. This firm foundation is that of the social feelings of mankind; the desire to be in unity with our fellow creatures, which is already a powerful principle in human nature, and happily one of those which tend to become stronger, even without express inculcation, from the influences of advancing civilization. The social state is at once so natural, so necessary, and so habitual to man, that, except in some unusual circumstances or by an effort of voluntary abstraction, he never conceives himself otherwise than as a member of a body; and this association is riveted more and more, as mankind are further removed from the state of savage independence. Any condition, therefore, which is essential to a state of society, becomes more and more an inseparable part of every person's conception of the state of things which he is born into, and which is the destiny of a human being. Now, society between human beings, except in the relation of master and slave, is manifestly impossible on any other footing than that the interests of all are to be consulted. Society between equals can only exist on the understanding that the interests of all are to be regarded equally. And since in all states of civilization, every person, except an absolute monarch, has equals, every one is obliged to live on these terms with somebody; and in every age some advance is made towards a state in which it will be impossible to live permanently on other terms with anybody. In this way people grow up unable to conceive as possible to them a state of total disregard of other people's interests. They are under a necessity of conceiving themselves as at least abstaining from all the grosser injuries, and (if only for their own protection.) living in a state of constant protest against them. They are also familiar with the fact of co-operating with others, and proposing to themselves a collective, not an individual, interest, as the aim (at least for the time being) of their actions. So long as they are co-operating, their ends are identified with those of others; there is at least a temporary feeling that the interests of others are their own interests. Not only does all strengthening of social ties, and all healthy growth of society, give to each individual a stronger personal interest in practically consulting the welfare of others; it also leads him to identify his feelings more and more with their good, or at least with an ever greater degree of practical consideration for it. He comes, as though instinctively, to be conscious of himself as a being who of course pays regard to others. The good of others becomes to him a thing naturally and necessarily to be attended to, like any of the physical conditions of our existence. Now, whatever amount of this feeling a person has, he is urged by the strongest motives both of interest and of sympathy to demonstrate it, and to the utmost of his power encourage it in others; and even if he has none of it himself, he is as greatly interested as any one else that others should have it. Consequently, the smallest germs of the feeling are laid hold of and nourished by the contagion of sympathy and the influences of education; and a complete web of corroborative association is woven round it, by the powerful agency of the external sanctions. This mode of conceiving ourselves and human life, as civilization goes on, is felt to be more and more natural. Every step in political improvement renders it more so, by removing the sources of opposition of interest, and levelling those inequalities of legal privilege between individuals or classes, owing to which there are large portions of mankind whose happiness it is still practicable to disregard. In an improving state of the human mind, the influences are constantly on the increase, which tend to generate in each individual a feeling of unity with all the rest; which feeling, if perfect, would make him never think of, or desire, any beneficial condition for himself, in the benefits of which they are not included. If we now suppose this feeling of unity to be taught as a religion, and the whole force of education, of institutions, and of opinion, directed, as it once was in the case of religion, to make every person grow up from infancy surrounded on all sides both by the profession and by the practice of it, I think that no one, who can realize this conception, will feel any misgiving about the sufficiency of the ultimate sanction for the Happiness morality. To any ethical student who finds the realization difficult, I recommend, as a means of facilitating it, the second of M. Comte's two principal works, the Système de Politique Positive. I entertain the strongest objections to the system of politics and morals set forth in that treatise; but I think it has superabundantly shown the possibility of giving to the service of humanity, even without the aid of belief in a Providence, both the physical power and the social efficacy of a religion; making it take hold of human life, and colour all thought, feeling, and action, in a manner of which the greatest ascendency ever exercised by any religion may be but a type and foretaste; and of which the danger is, not that it should be insufficient, but that it should be so excessive as to interfere unduly with human freedom and individuality.

But there is a foundation in powerful natural feeling. Once general happiness is recognized as the moral standard, this foundation will give utilitarian morality its strength. That firm foundation is humanity’s social feelings: the desire to be united with our fellow human beings. This desire is already a powerful force in human nature. Fortunately, advancing civilization tends to strengthen this desire, even without deliberate teaching. Social life is so natural, necessary, and familiar that people almost always see themselves as members of a community. Only unusual circumstances or a deliberate effort to think of themselves in isolation leads them to see themselves otherwise. This sense of belonging grows stronger as humanity moves further from a state of uncivilized independence. So any condition essential to society increasingly becomes inseparable from each person’s understanding of the world they were born into. They also come to see that condition as inseparable from the life human beings are destined to lead. Now, society between human beings is clearly impossible unless everyone’s interests are considered, except in relations between masters and slaves. Society between equals can exist only on the understanding that everyone’s interests deserve equal consideration. And at every stage of civilization, everyone except an absolute monarch has equals. So everyone must live on these terms with someone. And every age brings some progress toward making it impossible to live permanently on any other terms with anyone. In this way, people grow up unable to imagine living with total disregard for other people’s interests. They must think of themselves as at least avoiding all the more serious harms to others. They must also see themselves as constantly opposing such harms, if only for their own protection. They are also familiar with cooperating with others. In doing so, they aim at a shared interest rather than an individual one, at least for the time being. As long as they cooperate, their goals become one with other people’s goals. They feel, at least temporarily, that other people’s interests are their own. Every strengthening of social ties and every healthy development of society increases each person’s personal stake in considering others’ welfare. These changes also lead people to identify their feelings increasingly with others’ well-being. Or at least, people increasingly take others’ well-being into account in practice. Each person comes, almost instinctively, to see themselves as someone who of course considers others. Other people’s well-being becomes something naturally and necessarily requiring attention, like any physical condition of our existence. Now, however much of this feeling someone has, the strongest motives of self-interest and sympathy urge them to show it. Those motives also urge them to encourage the feeling in others as much as they can. Even someone without any such feeling has as much interest as anyone else in others having it. Consequently, even the smallest beginnings of this feeling are taken up and nurtured as sympathy spreads and education exerts its influence. External rewards and penalties also exert a powerful influence, weaving a whole network of reinforcing associations around the feeling. As civilization advances, this way of understanding ourselves and human life feels increasingly natural. Every political improvement makes this understanding more natural by removing sources of conflicting interests. Political improvements also reduce inequalities in legal privilege between individuals or classes. These inequalities still make it possible to disregard the happiness of large sections of humanity. As human understanding improves, the influences encouraging each person to feel united with everyone else constantly increase. If this feeling were complete, no one would ever imagine or desire advantages for themselves unless everyone else shared them. Now suppose this feeling of unity were taught as a religion. Suppose education, institutions, and public opinion devoted their full strength to this purpose, as they once did for religion. From infancy, everyone would grow up surrounded on all sides by people both professing and practicing this unity. I think anyone who can imagine this would have no doubts about the ultimate motivating force behind the Happiness morality. They would not doubt that this force was strong enough. For any student of ethics who finds this difficult to imagine, I recommend M. Comte’s second principal work, the Système de Politique Positive. I have the strongest objections to the political and moral system presented in that book. But I think the book has shown, far more fully than necessary, what devotion to humanity could become. Even without belief in a Providence, such devotion could have both the practical power and the social effectiveness of religion. It could take hold of human life and shape every thought, feeling, and action. Even the greatest influence any religion has ever exercised might be only a model and foretaste of that power. The danger is not that this power would be too weak. The danger is that it could become so excessive that it would unduly restrict human freedom and individuality.

Neither is it necessary to the feeling which constitutes the binding force of the utilitarian morality on those who recognize it, to wait for those social influences which would make its obligation felt by mankind at large. In the comparatively early state of human advancement in which we now live, a person cannot indeed feel that entireness of sympathy with all others, which would make any real discordance in the general direction of their conduct in life impossible; but already a person in whom the social feeling is at all developed, cannot bring himself to think of the rest of his fellow creatures as struggling rivals with him for the means of happiness, whom he must desire to see defeated in their object in order that he may succeed in his. The deeply-rooted conception which every individual even now has of himself as a social being, tends to make him feel it one of his natural wants that there should be harmony between his feelings and aims and those of his fellow creatures. If differences of opinion and of mental culture make it impossible for him to share many of their actual feelings-perhaps make him denounce and defy those feelings-he still needs to be conscious that his real aim and theirs do not conflict; that he is not opposing himself to what they really wish for, namely, their own good, but is, on the contrary, promoting it. This feeling in most individuals is much inferior in strength to their selfish feelings, and is often wanting altogether. But to those who have it, it possesses all the characters of a natural feeling. It does not present itself to their minds as a superstition of education, or a law despotically imposed by the power of society, but as an attribute which it would not be well for them to be without. This conviction is the ultimate sanction of the greatest-happiness morality. This it is which makes any mind, of well-developed feelings, work with, and not against, the outward motives to care for others, afforded by what I have called the external sanctions; and when those sanctions are wanting, or act in an opposite direction, constitutes in itself a powerful internal binding force, in proportion to the sensitiveness and thoughtfulness of the character; since few but those whose mind is a moral blank, could bear to lay out their course of life on the plan of paying no regard to others except so far as their own private interest compels.

People who accept utilitarian morality need not wait for social influences to make everyone feel its obligation. The feeling that gives this morality its binding force can exist already. We still live at a relatively early stage of human development. No one can yet feel such complete sympathy with everyone else that any real conflict in their overall conduct becomes impossible. But anyone whose social feelings are at all developed already finds it impossible to see others merely as competing for happiness. Such a person cannot wish others to fail in their pursuit of happiness so that their own pursuit may succeed. Even now, everyone has a deeply rooted sense of themselves as a social being. This sense encourages people to feel a natural need for harmony between their feelings and aims and those of others. Differences in opinion and intellectual development may prevent someone from sharing many of other people's actual feelings. Perhaps those differences even lead that person to condemn and defy those feelings. Even so, the person still needs to feel that their true aim does not conflict with other people's. They need to feel they are not opposing what others truly want, namely, their own good. Instead, they need to feel they are promoting that good. In most people, this social feeling is much weaker than their selfish feelings, and it is often entirely absent. But for those who have this feeling, it has all the qualities of a natural feeling. They do not see it as a superstition taught through education or a rule imposed tyrannically by society's power. Instead, they see it as a quality they would be worse off without. This conviction is the ultimate source of the binding force of the greatest-happiness morality. For anyone with well-developed feelings, this conviction supports rather than resists the external motives for caring about others. Those motives come from what I have called the external sanctions. When those sanctions are absent or work in the opposite direction, the conviction itself provides a powerful inner moral force. The strength of this inner force increases with the person's sensitivity and thoughtfulness. For few people, except those whose minds lack any moral feeling, could bear to plan their lives around disregarding others. They could not bear to consider others only when their own private interests required it.