The Connection Between Justice and Utility

In all ages of speculation, one of the strongest obstacles to the reception of the doctrine that Utility or Happiness is the criterion of right and wrong, has been drawn from the idea of Justice, The powerful sentiment, and apparently clear perception, which that word recalls with a rapidity and certainty resembling an instinct, have seemed to the majority of thinkers to point to an inherent quality in things; to show that the Just must have an existence in Nature as something absolute-generically distinct from every variety of the Expedient, and, in idea, opposed to it, though (as is commonly acknowledged) never, in the long run, disjoined from it in fact.

In every age of philosophical thought, the idea of Justice has been one of the strongest obstacles to accepting a doctrine: that Utility or Happiness is the standard of right and wrong. The word Justice brings to mind a powerful feeling and an apparently clear perception. Both arise with a speed and certainty that resemble instinct. To most thinkers, this feeling and perception have seemed to point to a quality inherent in things themselves. They have seemed to show that what is Just must exist in Nature as something absolute. On this view, the Just is fundamentally different from anything that serves a practical purpose, and opposed to it in principle. Yet, as is commonly acknowledged, justice and practical benefit are never separate in practice over the long run.

In the case of this, as of our other moral sentiments, there is no necessary connexion between the question of its origin, and that of its binding force. That a feeling is bestowed on us by Nature, does not necessarily legitimate all its promptings. The feeling of justice might be a peculiar instinct, and might yet require, like our other instincts, to be controlled and enlightened by a higher reason. If we have intellectual instincts, leading us to judge in a particular way, as well as animal instincts that prompt us to act in a particular way, there is no necessity that the former should be more infallible in their sphere than the latter in theirs: it may as well happen that wrong judgments are occasionally suggested by those, as wrong actions by these. But though it is one thing to believe that we have natural feelings of justice, and another to acknowledge them as an ultimate criterion of conduct, these two opinions are very closely connected in point of fact. Mankind are always predisposed to believe that any subjective feeling, not otherwise accounted for, is a revelation of some objective reality. Our present object is to determine whether the reality, to which the feeling of justice corresponds, is one which needs any such special revelation; whether the justice or injustice of an action is a thing intrinsically peculiar, and distinct from all its other qualities, or only a combination of certain of those qualities, presented under a peculiar aspect. For the purpose of this inquiry, it is practically important to consider whether the feeling itself, of justice and injustice, is sui generis like our sensations of colour and taste, or a derivative feeling, formed by a combination of others. And this it is the more essential to examine, as people are in general willing enough to allow, that objectively the dictates of justice coincide with a part of the field of General Expediency; but inasmuch as the subjective mental feeling of Justice is different from that which commonly attaches to simple expediency, and, except in extreme cases of the latter, is far more imperative in its demands, people find it difficult to see, in Justice, only a particular kind or branch of general utility, and think that its superior binding force requires a totally different origin.

For the feeling of justice, as for our other moral feelings, its origin does not necessarily determine its moral authority. A feeling given to us by Nature does not necessarily justify everything it urges us to do. The feeling of justice might be a distinct instinct. Yet, like our other instincts, it might need to be guided and corrected by higher reason. We may have intellectual instincts that lead us to judge in particular ways. We also have animal instincts that prompt us to act in particular ways. But the intellectual instincts need not be any more reliable in judgment than animal instincts are in action. Intellectual instincts may sometimes suggest wrong judgments, just as animal instincts may suggest wrong actions. But believing we have natural feelings of justice is different from accepting those feelings as the final standard of conduct. In practice, however, these two beliefs are very closely connected. People are always inclined to believe that an otherwise unexplained inner feeling reveals some objective reality. Our aim now is to determine whether the reality behind the feeling of justice needs any such special revelation. Is an action's justice or injustice an inherently distinct quality, separate from all its other qualities? Or is it merely a combination of some of those qualities, seen from a particular angle? For this inquiry, we need to consider whether the feeling of justice and injustice is unique in kind. Is it like our sensations of colour and taste, or does it arise from a combination of other feelings? Examining this question is all the more essential because people generally accept a certain point about justice. They readily agree that, objectively, the demands of justice cover part of what serves the general good. But the inner feeling of justice differs from the feeling usually associated with simple practical benefit. Except in extreme cases of practical benefit, the feeling of justice makes far more forceful demands. Because of this difference, people struggle to see justice as merely a particular kind or branch of general utility. They think its greater moral authority must have an entirely different origin.

To throw light upon this question, it is necessary to attempt to ascertain what is the distinguishing character of justice, or of injustice: what is the quality, or whether there is any quality, attributed in common to all modes of conduct designated as unjust (for justice, like many other moral attributes, is best defined by its opposite), and distinguishing them from such modes of conduct as are disapproved, but without having that particular epithet of disapprobation applied to them. If, in everything which men are accustomed to characterize as just or unjust, some one common attribute or collection of attributes is always present, we may judge whether this particular attribute or combination of attributes would be capable of gathering round it a sentiment of that peculiar character and intensity by virtue of the general laws of our emotional constitution, or whether the sentiment is inexplicable, and requires to be regarded as a special provision of Nature. If we find the former to be the case, we shall, in resolving this question, have resolved also the main problem: if the latter, we shall have to seek for some other mode of investigating it.

To clarify this question, we must try to identify what makes justice or injustice distinct. We must ask what quality, if any, is shared by all forms of conduct described as unjust. Justice, like many other moral qualities, is best defined by its opposite. What distinguishes unjust conduct from conduct that people disapprove of but do not call unjust? Suppose some common quality or set of qualities is always present in everything people call just or unjust. We may then judge whether that quality or combination could produce a feeling with this distinctive character and intensity. Could the general laws of our emotional makeup explain such a feeling? Or is the feeling inexplicable under those laws, requiring us to regard it as a special provision of Nature? If those laws can explain the feeling, then answering this question will also solve the main problem. If not, we must find another way to investigate the problem.

To find the common attributes of a variety of objects, it is necessary to begin, by surveying the objects themselves in the concrete. Let us therefore advert successively to the various modes of action, and arrangements of human affairs, which are classed, by universal or widely spread opinion, as Just or as Unjust. The things well known to excite the sentiments associated with those names, are of a very multifarious character. I shall pass them rapidly in review, without studying any particular arrangement.

To find what different objects have in common, we must first examine the objects themselves as concrete examples. So let us consider, one by one, different kinds of actions and ways of organizing human affairs. These are actions and arrangements that everyone, or many people, considers just or unjust. The things known to stir the feelings associated with justice and injustice are very varied. I will briefly review them without following any particular order.

In the first place, it is mostly considered unjust to deprive any one of his personal liberty, his property, or any other thing which belongs to him by law. Here, therefore, is one instance of the application of the terms just and unjust in a perfectly definite sense, namely, that it is just to respect, unjust to violate, the legal rights of any one. But this judgment admits of several exceptions, arising from the other forms in which the notions of justice and injustice present themselves. For example, the person who suffers the deprivation may (as the phrase is) have forfeited the rights which he is so deprived of: a case to which we shall return presently. But also,

First, people generally consider it unjust to deprive anyone of personal liberty, property, or anything else legally belonging to them. Here, then, is one use of the terms just and unjust with a perfectly clear meaning. It is just to respect anyone’s legal rights and unjust to violate them. But this judgment allows several exceptions, arising from other ways of understanding justice and injustice. For example, someone deprived of rights may have forfeited those rights, as the saying goes. We will return to this case shortly. But also,

Secondly; the legal rights of which he is deprived, may be rights which ought not to have belonged to him; in other words, the law which confers on him these rights, may be a bad law. When it is so, or when (which is the same thing for our purpose) it is supposed to be so, opinions will differ as to the justice or injustice of infringing it. Some maintain that no law, however bad, ought to be disobeyed by an individual citizen; that his opposition to it, if shown at all, should only be shown in endeavouring to get it altered by competent authority. This opinion (which condemns many of the most illustrious benefactors of mankind, and would often protect pernicious institutions against the only weapons which, in the state of things existing at the time, have any chance of succeeding against them) is defended, by those who hold it, on grounds of expediency; principally on that of the importance, to the common interest of mankind, of maintaining inviolate the sentiment of submission to law. Other persons, again, hold the directly contrary opinion, that any law, judged to be bad, may blamelessly be disobeyed, even though it be not judged to be unjust, but only inexpedient; while others would confine the licence of disobedience to the case of unjust laws: but again, some say, that all laws which are inexpedient are unjust; since every law imposes some restriction on the natural liberty of mankind, which restriction is an injustice, unless legitimated by tending to their good. Among these diversities of opinion, it seems to be universally admitted that there may be unjust laws, and that law, consequently, is not the ultimate criterion of justice, but may give to one person a benefit, or impose on another an evil, which justice condemns. When, however, a law is thought to be unjust, it seems always to be regarded as being so in the same way in which a breach of law is unjust, namely, by infringing somebody's right; which, as it cannot in this case be a legal right, receives a different appellation, and is called a moral right. We may say, therefore, that a second case of injustice consists in taking or withholding from any person that to which he has a moral right.

Secondly, the legal rights taken from someone may be rights that ought not to have belonged to him. In other words, the law granting him those rights may be a bad law. When a law is bad, or is believed to be bad, opinions differ about whether breaking it is unjust. For our purposes, believing the law is bad amounts to the same thing as its actually being bad. Some maintain that no individual citizen should disobey any law, however bad. If citizens oppose a law at all, they should do so only by seeking change through the proper authorities. This view condemns many of humanity’s greatest benefactors. It would often protect harmful institutions against the only weapons with any chance of defeating them under the circumstances. Those who hold this view defend it on grounds of practical benefit. Above all, they argue that preserving undiminished respect for obedience to law serves humanity’s common interests. Others hold the directly opposite view. They believe anyone may blamelessly disobey any law they judge bad, even if they consider it merely impractical, not unjust. Still others would allow disobedience only in the case of unjust laws. But some say that all laws that fail to serve the public good are unjust. Every law restricts humanity’s natural freedom in some way. Such a restriction is unjust unless its tendency to benefit people makes it legitimate. Despite these differences of opinion, everyone seems to accept that laws can be unjust. Law, therefore, is not the final standard of justice. A law may give one person a benefit, or impose harm on another, that justice condemns. Yet whenever a law is considered unjust, the injustice always seems to be understood in the same way as lawbreaking. In both cases, the injustice consists in violating someone’s right. Since the right violated by an unjust law cannot be a legal right, it receives a different name: a moral right. We may therefore say that a second kind of injustice consists in taking or withholding something to which someone has a moral right.

Thirdly, it is universally considered just that each person should obtain that (whether good or evil) which he deserves; and unjust that he should obtain a good, or be made to undergo an evil, which he does not deserve. This is, perhaps, the clearest and most emphatic form in which the idea of justice is conceived by the general mind. As it involves the notion of desert, the question arises, what constitutes desert? Speaking in a general way, a person is understood to deserve good if he does right, evil if he does wrong; and in a more particular sense, to deserve good from those to whom he does or has done good, and evil from those to whom he does or has done evil. The precept of returning good for evil has never been regarded as a case of the fulfilment of justice, but as one in which the claims of justice are waived, in obedience to other considerations.

Thirdly, everyone considers it just for each person to receive what they deserve, whether good or bad. And everyone considers it unjust for someone to receive a benefit or suffer harm they do not deserve. This is perhaps the clearest and strongest form of the idea of justice in most people’s minds. Since this idea involves deserving something, we must ask: what makes someone deserve something? Generally speaking, people are thought to deserve good if they do right, and harm if they do wrong. More specifically, people are thought to deserve good from those they help or have helped. They are thought to deserve harm from those they harm or have harmed. The rule of returning good for evil has never been seen as fulfilling justice. Instead, it is seen as setting aside the claims of justice out of respect for other considerations.

Fourthly, it is confessedly unjust to break faith with any one: to violate an engagement, either express or implied, or disappoint expectations raised by our own conduct, at least if we have raised those expectations knowingly and voluntarily. Like the other obligations of justice already spoken of, this one is not regarded as absolute, but as capable of being overruled by a stronger obligation of justice on the other side; or by such conduct on the part of the person concerned as is deemed to absolve us from our obligation to him, and to constitute a forfeiture of the benefit which he has been led to expect.

Fourth, it is generally agreed that to break faith with anyone is unjust. This means breaking an explicit or implied commitment, or disappointing expectations created by our own conduct. At least, disappointing those expectations is unjust if we knowingly and willingly created them. Like the other duties of justice already discussed, this duty is not considered absolute. A stronger duty of justice on the other side may override it. Or the person concerned may act in ways considered to release us from our duty to them. Such conduct is considered a forfeiture of the benefit they were led to expect.

Fifthly, it is, by universal admission, inconsistent with justice to be partial; to show favour or preference to one person over another, in matters to which favour and preference do not properly apply. Impartiality, however, does not seem to be regarded as a duty in itself, but rather as instrumental to some other duty; for it is admitted that favour and preference are not always censurable, and indeed the cases in which they are condemned are rather the exception than the rule. A person would be more likely to be blamed than applauded for giving his family or friends no superiority in good offices over strangers, when he could do so without violating any other duty; and no one thinks it unjust to seek one person in preference to another as a friend, connexion, or companion. Impartiality where rights are concerned is of course obligatory, but this is involved in the more general obligation of giving to every one his right. A tribunal, for example, must be impartial, because it is bound to award, without regard to any other consideration, a disputed object to the one of two parties who has the right to it. There are other cases in which impartiality means, being solely influenced by desert; as with those who, in the capacity of judges, preceptors, or parents, administer reward and punishment as such. There are cases, again, in which it means, being solely influenced by consideration for the public interest; as in making a selection among candidates for a Government employment. Impartiality, in short, as an obligation of justice, may be said to mean, being exclusively influenced by the considerations which it is supposed ought to influence the particular case in hand; and resisting the solicitation of any motives which prompt to conduct different from what those considerations would dictate.

Fifth, everyone agrees that being partial is inconsistent with justice. This means favoring one person over another in matters where favor and preference have no proper place. Yet impartiality does not seem to be regarded as a duty in itself. Instead, impartiality seems to serve some other duty. For everyone accepts that favor and preference do not always deserve blame. Indeed, cases where favor and preference are condemned are the exception rather than the rule. Someone would be more likely to receive blame than praise for refusing to favor family or friends over strangers when helping them. This applies when helping family or friends first would violate no other duty. And no one thinks choosing one person over another as a friend, associate, or companion is unjust. Impartiality is, of course, required where rights are concerned. But this requirement falls within the broader duty to give everyone what is rightfully theirs. A court, for example, must be impartial because it must award whatever is disputed to the party entitled to it. The court must disregard every other consideration. In other cases, impartiality means being guided only by what someone deserves. This applies to judges, teachers, or parents when giving rewards and punishments as such. In still other cases, impartiality means being guided only by the public interest. Selecting among candidates for a government job is one example. In short, impartiality as a duty of justice may be described as follows. It means being guided only by the considerations believed to be relevant to the particular case. It also means resisting any motives urging us to act differently from what those considerations require.

Nearly allied to the idea of impartiality, is that of equality; which often enters as a component part both into the conception of justice and into the practice of it, and, in the eyes of many persons, constitutes its essence. But in this, still more than in any other case, the notion of justice varies in different persons, and always conforms in its variations to their notion of utility. Each person maintains that equality is the dictate of justice, except where he thinks that expediency requires inequality. The justice of giving equal protection to the rights of all, is maintained by those who support the most outrageous inequality in the rights themselves. Even in slave countries it is theoretically admitted that the rights of the slave, such as they are, ought to be as sacred as those of the master; and that a tribunal which fails to enforce them with equal strictness is wanting in justice; while, at the same time, institutions which leave to the slave scarcely any rights to enforce, are not deemed unjust, because they are not deemed inexpedient. Those who think that utility requires distinctions of rank, do not consider it unjust that riches and social privileges should be unequally dispensed; but those who think this inequality inexpedient, think it unjust also. Whoever thinks that government is necessary, sees no injustice in as much inequality as is constituted by giving to the magistrate powers not granted to other people. Even among those who hold levelling doctrines, there are as many questions of justice as there are differences of opinion about expediency. Some Communists consider it unjust that the produce of the labour of the community should be shared on any other principle than that of exact equality; others think it just that those should receive most whose needs are greatest; while others hold that those who work harder, or who produce more, or whose services are more valuable to the community, may justly claim a larger quota in the division of the produce. And the sense of natural justice may be plausibly appealed to in behalf of every one of these opinions.

Closely related to the idea of impartiality is the idea of equality. Equality often forms part of both the idea of justice and its practice. Many people see equality as the very essence of justice. But here, even more than elsewhere, people differ in their ideas of justice. These differences always follow their differing views of what is useful. Everyone maintains that justice requires equality, except where they think practical benefit requires inequality. Even those who support the most outrageous inequalities in rights insist that everyone’s rights deserve equal protection. Even in slaveholding countries, people accept in theory that slaves’ rights, such as they are, should be as sacred as masters’ rights. They also accept that a court acts unjustly if it fails to enforce those rights with equal strictness. Yet institutions that leave slaves with scarcely any rights to enforce are not considered unjust, because they are not considered harmful. Those who think usefulness requires distinctions of rank see no injustice in distributing wealth and social privileges unequally. But those who think this inequality harmful also think it unjust. Anyone who thinks government necessary sees no injustice in the inequality created by giving public officials powers denied to others. Even among those who advocate equality, disagreements about practical benefit produce just as many disagreements about justice. Some Communists consider it unjust to distribute the products of the community’s labor on any basis other than exact equality. Others think it just that those with the greatest needs should receive the most. Still others think people may justly claim a larger share if they work harder or produce more. The same applies if their services are more valuable to the community. And a sense of natural justice may plausibly be invoked to support every one of these opinions.

Among so many diverse applications of the term Justice, which yet is not regarded as ambiguous, it is a matter of some difficulty to seize the mental link which holds them together, and on which the moral sentiment adhering to the term essentially depends. Perhaps, in this embarrassment, some help may be derived from the history of the word, as indicated by its etymology.

The term Justice has many different uses, yet we do not consider the term ambiguous. Still, the mental link connecting these uses is somewhat difficult to identify. The moral feeling attached to the term depends essentially on that link. Perhaps the word’s history, as revealed by its origins, may help with this difficulty.

In most, if not in all languages, the etymology of the word which corresponds to Just, points to an origin connected either with positive law, or with that which was in most cases the primitive form of law-authoritative custom. Justum is a form of jussum, that which has been ordered. Jus is of the same origin. Dichanou comes from dichae, of which the principal meaning, at least in the historical ages of Greece, was a suit at law. Originally, indeed, it meant only the mode or manner of doing things, but it early came to mean the prescribed manner; that which the recognized authorities, patriarchal, judicial, or political, would enforce. Recht, from which came right and righteous, is synonymous with law. The original meaning, indeed, of recht did not point to law, but to physical straightness; as wrong and its Latin equivalents meant twisted or tortuous; and from this it is argued that right did not originally mean law, but on the contrary law meant right. But however this may be, the fact that recht and droit became restricted in their meaning to positive law, although much which is not required by law is equally necessary to moral straightness or rectitude, is as significant of the original character of moral ideas as if the derivation had been the reverse way. The courts of justice, the administration of justice, are the courts and the administration of law. La justice, in French, is the established term for judicature. There can, I think, be no doubt that the idée mère, the primitive element, in the formation of the notion of justice, was conformity to law. It constituted the entire idea among the Hebrews, up to the birth of Christianity; as might be expected in the case of a people whose laws attempted to embrace all subjects on which precepts were required, and who believed those laws to be a direct emanation from the Supreme Being. But other nations, and in particular the Greeks and Romans, who knew that their laws had been made originally, and still continued to be made, by men, were not afraid to admit that those men might make bad laws; might do, by law, the same things, and from the same motives, which, if done by individuals without the sanction of law, would be called unjust. And hence the sentiment of injustice came to be attached, not to all violations of law, but only to violations of such laws as ought to exist, including such as ought to exist but do not; and to laws themselves, if supposed to be contrary to what ought to be law. In this manner the idea of law and of its injunctions was still predominant in the notion of justice, even when the laws actually in force ceased to be accepted as the standard of it.

In most, if not all, languages, the word for Just has roots in established law or authoritative custom. Authoritative custom was, in most cases, the earliest form of law. Justum is a form of jussum, meaning something that has been ordered. Jus has the same origin. Dichanou comes from dichae, whose main meaning, at least in the historical periods of Greece, was a lawsuit. Originally, however, it meant only the way or manner of doing things. But it soon came to mean the prescribed manner. This was the manner that recognized authorities, whether patriarchal, judicial, or political, would enforce. Recht, from which right and righteous came, means the same as law. Yet the original meaning of recht referred not to law but to physical straightness. Similarly, wrong and its Latin equivalents meant twisted or winding. Some therefore argue that right did not originally mean law, but that law, on the contrary, meant right. However that may be, recht and droit came to refer specifically to established law. Yet much that the law does not require is equally necessary for moral straightness or uprightness. This narrowing of meaning tells us as much about the original nature of moral ideas as the reverse derivation would. Courts of justice and the administration of justice are courts of law and the administration of law. In French, La justice is the established term for the judicial system. I think there can be no doubt about the idée mère, the original element from which the idea of justice developed. It was obedience to law. Among the Hebrews, obedience to law made up the entire idea of justice until the birth of Christianity. This was to be expected from a people whose laws attempted to cover every subject needing rules. They also believed those laws came directly from the Supreme Being. But other nations, particularly the Greeks and Romans, knew that people had originally made their laws and continued making them. These nations were therefore not afraid to admit that lawmakers might make bad laws. Lawmakers might use the law to do things that would be called unjust if individuals did them without legal authority. They might also act from the same motives as those individuals. So the feeling of injustice came to apply not to every violation of law, but only to certain violations. These were violations of laws that ought to exist, including laws that ought to exist but do not. The feeling also applied to laws themselves, if those laws were thought to conflict with what the law ought to be. Thus, law and its requirements remained central to the idea of justice. This remained true even when existing laws were no longer accepted as the standard of justice.

It is true that mankind consider the idea of justice and its obligations as applicable to many things which neither are, nor is it desired that they should be, regulated by law. Nobody desires that laws should interfere with the whole detail of private life; yet every one allows that in all daily conduct a person may and does show himself to be either just or unjust. But even here, the idea of the breach of what ought to be law, still lingers in a modified shape. It would always give us pleasure, and chime in with our feelings of fitness, that acts which we deem unjust should be punished, though we do not always think it expedient that this should be done by the tribunals. We forego that gratification on account of incidental inconveniences. We should be glad to see just conduct enforced and injustice repressed, even in the minutest details, if we were not, with reason, afraid of trusting the magistrate with so unlimited an amount of power over individuals. When we think that a person is bound in justice to do a thing, it is an ordinary form of language to say, that he ought to be compelled to do it. We should be gratified to see the obligation enforced by anybody who had the power. If we see that its enforcement by law would be inexpedient, we lament the impossibility, we consider the impunity given to injustice as an evil, and strive to make amends for it by bringing a strong expression of our own and the public disapprobation to bear upon the offender. Thus the idea of legal constraint is still the generating idea of the notion of justice, though undergoing several transformations before that notion, as it exists in an advanced state of society, becomes complete.

People do apply the idea of justice and its obligations to many things beyond the law’s reach. Nor do people want the law to regulate those things. Nobody wants laws to interfere with every detail of private life. Yet everyone agrees that a person can and does act justly or unjustly in all aspects of daily life. But even here, a modified idea remains that injustice violates what ought to be law. Seeing acts we consider unjust punished would always please us and fit our sense of what is right. Yet we do not always think courts should impose such punishment. We give up that satisfaction because of the practical drawbacks. We would welcome the enforcement of just conduct and the suppression of injustice, even in the smallest details. But we rightly fear giving public officials such unlimited power over individuals. When we think justice requires someone to do something, we commonly say they ought to be forced to do it. We would be pleased to see anyone with the power enforce that obligation. If legal enforcement would be unwise, we regret that the law cannot enforce the obligation. We regard allowing injustice to go unpunished as an evil. We try to make up for that evil by strongly expressing our own and the public’s disapproval of the offender. Thus, the idea of legal compulsion remains the source of the idea of justice. But that source idea undergoes several transformations before becoming the fully developed idea of justice found in an advanced society.

The above is, I think, a true account, as far as it goes, of the origin and progressive growth of the idea of justice. But we must observe, that it contains, as yet, nothing to distinguish that obligation from moral obligation in general. For the truth is, that the idea of penal sanction, which is the essence of law, enters not only into the conception of injustice, but into that of any kind of wrong. We do not call anything wrong, unless we mean to imply that a person ought to be punished in some way or other for doing it; if not by law, by the opinion of his fellow creatures; if not by opinion, by the reproaches of his own conscience. This seems the real turning point of the distinction between morality and simple expediency. It is a part of the notion of Duty in every one of its forms, that a person may rightfully be compelled to fulfil it. Duty is a thing which may be exacted from a person, as one exacts a debt. Unless we think that it might be exacted from him, we do not call it his duty. Reasons of prudence, or the interest of other people, may militate against actually exacting it; but the person himself, it is clearly understood, would not be entitled to complain. There are other things, on the contrary, which we wish that people should do, which we like or admire them for doing, perhaps dislike or despise them for not doing, but yet admit that they are not bound to do; it is not a case of moral obligation; we do not blame them, that is, we do not think that they are proper objects of punishment. How we come by these ideas of deserving and not deserving punishment, will appear, perhaps, in the sequel; but I think there is no doubt that this distinction lies at the bottom of the notions of right and wrong; that we call any conduct wrong, or employ instead, some other term of dislike or disparagement, according as we think that the person ought, or ought not, to be punished for it; and we say that it would be right to do so and so, or merely that it would be desirable or laudable, according as we would wish to see the person whom it concerns, compelled or only persuaded and exhorted, to act in that manner.[^C]

I think the account above accurately explains the origin and gradual growth of the idea of justice, as far as it goes. But so far, the account offers nothing to distinguish the obligation to act justly from moral obligation in general. In fact, the idea of punishment, which is central to law, applies not only to injustice but to every wrong. We call something wrong only if we mean that someone ought to be punished in some way for doing it. If not by law, then by other people’s judgment. If not by their judgment, then by the reproaches of the person’s own conscience. This seems to be the real dividing line between morality and simply doing what is useful. Every form of duty includes the idea that a person may rightfully be compelled to fulfill it. A duty is something whose fulfillment may be demanded from a person, just as payment of a debt may be demanded. Unless we think we could demand its fulfillment, we do not call it a duty. Practical considerations, or other people’s interests, may weigh against actually enforcing the duty. But we clearly understand that the person would have no right to complain. By contrast, there are other things we wish people would do. We like or admire people for doing them, and perhaps dislike or despise people for not doing them. Yet we admit that people are not bound to do these things. These are not matters of moral obligation. We do not blame people for failing to do them. In other words, we do not think those people deserve punishment. Perhaps the discussion that follows will explain how we acquire these ideas about deserving or not deserving punishment. But I think there is no doubt that this distinction underlies our ideas of right and wrong. We call conduct wrong when we think the person ought to be punished for it. When we think punishment is not deserved, we use some other expression of dislike or disapproval instead. Similarly, we say that an action would be right when we would want the person concerned compelled to perform it. Or we say the action would merely be desirable or praiseworthy when we would want only persuasion and encouragement.[^C]

This, therefore, being the characteristic difference which marks off, not justice, but morality in general, from the remaining provinces of Expediency and Worthiness; the character is still to be sought which distinguishes justice from other branches of morality. Now it is known that ethical writers divide moral duties into two classes, denoted by the ill-chosen expressions, duties of perfect and of imperfect obligation; the latter being those in which, though the act is obligatory, the particular occasions of performing it are left to our choice; as in the case of charity or beneficence, which we are indeed bound to practise, but not towards any definite person, nor at any prescribed time. In the more precise language of philosophic jurists, duties of perfect obligation are those duties in virtue of which a correlative right resides in some person or persons; duties of imperfect obligation are those moral obligations which do not give birth to any right. I think it will be found that this distinction exactly coincides with that which exists between justice and the other obligations of morality. In our survey of the various popular acceptations of justice, the term appeared generally to involve the idea of a personal right—a claim on the part of one or more individuals, like that which the law gives when it confers a proprietary or other legal right. Whether the injustice consists in depriving a person of a possession, or in breaking faith with him, or in treating him worse than he deserves, or worse than other people who have no greater claims, in each case the supposition implies two things—a wrong done, and some assignable person who is wronged. Injustice may also be done by treating a person better than others; but the wrong in this case is to his competitors, who are also assignable persons. It seems to me that this feature in the case—a right in some person, correlative to the moral obligation—constitutes the specific difference between justice, and generosity or beneficence. Justice implies something which it is not only right to do, and wrong not to do, but which some individual person can claim from us as his moral right. No one has a moral right to our generosity or beneficence, because we are not morally bound to practise those virtues towards any given individual. And it will be found, with respect to this as with respect to every correct definition, that the instances which seem to conflict with it are those which most confirm it. For if a moralist attempts, as some have done, to make out that mankind generally, though not any given individual, have a right to all the good we can do them, he at once, by that thesis, includes generosity and beneficence within the category of justice. He is obliged to say, that our utmost exertions are due to our fellow creatures, thus assimilating them to a debt; or that nothing less can be a sufficient return for what society does for us, thus classing the case as one of gratitude; both of which are acknowledged cases of justice. Wherever there is a right, the case is one of justice, and not of the virtue of beneficence: and whoever does not place the distinction between justice and morality in general where we have now placed it, will be found to make no distinction between them at all, but to merge all morality in justice.

This difference, then, separates morality in general, not justice alone, from the other areas of usefulness and worthiness. We still need to identify what distinguishes justice from other branches of morality. Writers on ethics divide moral duties into two classes, using the poorly chosen terms “perfect obligation” and “imperfect obligation.” Duties of imperfect obligation require us to act, but leave us free to choose the particular occasions. Charity and doing good are examples. We are bound to practise them, but not toward any particular person or at any prescribed time. Legal philosophers use more precise language. Duties of perfect obligation are duties that give some person or people a corresponding right. Duties of imperfect obligation are moral duties that give no one a right. I think this distinction exactly matches the distinction between justice and the other duties of morality. In our survey of the common meanings of justice, the term generally seemed to involve a personal right. Such a right is a claim held by one or more individuals. It resembles the claim the law grants when it gives someone a property right or another legal right. Injustice may involve taking someone's possession, breaking a promise to them, or treating them worse than they deserve. It may also involve treating them worse than others whose claims are no stronger. Each case assumes two things: a wrong has been done, and a particular person has been wronged. Injustice may also result from treating someone better than others. But in that case, the wrong is done to that person's competitors, who are also identifiable individuals. It seems to me that this feature distinguishes justice from generosity or doing good. Some person has a right that corresponds to the moral duty. Justice involves something that is not only right to do and wrong to leave undone. It is also something that an individual can claim from us as a moral right. No one has a moral right to our generosity or good deeds. This is because we are not morally bound to practise these virtues toward any particular individual. Here, as with every correct definition, the cases that seem to contradict the definition will prove to confirm it most strongly. Suppose a moral philosopher argues, as some have, that humanity has a right to all the good we can do. On this view, humanity in general holds that right, though no particular individual does. By making this argument, the philosopher immediately brings generosity and doing good into the category of justice. The philosopher must say that we owe our utmost efforts to our fellow human beings, making those efforts a debt. Or the philosopher must say that nothing less can be an adequate return for what society does for us. That makes the duty a matter of gratitude. Both debt and gratitude are recognized matters of justice. Wherever there is a right, the matter concerns justice, not the virtue of doing good. Anyone who rejects the distinction we have drawn between justice and morality in general will make no distinction at all. Instead, they will absorb all morality into justice.

Having thus endeavoured to determine the distinctive elements which enter into the composition of the idea of justice, we are ready to enter on the inquiry, whether the feeling, which accompanies the idea, is attached to it by a special dispensation of nature, or whether it could have grown up, by any known laws, out of the idea itself; and in particular, whether it can have originated in considerations of general expediency.

We have now tried to identify the distinct elements that make up the idea of justice. We are ready to ask how the feeling that accompanies this idea came to be attached to it. Is this connection a special provision of nature? Or could the feeling have developed from the idea itself through any known laws? In particular, could the feeling have arisen from considerations of what benefits people generally?

I conceive that the sentiment itself does not arise from anything which would commonly, or correctly, be termed an idea of expediency; but that, though the sentiment does not, whatever is moral in it does.

I believe the feeling itself does not come from anything commonly or correctly called a concern for practical usefulness. But although the feeling does not come from such a concern, whatever is moral in the feeling does.

We have seen that the two essential ingredients in the sentiment of justice are, the desire to punish a person who has done harm, and the knowledge or belief that there is some definite individual or individuals to whom harm has been done.

We have seen that the sense of justice has two essential parts. The first is the desire to punish someone who has caused harm. The second is knowing or believing that one or more specific people have been harmed.

Now it appears to me, that the desire to punish a person who has done harm to some individual, is a spontaneous outgrowth from two sentiments, both in the highest degree natural, and which either are or resemble instincts; the impulse of self-defence, and the feeling of sympathy.

It seems to me that the desire to punish someone who has harmed another person arises naturally from two feelings. Both feelings are entirely natural and are either instincts or something like instincts. They are the impulse to defend ourselves and the feeling of sympathy.

It is natural to resent, and to repel or retaliate, any harm done or attempted against ourselves, or against those with whom we sympathize. The origin of this sentiment it is not necessary here to discuss. Whether it be an instinct or a result of intelligence, it is, we know, common to all animal nature; for every animal tries to hurt those who have hurt, or who it thinks are about to hurt, itself or its young. Human beings, on this point, only differ from other animals in two particulars. First, in being capable of sympathizing, not solely with their offspring, or, like some of the more noble animals, with some superior animal who is kind to them, but with all human, and even with all sentient beings. Secondly, in having a more developed intelligence, which gives a wider range to the whole of their sentiments, whether self-regarding or sympathetic. By virtue of his superior intelligence, even apart from his superior range of sympathy, a human being is capable of apprehending a community of interest between himself and the human society of which he forms a part, such that any conduct which threatens the security of the society generally, is threatening to his own, and calls forth his instinct (if instinct it be) of self-defence. The same superiority of intelligence, joined to the power of sympathizing with human beings generally, enables him to attach himself to the collective idea of his tribe, his country, or mankind, in such a manner that any act hurtful to them rouses his instinct of sympathy, and urges him to resistance.

It is natural to resent harm done or attempted against us, and to resist or retaliate against such harm. The same is true when harm targets those we sympathize with. We need not discuss here where this feeling comes from. Whether the feeling is an instinct or a result of intelligence, we know all animals share it. Every animal tries to hurt those who have hurt it or its young, or seem about to do so. In this respect, human beings differ from other animals in only two ways. First, humans can sympathize with more than just their offspring. Some of the nobler animals also sympathize with a higher animal that treats them kindly. But humans can sympathize with all human beings, and even with all beings capable of feeling. Second, humans have more developed intelligence. This intelligence broadens the scope of all their feelings, whether those feelings concern themselves or others. Even apart from their broader sympathy, greater intelligence allows humans to recognize their shared interests with the society they belong to. They can understand that any behavior threatening society’s security also threatens their own security. Such behavior therefore triggers their instinct for self-defense, if it is an instinct. This greater intelligence, combined with sympathy for human beings generally, also allows people to identify with a collective whole. That whole may be their tribe, their country, or humanity. As a result, any act harmful to that whole stirs their instinctive sympathy and urges them to resist.

The sentiment of justice, in that one of its elements which consists of the desire to punish, is thus, I conceive, the natural feeling of retaliation or vengeance, rendered by intellect and sympathy applicable to those injuries, that is, to those hurts, which wound us through, or in common with, society at large. This sentiment, in itself, has nothing moral in it; what is moral is, the exclusive subordination of it to the social sympathies, so as to wait on and obey their call. For the natural feeling tends to make us resent indiscriminately whatever any one does that is disagreeable to us; but when moralized by the social feeling, it only acts in the directions conformable to the general good; just persons resenting a hurt to society, though not otherwise a hurt to themselves, and not resenting a hurt to themselves, however painful, unless it be of the kind which society has a common interest with them in the repression of.

The sense of justice includes a desire to punish. As I see it, this desire is the natural feeling of retaliation or revenge, shaped by reason and sympathy. Reason and sympathy extend this feeling to harms that affect us through society or affect us along with society. The feeling itself has nothing moral about it. Its moral character comes entirely from being guided by sympathy for others, acting only when that sympathy calls for it. For the natural feeling makes us resent anything anyone does that displeases us, without distinction. But when guided by concern for society, this feeling acts only in ways consistent with the common good. Just people resent harm to society even when they themselves suffer no other harm from it. And they do not resent harm to themselves, however painful, unless society shares their interest in preventing that kind of harm.

It is no objection against this doctrine to say, that when we feel our sentiment of justice outraged, we are not thinking of society at large, or of any collective interest, but only of the individual case. It is common enough certainly, though the reverse of commendable, to feel resentment merely because we have suffered pain; but a person whose resentment is really a moral feeling, that is, who considers whether an act is blameable before he allows himself to resent it—such a person, though he may not say expressly to himself that he is standing up for the interest of society, certainly does feel that he is asserting a rule which is for the benefit of others as well as for his own. If he is not feeling this—if he is regarding the act solely as it affects him individually—he is not consciously just; he is not concerning himself about the justice of his actions. This is admitted even by anti-utilitarian moralists. When Kant (as before remarked) propounds as the fundamental principle of morals, 'So act, that thy rule of conduct might be adopted as a law by all rational beings,' he virtually acknowledges that the interest of mankind collectively, or at least of mankind indiscriminately, must be in the mind of the agent when conscientiously deciding on the morality of the act. Otherwise he uses words without a meaning: for, that a rule even of utter selfishness could not possibly be adopted by all rational beings—that there is any insuperable obstacle in the nature of things to its adoption—cannot be even plausibly maintained. To give any meaning to Kant's principle, the sense put upon it must be, that we ought to shape our conduct by a rule which all rational beings might adopt with benefit to their collective interest.

One objection to this doctrine is that, when our sense of justice is outraged, we think only of the individual case. We are not thinking of society as a whole or of any shared interest. But this is no real objection. Certainly, people often feel resentment simply because they have suffered pain, though such resentment deserves no praise. But consider someone whose resentment is truly a moral feeling. Such a person considers whether an act deserves blame before allowing himself to resent it. He may not explicitly tell himself that he is defending society's interests. Yet he certainly feels that he is defending a rule that benefits others as well as himself. If he does not feel this, and considers the act only as it affects him personally, he is not consciously acting justly. He is not considering whether his actions are just. Even moral philosophers who oppose utilitarianism admit this. As noted earlier, Kant presents this as the fundamental principle of morality: 'Act so that all rational beings could adopt your rule of conduct as a law.' In doing so, Kant effectively admits that someone conscientiously judging an act's morality must consider humanity's collective interests. Or at least, that person must consider the interests of humanity without distinction. Otherwise, Kant's words have no meaning. No one can even plausibly argue that all rational beings could not possibly adopt a rule of complete selfishness. Nor can anyone plausibly claim that the nature of things creates an insurmountable obstacle to adopting such a rule. To give Kant's principle any meaning, we must understand it as follows. We ought to guide our conduct by a rule that all rational beings could adopt with benefit to their collective interest.

To recapitulate: the idea of justice supposes two things; a rule of conduct, and a sentiment which sanctions the rule. The first must be supposed common to all mankind, and intended for their good. The other (the sentiment) is a desire that punishment may be suffered by those who infringe the rule. There is involved, in addition, the conception of some definite person who suffers by the infringement; whose rights (to use the expression appropriated to the case) are violated by it. And the sentiment of justice appears to me to be, the animal desire to repel or retaliate a hurt or damage to oneself, or to those with whom one sympathizes, widened so as to include all persons, by the human capacity of enlarged sympathy, and the human conception of intelligent self-interest. From the latter elements, the feeling derives its morality; from the former, its peculiar impressiveness, and energy of self-assertion.

To sum up: the idea of justice involves two things, a rule of conduct and a feeling supporting the rule. The rule must be understood as applying to all humanity and intended for everyone's good. The feeling is a desire for those who break the rule to be punished. Justice also involves the idea of a specific person harmed by the violation. That person's rights, to use the term suited to this case, are violated. The sense of justice seems to me to begin with an animal desire to resist or retaliate against harm. The harm may be to ourselves or to those we sympathize with. This desire expands to include everyone through our human capacity for broader sympathy and our understanding of enlightened self-interest. These last two elements give the feeling its moral character. The animal desire gives the feeling its distinctive emotional force and its power to assert itself.

I have, throughout, treated the idea of a right residing in the injured person, and violated by the injury, not as a separate element in the composition of the idea and sentiment, but as one of the forms in which the other two elements clothe themselves. These elements are, a hurt to some assignable person or persons on the one hand, and a demand for punishment on the other. An examination of our own minds, I think, will show, that these two things include all that we mean when we speak of violation of a right. When we call anything a person's right, we mean that he has a valid claim on society to protect him in the possession of it, either by the force of law, or by that of education and opinion. If he has what we consider a sufficient claim, on whatever account, to have something guaranteed to him by society, we say that he has a right to it. If we desire to prove that anything does not belong to him by right, we think this done as soon as it is admitted that society ought not to take measures for securing it to him, but should leave it to chance, or to his own exertions. Thus, a person is said to have a right to what he can earn in fair professional competition; because society ought not to allow any other person to hinder him from endeavouring to earn in that manner as much as he can. But he has not a right to three hundred a-year, though he may happen to be earning it; because society is not called on to provide that he shall earn that sum. On the contrary, if he owns ten thousand pounds three per cent. stock, he has a right to three hundred a-year; because society has come under an obligation to provide him with an income of that amount.

Throughout, I have discussed the idea that an injured person has a right that the injury violates. I have not treated this right as a separate part of the idea and feeling under discussion. Instead, I have treated it as one form taken by the other two elements. These elements are harm to a specific person or people on one side, and a demand for punishment on the other. I think examining our own minds will show that these two elements cover everything we mean by violating a right. When we call something a person's right, we mean they have a valid claim to society's protection in possessing it. Society can provide this protection through the force of law, or through education and public opinion. Suppose we consider someone's claim sufficient, for whatever reason, to require society to guarantee them something. We then say they have a right to it. If we want to prove that someone has no right to something, we consider the following admission enough. Society should not take steps to secure that thing for them, but should leave it to chance or their own efforts. Thus, people are said to have a right to whatever they can earn through fair competition in their profession. This is because society should not let anyone prevent them from trying to earn as much as they can that way. But they have no right to three hundred pounds a year, though they may happen to earn that amount. This is because society is not required to ensure that they earn that sum. By contrast, if they own ten thousand pounds in stock paying three percent interest, they have a right to three hundred pounds a year. This is because society has taken on an obligation to provide them with that income.

To have a right, then, is, I conceive, to have something which society ought to defend me in the possession of. If the objector goes on to ask why it ought, I can give him no other reason than general utility. If that expression does not seem to convey a sufficient feeling of the strength of the obligation, nor to account for the peculiar energy of the feeling, it is because there goes to the composition of the sentiment, not a rational only but also an animal element, the thirst for retaliation; and this thirst derives its intensity, as well as its moral justification, from the extraordinarily important and impressive kind of utility which is concerned. The interest involved is that of security, to every one's feelings the most vital of all interests. Nearly all other earthly benefits are needed by one person, not needed by another; and many of them can, if necessary, be cheerfully foregone, or replaced by something else; but security no human being can possibly do without; on it we depend for all our immunity from evil, and for the whole value of all and every good, beyond the passing moment; since nothing but the gratification of the instant could be of any worth to us, if we could be deprived of everything the next instant by whoever was momentarily stronger than ourselves. Now this most indispensable of all necessaries, after physical nutriment, cannot be had, unless the machinery for providing it is kept unintermittedly in active play. Our notion, therefore, of the claim we have on our fellow creatures to join in making safe for us the very groundwork of our existence, gathers feelings round it so much more intense than those concerned in any of the more common cases of utility, that the difference in degree (as is often the case in psychology) becomes a real difference in kind. The claim assumes that character of absoluteness, that apparent infinity, and incommensurability with all other considerations, which constitute the distinction between the feeling of right and wrong and that of ordinary expediency and inexpediency. The feelings concerned are so powerful, and we count so positively on finding a responsive feeling in others (all being alike interested), that ought and should grow into must, and recognized indispensability becomes a moral necessity, analogous to physical, and often not inferior to it in binding force.

To have a right, then, means, as I understand it, having something society ought to protect my possession of. If a critic asks why society ought to do so, I can give no reason except the general good. That answer may seem insufficient to express the obligation’s strength or explain the unusually powerful feeling behind it. This is because the feeling includes not only a rational element but also an animal instinct: the thirst for retaliation. This thirst draws both its intensity and its moral justification from the extraordinarily important benefit at stake. That benefit is security, which everyone feels is the most vital of all interests. Nearly all other earthly benefits are needed by one person but not by another. Many can, if necessary, be cheerfully given up or replaced by something else. But no human being can possibly do without security. We depend on security for all our protection from harm. We also depend on security for the entire value of every good beyond the passing moment. Suppose anyone momentarily stronger than us could take everything from us the next instant. If so, nothing but immediate satisfaction could have any value to us. After food, security is our most indispensable necessity. But security is impossible unless the systems that provide it remain constantly active. We therefore believe we can demand that others help secure the very foundation of our existence. The feelings surrounding this claim are far more intense than those surrounding more ordinary questions of usefulness. The difference in intensity becomes a genuine difference in kind, as often happens in psychology. Our claim comes to seem absolute, unlimited, and beyond comparison with any other consideration. These qualities distinguish our sense of right and wrong from our judgment of what is merely useful or not useful. The feelings involved are so powerful, and we count so confidently on others sharing them, because everyone has the same interest. As a result, ought and should become must. What we recognize as indispensable becomes a moral necessity, like a physical necessity and often no less binding.

If the preceding analysis, or something resembling it, be not the correct account of the notion of justice; if justice be totally independent of utility, and be a standard per se, which the mind can recognize by simple introspection of itself; it is hard to understand why that internal oracle is so ambiguous, and why so many things appear either just or unjust, according to the light in which they are regarded. We are continually informed that Utility is an uncertain standard, which every different person interprets differently, and that there is no safety but in the immutable, ineffaceable, and unmistakeable dictates of Justice, which carry their evidence in themselves, and are independent of the fluctuations of opinion. One would suppose from this that on questions of justice there could be no controversy; that if we take that for our rule, its application to any given case could leave us in as little doubt as a mathematical demonstration. So far is this from being the fact, that there is as much difference of opinion, and as fierce discussion, about what is just, as about what is useful to society. Not only have different nations and individuals different notions of justice, but, in the mind of one and the same individual, justice is not some one rule, principle, or maxim, but many, which do not always coincide in their dictates, and in choosing between which, he is guided either by some extraneous standard, or by his own personal predilections.

Suppose the earlier analysis, or something like it, is not the correct account of justice. Suppose justice is entirely independent of utility and is a standard in itself. Suppose the mind can recognize that standard simply by looking inward. Then it is hard to understand why this inner voice is so unclear. Why do so many things seem just or unjust depending on how we view them? We are constantly told that Utility is an uncertain standard, interpreted differently by every person. We are told that our only reliable guide is Justice, whose commands never change, cannot be erased, and are unmistakable. These commands supposedly need no evidence beyond themselves and do not depend on changing opinions. From these claims, we might suppose that questions of justice could never be disputed. If we made justice our rule, applying it to any case should leave as little doubt as a mathematical demonstration. Yet the reality is very different. Opinions about what is just differ as much, and provoke debates as fierce, as opinions about what benefits society. Different nations and individuals have different ideas of justice. But even within one person's mind, justice is not a single rule, principle, or maxim. Instead, justice consists of many rules, principles, or maxims, whose demands do not always agree. In choosing between these demands, a person follows either some outside standard or their own personal preferences.

For instance, there are some who say, that it is unjust to punish any one for the sake of example to others; that punishment is just, only when intended for the good of the sufferer himself. Others maintain the extreme reverse, contending that to punish persons who have attained years of discretion, for their own benefit, is despotism and injustice, since if the matter at issue is solely their own good, no one has a right to control their own judgment of it; but that they may justly be punished to prevent evil to others, this being an exercise of the legitimate right of self-defence. Mr. Owen, again, affirms that it is unjust to punish at all; for the criminal did not make his own character; his education, and the circumstances which surround him, have made him a criminal, and for these he is not responsible. All these opinions are extremely plausible; and so long as the question is argued as one of justice simply, without going down to the principles which lie under justice and are the source of its authority, I am unable to see how any of these reasoners can be refuted. For, in truth, every one of the three builds upon rules of justice confessedly true. The first appeals to the acknowledged injustice of singling out an individual, and making him a sacrifice, without his consent, for other people's benefit. The second relies on the acknowledged justice of self-defence, and the admitted injustice of forcing one person to conform to another's notions of what constitutes his good. The Owenite invokes the admitted principle, that it is unjust to punish any one for what he cannot help. Each is triumphant so long as he is not compelled to take into consideration any other maxims of justice than the one he has selected; but as soon as their several maxims are brought face to face, each disputant seems to have exactly as much to say for himself as the others. No one of them can carry out his own notion of justice without trampling upon another equally binding. These are difficulties; they have always been felt to be such; and many devices have been invented to turn rather than to overcome them. As a refuge from the last of the three, men imagined what they called the freedom of the will; fancying that they could not justify punishing a man whose will is in a thoroughly hateful state, unless it be supposed to have come into that state through no influence of anterior circumstances. To escape from the other difficulties, a favourite contrivance has been the fiction of a contract, whereby at some unknown period all the members of society engaged to obey the laws, and consented to be punished for any disobedience to them; thereby giving to their legislators the right, which it is assumed they would not otherwise have had, of punishing them, either for their own good or for that of society. This happy thought was considered to get rid of the whole difficulty, and to legitimate the infliction of punishment, in virtue of another received maxim of justice, volenti non fit injuria; that is not unjust which is done with the consent of the person who is supposed to be hurt by it. I need hardly remark, that even if the consent were not a mere fiction, this maxim is not superior in authority to the others which it is brought in to supersede. It is, on the contrary, an instructive specimen of the loose and irregular manner in which supposed principles of justice grow up. This particular one evidently came into use as a help to the coarse exigencies of courts of law, which are sometimes obliged to be content with very uncertain presumptions, on account of the greater evils which would often arise from any attempt on their part to cut finer. But even courts of law are not able to adhere consistently to the maxim, for they allow voluntary engagements to be set aside on the ground of fraud, and sometimes on that of mere mistake or misinformation.

For example, some say it is unjust to punish anyone as an example to others. They hold that punishment is just only when intended for the good of the person punished. Others take the opposite extreme. They argue that punishing people old enough to judge for themselves, for their own benefit, is tyranny and injustice. If only their own good is at stake, no one has a right to override their judgment about it. But they may justly be punished to prevent harm to others. Such punishment exercises the legitimate right of self-defense. Mr. Owen, in turn, declares that all punishment is unjust, because criminals did not make their own characters. Their upbringing and surrounding circumstances made them criminals, and they are not responsible for those influences. All these opinions are extremely plausible. Suppose we argue only about justice, without examining the principles beneath justice that give it authority. As long as we do, I cannot see how any of these arguments can be refuted. In fact, all three rest on rules of justice acknowledged to be true. The first appeals to the acknowledged injustice of singling someone out for sacrifice, without their consent, for other people's benefit. The second relies on the acknowledged justice of self-defense. It also relies on the admitted injustice of forcing someone to accept another person's ideas about their own good. The Owenite invokes the admitted principle that it is unjust to punish anyone for what they cannot help. Each wins the argument as long as they need consider no rule of justice except their chosen one. But once these different rules confront one another, each side seems to have exactly as strong a case as the others. None can carry out their own idea of justice without trampling on another equally binding rule. These are difficulties, and they have always been recognized as difficulties. Many devices have been invented to sidestep rather than overcome them. To escape the last of these three difficulties, people imagined what they called freedom of the will. They thought punishment could not be justified when a person's will was in a thoroughly hateful state, unless one assumption held. They had to suppose that the will had reached that state without any influence from earlier circumstances. To escape the other difficulties, a favorite device has been the fiction of a contract. Under this supposed contract, all society's members agreed, at some unknown time, to obey the laws. They also consented to punishment for any disobedience. Their consent supposedly gave lawmakers a right to punish them, either for their own good or for society's good. The assumption is that lawmakers would otherwise have had no such right. This happy thought was considered to remove the whole difficulty and make punishment legitimate. It did so by invoking another accepted rule of justice, volenti non fit injuria. In other words, an act is not unjust if the person supposedly harmed by it has consented. I hardly need to point out that, even if the consent were real, this rule has no greater authority than the rules it replaces. On the contrary, the consent rule is an instructive example of how loosely and inconsistently supposed principles of justice develop. This particular rule evidently came into use to serve the rough practical needs of courts of law. Courts must sometimes settle for very uncertain assumptions, because attempts at greater precision would often cause greater evils. But even courts cannot consistently follow the consent rule. They allow voluntary agreements to be set aside because of fraud, and sometimes merely because of mistakes or misinformation.

Again, when the legitimacy of inflicting punishment is admitted, how many conflicting conceptions of justice come to light in discussing the proper apportionment of punishment to offences. No rule on this subject recommends itself so strongly to the primitive and spontaneous sentiment of justice, as the lex talionis, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Though this principle of the Jewish and of the Mahomedan law has been generally abandoned in Europe as a practical maxim, there is, I suspect, in most minds, a secret hankering after it; and when retribution accidentally falls on an offender in that precise shape, the general feeling of satisfaction evinced, bears witness how natural is the sentiment to which this repayment in kind is acceptable. With many the test of justice in penal infliction is that the punishment should be proportioned to the offence; meaning that it should be exactly measured by the moral guilt of the culprit (whatever be their standard for measuring moral guilt): the consideration, what amount of punishment is necessary to deter from the offence, having nothing to do with the question of justice, in their estimation: while there are others to whom that consideration is all in all; who maintain that it is not just, at least for man, to inflict on a fellow creature, whatever may be his offences, any amount of suffering beyond the least that will suffice to prevent him from repeating, and others from imitating, his misconduct.

Again, even when punishment is accepted as legitimate, many conflicting ideas of justice emerge. They arise when we discuss how much punishment different offences deserve. No rule appeals more strongly to our instinctive sense of justice than lex talionis, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. This principle of Jewish and Islamic law has generally been abandoned in Europe as a practical rule. Yet I suspect that most people still secretly long for it. When an offender happens to suffer precisely the harm they caused, people generally express satisfaction. That satisfaction shows how naturally repayment in kind appeals to our sense of justice. For many people, punishment is just when it is proportionate to the offence. They mean that punishment should correspond exactly to the offender’s moral guilt, whatever standard they use to measure that guilt. In their view, how much punishment is needed to deter the offence has nothing to do with justice. For others, however, deterrence is everything. They maintain that, whatever someone’s offences, human beings cannot justly inflict more suffering than prevention requires. Punishment must cause no more suffering than necessary to prevent the offender from repeating the misconduct and others from imitating it.

To take another example from a subject already once referred to. In a co-operative industrial association, is it just or not that talent or skill should give a title to superior remuneration? On the negative side of the question it is argued, that whoever does the best he can, deserves equally well, and ought not in justice to be put in a position of inferiority for no fault of his own; that superior abilities have already advantages more than enough, in the admiration they excite, the personal influence they command, and the internal sources of satisfaction attending them, without adding to these a superior share of the world's goods; and that society is bound in justice rather to make compensation to the less favoured, for this unmerited inequality of advantages, than to aggravate it. On the contrary side it is contended, that society receives more from the more efficient labourer; that his services being more useful, society owes him a larger return for them; that a greater share of the joint result is actually his work, and not to allow his claim to it is a kind of robbery; that if he is only to receive as much as others, he can only be justly required to produce as much, and to give a smaller amount of time and exertion, proportioned to his superior efficiency. Who shall decide between these appeals to conflicting principles of justice? Justice has in this case two sides to it, which it is impossible to bring into harmony, and the two disputants have chosen opposite sides; the one looks to what it is just that the individual should receive, the other to what it is just that the community should give. Each, from his own point of view, is unanswerable; and any choice between them, on grounds of justice, must be perfectly arbitrary. Social utility alone can decide the preference.

Consider another example from a subject already mentioned. In a cooperative industrial association, is it just for talent or skill to entitle someone to higher pay? Those who oppose higher pay argue that anyone who does their best deserves equal credit. Justice requires that no one be put at a disadvantage through no fault of their own. Greater abilities already bring more than enough advantages: admiration, personal influence, and the satisfaction those abilities themselves provide. There is no need to add a larger share of the world's goods. Instead, justice requires society to compensate those with fewer advantages for an inequality they did nothing to deserve. Society should not make that inequality greater. Those who support higher pay argue that society receives more from the more efficient worker. Because that worker's services are more useful, society owes the worker more in return. A greater share of the group's output is actually that worker's work. Denying the worker's claim to that share is a kind of robbery. If the worker receives only as much as others, justice can require only the same amount of output. The worker should then spend less time and effort, in proportion to their greater efficiency. Who can decide between these appeals to conflicting principles of justice? Justice has two sides here, and bringing those sides into harmony is impossible. The two opponents have chosen opposite sides. One considers what it is just for the individual to receive. The other considers what it is just for the community to give. From each opponent's own point of view, their argument cannot be answered. Any choice between the two based on justice must be entirely arbitrary. Only the benefit to society can determine which principle should take priority.

How many, again, and how irreconcileable, are the standards of justice to which reference is made in discussing the repartition of taxation. One opinion is, that payment to the State should be in numerical proportion to pecuniary means. Others think that justice dictates what they term graduated taxation; taking a higher percentage from those who have more to spare. In point of natural justice a strong case might be made for disregarding means altogether, and taking the same absolute sum (whenever it could be got) from every one: as the subscribers to a mess, or to a club, all pay the same sum for the same privileges, whether they can all equally afford it or not. Since the protection (it might be said) of law and government is afforded to, and is equally required by, all, there is no injustice in making all buy it at the same price. It is reckoned justice, not injustice, that a dealer should charge to all customers the same price for the same article, not a price varying according to their means of payment. This doctrine, as applied to taxation, finds no advocates, because it conflicts strongly with men's feelings of humanity and perceptions of social expediency; but the principle of justice which it invokes is as true and as binding as those which can be appealed to against it. Accordingly, it exerts a tacit influence on the line of defence employed for other modes of assessing taxation. People feel obliged to argue that the State does more for the rich than for the poor, as a justification for its taking more from them: though this is in reality not true, for the rich would be far better able to protect themselves, in the absence of law or government, than the poor, and indeed would probably be successful in converting the poor into their slaves. Others, again, so far defer to the same conception of justice, as to maintain that all should pay an equal capitation tax for the protection of their persons (these being of equal value to all), and an unequal tax for the protection of their property, which is unequal. To this others reply, that the all of one man is as valuable to him as the all of another. From these confusions there is no other mode of extrication than the utilitarian.

Again, consider how many conflicting standards of justice people appeal to when discussing how to distribute the tax burden. One view is that payments to the State should be directly proportional to financial means. Others think justice requires what they call graduated taxation, taking a higher percentage from those with more to spare. On grounds of natural justice, a strong case could be made for ignoring financial means altogether. Everyone would pay the same fixed amount, whenever that amount could be collected. Members of a dining group or club all pay the same amount for the same privileges. Whether all members can equally afford the payment makes no difference. It might be argued that everyone receives the protection of law and government, and everyone needs that protection equally. So there is no injustice in making everyone buy that protection at the same price. We consider a seller just, not unjust, for charging all customers the same price for the same item. We do not expect the price to vary according to their ability to pay. No one advocates applying this view to taxation, because it strongly conflicts with humane feelings and judgments about society’s welfare. But the principle of justice behind this view is as true and binding as the principles used against it. Accordingly, the equal-payment principle quietly influences how people defend other methods of taxation. People feel obliged to argue that the State does more for the rich than for the poor. They offer this argument to justify taking more from the rich. Yet the claim is actually untrue. Without law or government, the rich would be far better able to protect themselves than the poor. Indeed, the rich would probably succeed in turning the poor into their slaves. Others also give weight to the same idea of justice. They argue that everyone should pay an equal tax per person for personal protection. Personal safety is equally valuable to everyone. But people should pay different amounts for protecting their property, because their property differs in value. Others reply that everything one person owns is as valuable to that person as another’s entire possessions are to them. The only way out of these confusions is the utilitarian approach.

Is, then, the difference between the Just and the Expedient a merely imaginary distinction? Have mankind been under a delusion in thinking that justice is a more sacred thing than policy, and that the latter ought only to be listened to after the former has been satisfied? By no means. The exposition we have given of the nature and origin of the sentiment, recognises a real distinction; and no one of those who profess the most sublime contempt for the consequences of actions as an element in their morality, attaches more importance to the distinction than I do. While I dispute the pretensions of any theory which sets up an imaginary standard of justice not grounded on utility, I account the justice which is grounded on utility to be the chief part, and incomparably the most sacred and binding part, of all morality. Justice is a name for certain classes of moral rules, which concern the essentials of human well-being more nearly, and are therefore of more absolute obligation, than any other rules for the guidance of life; and the notion which we have found to be of the essence of the idea of justice, that of a right residing in an individual, implies and testifies to this more binding obligation.

Is the difference between what is just and what is expedient, then, merely imaginary? Have people been mistaken in thinking that justice is more sacred than practical policy? Have they been wrong to think policy should be considered only after the demands of justice have been met? Not at all. My account of the nature and origin of the feeling of justice recognizes a real distinction. Some people claim to have the deepest contempt for considering the consequences of actions in morality. None of them places more importance on this distinction than I do. I reject the claims of any theory that sets up an imaginary standard of justice without a basis in utility. But I regard justice grounded in utility as the chief part of all morality. It is also, by far, morality’s most sacred and binding part. Justice is the name for certain kinds of moral rules that concern the essentials of human well-being more directly. These rules therefore impose a stricter obligation than any other rules for guiding our lives. As we have seen, the idea that an individual holds a right is essential to the idea of justice. This idea of an individual right implies and confirms the stronger obligation imposed by justice.

The moral rules which forbid mankind to hurt one another (in which we must never forget to include wrongful interference with each other's freedom) are more vital to human well-being than any maxims, however important, which only point out the best mode of managing some department of human affairs. They have also the peculiarity, that they are the main element in determining the whole of the social feelings of mankind. It is their observance which alone preserves peace among human beings: if obedience to them were not the rule, and disobedience the exception, every one would see in every one else a probable enemy, against whom he must be perpetually guarding himself. What is hardly less important, these are the precepts which mankind have the strongest and the most direct inducements for impressing upon one another. By merely giving to each other prudential instruction or exhortation, they may gain, or think they gain, nothing: in inculcating on each other the duty of positive beneficence they have an unmistakeable interest, but far less in degree: a person may possibly not need the benefits of others; but he always needs that they should not do him hurt. Thus the moralities which protect every individual from being harmed by others, either directly or by being hindered in his freedom of pursuing his own good, are at once those which he himself has most at heart, and those which he has the strongest interest in publishing and enforcing by word and deed. It is by a person's observance of these, that his fitness to exist as one of the fellowship of human beings, is tested and decided; for on that depends his being a nuisance or not to those with whom he is in contact. Now it is these moralities primarily, which compose the obligations of justice. The most marked cases of injustice, and those which give the tone to the feeling of repugnance which characterizes the sentiment, are acts of wrongful aggression, or wrongful exercise of power over some one; the next are those which consist in wrongfully withholding from him something which is his due; in both cases, inflicting on him a positive hurt, either in the form of direct suffering, or of the privation of some good which he had reasonable ground, either of a physical or of a social kind, for counting upon.

Moral rules that forbid people to harm one another are more vital to human well-being than any rules for managing particular human affairs. We must never forget that harm includes wrongful interference with another person's freedom. However important rules for managing human affairs may be, they only show how best to manage one area. Rules against harm also have a distinctive role: they are the main influence shaping people's feelings toward one another. Only obedience to these rules preserves peace among human beings. If obedience were not the rule and disobedience the exception, everyone would see everyone else as a likely enemy. Everyone would have to be constantly on guard. Hardly less important, people have the strongest and most direct reasons to impress these rules on one another. By merely offering practical advice or urging others to act prudently, people may gain nothing, or think they gain nothing. People have a clear interest in teaching one another the duty to actively help others. But that interest is far weaker than their interest in teaching rules against harm. A person may not need help from others, but always needs others not to cause harm. So the moral rules protecting each person from harm are both their deepest concern and their strongest interest to promote. These rules protect people against direct harm and against interference with their freedom to pursue their own good. Each person has the strongest interest in spreading and enforcing these rules through words and actions. A person's obedience to these rules determines their fitness to belong to the human community. Whether someone is a nuisance to those around them depends on that obedience. These moral rules, above all, make up the duties of justice. The clearest cases of injustice involve wrongful aggression or the wrongful use of power over someone. These cases also set the tone for the feeling of revulsion that characterizes our sense of injustice. Next come cases in which someone is wrongfully denied something they are owed. Both kinds of injustice cause actual harm. That harm may take the form of direct suffering or the loss of some benefit. In the latter case, the person had reasonable grounds, based on physical or social circumstances, to count on that benefit.

The same powerful motives which command the observance of these primary moralities, enjoin the punishment of those who violate them; and as the impulses of self-defence, of defence of others, and of vengeance, are all called forth against such persons, retribution, or evil for evil, becomes closely connected with the sentiment of justice, and is universally included in the idea. Good for good is also one of the dictates of justice; and this, though its social utility is evident, and though it carries with it a natural human feeling, has not at first sight that obvious connexion with hurt or injury, which, existing in the most elementary cases of just and unjust, is the source of the characteristic intensity of the sentiment. But the connexion, though less obvious, is not less real. He who accepts benefits, and denies a return of them when needed, inflicts a real hurt, by disappointing one of the most natural and reasonable of expectations, and one which he must at least tacitly have encouraged, otherwise the benefits would seldom have been conferred. The important rank, among human evils and wrongs, of the disappointment of expectation, is shown in the fact that it constitutes the principal criminality of two such highly immoral acts as a breach of friendship and a breach of promise. Few hurts which human beings can sustain are greater, and none wound more, than when that on which they habitually and with full assurance relied, fails them in the hour of need; and few wrongs are greater than this mere withholding of good; none excite more resentment, either in the person suffering, or in a sympathizing spectator. The principle, therefore, of giving to each what they deserve, that is, good for good as well as evil for evil, is not only included within the idea of Justice as we have defined it, but is a proper object of that intensity of sentiment, which places the Just, in human estimation, above the simply Expedient.

The same powerful motives that make us follow these basic moral rules also demand punishment for those who break them. Such people stir our impulses to defend ourselves, defend others, and take revenge. So retribution, or harm in return for harm, becomes closely linked to our sense of justice. Retribution is universally included in the idea of justice. Justice also demands good in return for good. The social value of returning benefits is clear, and a natural human feeling supports it. Yet returning benefits seems less obviously connected with harm or injury. In the most basic cases of justice and injustice, that connection gives our sense of justice its distinctive intensity. But although the connection is less obvious when benefits go unreturned, it is no less real. Someone who accepts benefits but refuses to return them when needed causes real harm. Such a refusal disappoints one of our most natural and reasonable expectations. The person receiving the benefits must have encouraged that expectation, at least silently. Otherwise, the benefits would seldom have been given. Disappointed expectations rank high among human harms and wrongs. We can see their importance in two deeply immoral acts: betraying a friendship and breaking a promise. Disappointing expectations is the chief source of wrongdoing in both acts. Few harms people can suffer are greater than losing something they have always relied on with complete confidence when needed most. And no harm wounds more deeply. Few wrongs are greater than simply withholding help in these circumstances. None causes greater resentment, either in the person who suffers or in a sympathetic observer. So the principle of giving everyone what they deserve includes good for good as well as harm for harm. This principle belongs within the idea of justice as we have defined it. It also rightly inspires the intense feeling that leads people to value what is just above what is merely useful.

Most of the maxims of justice current in the world, and commonly appealed to in its transactions, are simply instrumental to carrying into effect the principles of justice which we have now spoken of. That a person is only responsible for what he has done voluntarily, or could voluntarily have avoided; that it is unjust to condemn any person unheard; that the punishment ought to be proportioned to the offence, and the like, are maxims intended to prevent the just principle of evil for evil from being perverted to the infliction of evil without that justification. The greater part of these common maxims have come into use from the practice of courts of justice, which have been naturally led to a more complete recognition and elaboration than was likely to suggest itself to others, of the rules necessary to enable them to fulfil their double function, of inflicting punishment when due, and of awarding to each person his right.

Most widely accepted rules of justice, commonly used in everyday dealings, simply help put the principles discussed above into practice. One such rule holds people responsible only for actions they chose to take or could have chosen to avoid. Another says that condemning anyone without hearing their side is unjust. Another says that punishment should be proportionate to the offense. These and similar rules are meant to prevent the misuse of the just principle of repaying harm with harm. They aim to prevent harm from being inflicted without that justification. Most of these common rules grew out of the work of courts of justice. Courts have naturally come to recognize and develop the necessary rules more fully than others would likely have done. These rules enable courts to perform their two duties: imposing punishment when deserved and giving each person their due.

That first of judicial virtues, impartiality, is an obligation of justice, partly for the reason last mentioned; as being a necessary condition of the fulfilment of the other obligations of justice. But this is not the only source of the exalted rank, among human obligations, of those maxims of equality and impartiality, which, both in popular estimation and in that of the most enlightened, are included among the precepts of justice. In one point of view, they may be considered as corollaries from the principles already laid down. If it is a duty to do to each according to his deserts, returning good for good as well as repressing evil by evil, it necessarily follows that we should treat all equally well (when no higher duty forbids) who have deserved equally well of us, and that society should treat all equally well who have deserved equally well of it, that is, who have deserved equally well absolutely. This is the highest abstract standard of social and distributive justice; towards which all institutions, and the efforts of all virtuous citizens, should be made in the utmost possible degree to converge. But this great moral duty rests upon a still deeper foundation, being a direct emanation from the first principle of morals, and not a mere logical corollary from secondary or derivative doctrines. It is involved in the very meaning of Utility, or the Greatest-Happiness Principle. That principle is a mere form of words without rational signification, unless one person's happiness, supposed equal in degree (with the proper allowance made for kind), is counted for exactly as much as another's. Those conditions being supplied, Bentham's dictum, 'everybody to count for one, nobody for more than one,' might be written under the principle of utility as an explanatory commentary.[^D] The equal claim of everybody to happiness in the estimation of the moralist and the legislator, involves an equal claim to all the means of happiness, except in so far as the inevitable conditions of human life, and the general interest, in which that of every individual is included, set limits to the maxim; and those limits ought to be strictly construed. As every other maxim of justice, so this, is by no means applied or held applicable universally; on the contrary, as I have already remarked, it bends to every person's ideas of social expediency. But in whatever case it is deemed applicable at all, it is held to be the dictate of justice. All persons are deemed to have a right to equality of treatment, except when some recognised social expediency requires the reverse. And hence all social inequalities which have ceased to be considered expedient, assume the character not of simple inexpediency, but of injustice, and appear so tyrannical, that people are apt to wonder how they ever could have been tolerated; forgetful that they themselves perhaps tolerate other inequalities under an equally mistaken notion of expediency, the correction of which would make that which they approve seem quite as monstrous as what they have at last learnt to condemn. The entire history of social improvement has been a series of transitions, by which one custom or institution after another, from being a supposed primary necessity of social existence, has passed into the rank of an universally stigmatized injustice and tyranny. So it has been with the distinctions of slaves and freemen, nobles and serfs, patricians and plebeians; and so it will be, and in part already is, with the aristocracies of colour, race, and sex.

Impartiality, the foremost judicial virtue, is an obligation of justice, partly for the reason just mentioned. It is necessary for fulfilling the other obligations of justice. But equality and impartiality have other grounds for their high standing among human obligations. Both ordinary people and the most enlightened regard these principles as requirements of justice. From one perspective, these principles may be seen as consequences of the principles already established. Suppose we have a duty to treat everyone as they deserve, rewarding good with good and punishing evil with evil. It necessarily follows that we should treat equally well everyone who has deserved equally well of us. This applies when no higher duty forbids it. Society should likewise treat equally well everyone who has deserved equally well of society, meaning equally well in absolute terms. This is the highest abstract standard of social justice and the just distribution of benefits. All institutions and all virtuous citizens should direct their efforts toward this standard as fully as possible. But this great moral duty has a still deeper foundation. It comes directly from the first principle of morality, rather than merely following logically from secondary or derived doctrines. It is part of the very meaning of Utility, or the Greatest-Happiness Principle. That principle is only an empty phrase unless one person's happiness counts for exactly as much as another's. This assumes equal amounts of happiness, with proper allowance for differences in kind. With those conditions met, Bentham's saying, 'everybody to count for one, nobody for more than one,' could explain the principle of utility.[^D] Moral thinkers and lawmakers must recognize everyone's equal claim to happiness. That claim includes an equal claim to all the means of happiness, subject to certain limits. Those limits come from the unavoidable conditions of human life and the general interest, which includes every individual's interest. These limits should be interpreted strictly. Like every other principle of justice, this principle is by no means applied universally or considered universally applicable. On the contrary, as I have already noted, it bends to each person's ideas about what serves society's interests. But whenever people consider the principle applicable, they regard it as a requirement of justice. Everyone is considered to have a right to equal treatment, unless some recognized social benefit requires unequal treatment. So, once social inequalities are no longer thought useful, they come to be seen as more than merely unhelpful. They are seen as unjust, and seem so tyrannical that people often wonder how they were ever tolerated. People forget that they themselves perhaps tolerate other inequalities because of an equally mistaken belief in their usefulness. Correcting that belief would make the inequalities they approve seem just as monstrous as those they have finally learned to condemn. The entire history of social improvement has been a series of such changes. One custom or institution after another was once thought fundamentally necessary for society to exist. Each then came to be universally condemned as unjust and tyrannical. This has happened with the distinctions between slaves and freemen, nobles and serfs, and patricians and plebeians. The same will happen, and partly already is happening, with hierarchies of privilege based on colour, race, and sex.

It appears from what has been said, that justice is a name for certain moral requirements, which, regarded collectively, stand higher in the scale of social utility, and are therefore of more paramount obligation, than any others; though particular cases may occur in which some other social duty is so important, as to overrule any one of the general maxims of justice. Thus, to save a life, it may not only be allowable, but a duty, to steal, or take by force, the necessary food or medicine, or to kidnap, and compel to officiate, the only qualified medical practitioner. In such cases, as we do not call anything justice which is not a virtue, we usually say, not that justice must give way to some other moral principle, but that what is just in ordinary cases is, by reason of that other principle, not just in the particular case. By this useful accommodation of language, the character of indefeasibility attributed to justice is kept up, and we are saved from the necessity of maintaining that there can be laudable injustice.

From what has been said, justice appears to be the name for certain moral requirements. Taken together, these requirements contribute more to society’s well-being than any others, and therefore impose stronger obligations. Yet particular cases may arise in which another social duty is important enough to override a general rule of justice. For example, saving a life may make stealing or forcibly taking necessary food or medicine not merely permissible, but obligatory. The same may apply to kidnapping the only qualified medical practitioner and forcing that practitioner to provide treatment. In such cases, we do not call anything just unless it is morally good. So we usually do not say that justice must give way to another moral principle. Instead, we say that another principle makes an ordinarily just action unjust in that particular case. This useful adjustment in language preserves the idea that justice can never be overridden. It also spares us from having to maintain that injustice can be praiseworthy.

The considerations which have now been adduced resolve, I conceive, the only real difficulty in the utilitarian theory of morals. It has always been evident that all cases of justice are also cases of expediency: the difference is in the peculiar sentiment which attaches to the former, as contradistinguished from the latter. If this characteristic sentiment has been sufficiently accounted for; if there is no necessity to assume for it any peculiarity of origin; if it is simply the natural feeling of resentment, moralized by being made coextensive with the demands of social good; and if this feeling not only does but ought to exist in all the classes of cases to which the idea of justice corresponds; that idea no longer presents itself as a stumbling-block to the utilitarian ethics. Justice remains the appropriate name for certain social utilities which are vastly more important, and therefore more absolute and imperative, than any others are as a class (though not more so than others may be in particular cases); and which, therefore, ought to be, as well as naturally are, guarded by a sentiment not only different in degree, but also in kind; distinguished from the milder feeling which attaches to the mere idea of promoting human pleasure or convenience, at once by the more definite nature of its commands, and by the sterner character of its sanctions.

The arguments just presented resolve, I believe, the only real difficulty in the utilitarian theory of morality. It has always been clear that all matters of justice are also matters of practical benefit. The difference lies in the distinctive feeling attached to justice, as opposed to practical benefit. If this distinctive feeling has been adequately explained, if we need not assume it has any special origin, if it is simply natural resentment given a moral character by extending it to everything the social good demands, and if this feeling both exists and ought to exist in every category of cases covered by justice, then justice no longer poses an obstacle to utilitarian ethics. Justice remains the right name for certain kinds of social benefit that are vastly more important than others. As a class, these benefits therefore make more absolute and binding demands than any other class of benefits. Other benefits may, however, be just as important and binding in particular cases. These benefits associated with justice should therefore be protected, as they naturally are, by a distinctive feeling. This feeling differs from others not only in strength but also in kind. Merely promoting human pleasure or convenience inspires a milder feeling. The feeling associated with justice differs both in its more definite demands and in its harsher penalties.

THE END.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:

See this point enforced and illustrated by Professor Bain, in an admirable chapter (entitled "The Ethical Emotions, or the Moral Sense") of the second of the two treatises composing his elaborate and profound work on the Mind.

Professor Bain supports and illustrates this point in an excellent chapter titled "The Ethical Emotions, or the Moral Sense". The chapter appears in the second of two treatises making up his detailed and profound work on the Mind.

This implication, in the first principle of the utilitarian scheme, of perfect impartiality between persons, is regarded by Mr. Herbert Spencer (in his Social Statics) as a disproof of the pretentions of utility to be a sufficient guide to right; since (he says) the principle of utility presupposes the anterior principle, that everybody has an equal right to happiness. It may be more correctly described as supposing that equal amounts of happiness are equally desirable, whether felt by the same or by different persons. This, however, is not a pre-supposition; not a premise needful to support the principle of utility, but the very principle itself; for what is the principle of utility, if it be not that 'happiness' and 'desirable' are synonymous terms? If there is any anterior principle implied, it can be no other than this, that the truths of arithmetic are applicable to the valuation of happiness, as of all other measurable quantities.

Utilitarianism’s basic principle implies complete impartiality between people. Mr. Herbert Spencer (in his Social Statics) sees this impartiality as disproving the claim that utility sufficiently guides right conduct. He argues that the principle of utility assumes a prior principle: everyone has an equal right to happiness. More accurately, utilitarianism may be described as holding that equal amounts of happiness are equally desirable. This holds whether the happiness is felt by one person or by different people. But this equality is not an assumption or a premise needed to support the principle of utility. It is the principle itself. For what is the principle of utility, unless 'happiness' and 'desirable' mean the same thing? If any prior principle is implied, it can only be this: arithmetic applies to measuring happiness, just as it applies to all other measurable quantities.

[Mr. Herbert Spencer, in a private communication on the subject of the preceding Note, objects to being considered an opponent of Utilitarianism; and states that he regards happiness as the ultimate end of morality; but deems that end only partially attainable by empirical generalizations from the observed results of conduct, and completely attainable only by deducing, from the laws of life and the conditions of existence, what kinds of action necessarily tend to produce happiness, and what kinds to produce unhappiness. With the exception of the word "necessarily," I have no dissent to express from this doctrine; and (omitting that word) I am not aware that any modern advocate of utilitarianism is of a different opinion. Bentham, certainly, to whom in the Social Statics Mr. Spencer particularly referred, is, least of all writers, chargeable with unwillingness to deduce the effect of actions on happiness from the laws of human nature and the universal conditions of human life. The common charge against him is of relying too exclusively upon such deductions, and declining altogether to be bound by the generalizations from specific experience which Mr. Spencer thinks that utilitarians generally confine themselves to. My own opinion (and, as I collect, Mr. Spencer's) is, that in ethics, as in all other branches of scientific study, the consilience of the results of both these processes, each corroborating and verifying the other, is requisite to give to any general proposition the kind and degree of evidence which constitutes scientific proof.]

[Mr. Herbert Spencer wrote privately about the preceding Note to object to being called an opponent of Utilitarianism. He says he regards happiness as the ultimate goal of morality. But he believes generalizations from observed results of conduct can only partly achieve that goal. Fully achieving it requires deducing, from the laws of life and the conditions of existence, which actions necessarily produce happiness or unhappiness. Except for the word "necessarily," I have no disagreement with this view. Without that word, I know of no modern supporter of utilitarianism who holds a different opinion. In Social Statics, Mr. Spencer referred particularly to Bentham. Yet Bentham is the last writer who could be accused of being unwilling to make such deductions. He readily deduces how actions affect happiness from the laws of human nature and the universal conditions of human life. The usual criticism is that Bentham relies too heavily on such deductions. He is also criticized for refusing to be bound at all by generalizations drawn from particular experiences. Mr. Spencer thinks utilitarians generally limit themselves to just such generalizations. My own view, and apparently Mr. Spencer's, is that ethics requires the same approach as every other scientific field. The results of both methods must agree, with each supporting and checking the other. Only then can a general proposition have the kind and degree of evidence needed for scientific proof.]