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Humean Moral KnowledgeMargaret Watkins a

a Baylor University, USA

To cite this Article Watkins, Margaret'Humean Moral Knowledge', Inquiry, 51: 6, 581 — 602To link to this Article: DOI: 10.1080/00201740802536639URL: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/00201740802536639

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Humean Moral Knowledge

MARGARET WATKINS

Baylor University, USA

(Received 31 May 2008)

ABSTRACT I develop resources from Hume to account for moral knowledge in thequalified sense developed by Bernard Williams, according to which the properapplication of thick ethical terms constitutes moral knowledge. By applying to moraldiscernment the criteria of the good aesthetic critic, as explained in Hume’s ‘‘Of theStandard of Taste’’, we can see how Humean moral knowledge might be possible. Foreach of these criteria, an analogous trait would contribute to moral discernment. Thesetraits would enable moral judges to distinguish valid from invalid uses of thick moralterms. The deliverances of such judgments constitute mitigated moral knowledge, asopposed to knowledge in the stricter sense that Hume clearly says cannot be had ofmoral distinctions. This account has the potential to explain how moral judgments maybe valid or invalid without appealing to unique operations of the understanding and howmoral knowledge might escape the threat, identified by Williams, of reflectivedestruction.

In the following, I develop resources from Hume to account for moral

knowledge in a qualified sense. There is clearly something odd about this

project. Hume famously asserts that morality is more ‘‘properly felt than

judged of’’ and that ‘‘[m]orals and criticism are not so properly objects of

the understanding as of taste and sentiment.’’1 Indeed, insofar as Hume uses

‘‘knowledge’’ to refer to that which we perceive by intuition or learn from

demonstration, Humean moral knowledge is not to be had.2

Despite widespread acceptance of broader conceptions of knowledge, we

still encounter difficulties when attempting to generalize criteria for

knowledge over the domains of science, common experience, and ethics.

In Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, Bernard Williams offers an intriguing

response to these difficulties. Like Hume, Williams has no patience with

rationalist accounts of moral knowledge. Williams, however, offers a limited

Correspondence Address: Margaret Watkins, Department of Philosophy, Baylor University,

One Bear Place #97273, Waco, TX 76798-7273, USA. Email: [email protected]

Inquiry,

Vol. 51, No. 6, 581–602, December 2008

0020-174X Print/1502-3923 Online/08/060581–22 # 2008 Taylor & Francis

DOI: 10.1080/00201740802536639

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(and somewhat pessimistic) account of moral judgment that can be counted

as moral knowledge. This account appeals to a distinction between thick

and thin ethical terms.

Judgments including ‘‘thick terms’’, like ‘‘treachery and promise and

brutality and courage,’’ can be ‘‘world-guided’’; people living together in a

moral community can agree on more or less clear application criteria for

them.3 (Such communities need not agree overtly on a definition of suchterms; expertise in using their own moral language is sufficient.) Moreover,

such concepts are ‘‘action-guiding’’: when appropriately applied, ‘‘they

usually (though not necessarily directly) provide reasons for action.’’4 These

terms, in Williams’s view, do not have a descriptive and a prescriptive

meaning that can be divorced from one another without doing violence to

the language. Rather, they have a unified meaning that certain kinds of

reflection can uproot or destroy, especially reflection that involves

questioning whether the reasons offered by the terms are the best reasonsto have, all things considered, or if the way of life that such terms

presuppose is ‘‘right’’ in a global sense that transcends the form of life of the

community. After such reflection, ethical knowledge that had been available

disappears, because members of the moral community lose the ability to use

the terms. The changes reflection brings about have made the once clear

application criteria of such terms unavailable.5

I contend that by applying to moral discernment the criteria of the good

aesthetic critic that Hume explains in ‘‘Of the Standard of Taste’’, we can seehow Humean moral knowledge (in Williams’s mitigated sense) might be

possible. Such knowledge, though of the kind that Williams identifies,

neither depends on strict convergence of opinion among members of a

moral community nor need be destroyed by reflection. Although

philosophical study can identify certain characteristics of a person with

moral knowledge, particularized moral knowledge (judgments, for instance,

that a particular person has or lacks some virtue) is rarely accessible in the

abstract. We must depend, for such knowledge, on the discernment of thegood moral judge.

In the first section, I explain why it is appropriate to ascribe to Hume

some recognition of the existence of thick moral terms and how the

flexibility of such terms leads Hume to a different, though related, problem

from Williams’s own worries about destructive reflection. Hume’s concern is

not that people can lose the ability to use such terms, but that they can use

them in polymorphic ways, so that they retain their reason-giving or

motivating force but apply to different kinds of traits. He introduces thisconcern as an entry into an analogous problem in aesthetics, the solution of

which is to describe the features of the good critic.

Although Hume thus suggests a possible analogy between the good critic

and the good moral judge, he does not develop this analogy by considering

the relationship between the criteria he identifies for the critic and the

582 Margaret Watkins


discerning moral judge. Some commentators have considered the relation-

ship between the critic’s freedom from prejudice and the general point of

view for morals,6 but I focus on Hume’s other criteria for good aesthetic

judges: delicacy, practice and comparison, and good sense. For each of these

criteria, an analogous trait would contribute to moral discernment. These

traits would enable moral judges to distinguish valid from invalid uses of

thick moral terms. The deliverances of such judgments constitute mitigatedmoral knowledge.7 That such knowledge requires discernment that many

people do not have raises a question about why it would motivate Humean

moral agents. I address this question in the concluding section.

I do not claim that these ideas are implicitly in Hume’s texts; developing

the analogy between ethics and aesthetics as I do goes beyond his suggestive

remarks. It is indeed odd to ascribe to Hume a view now associated with

moral cognitivism. Such associations would no doubt lead Hume to eye

thick terms with suspicion, as does his contemporary ally, SimonBlackburn.8 For this reason, I focus on Williams’s own account of thickness

rather than delving into the interesting developments in the theory of the

thick resulting from debates between cognitivists and non-cognitivists.

Williams had few, if any, cognitivist ambitions; thus, his analysis may prove

more palatable from a Humean point of view.9 This focus on Williams also

has the advantage of simplifying the discussion, but sometimes at the cost of

over-simplification. I will not be able, for example, to take into account

Blackburn’s claims that our reactions to actions associated with thickconcepts are likely to be more complicated than single-attitude models have

suggested, though I agree with Jonathan Dancy that proponents of the thick

should just accept this correction as a friendly amendment to their view.10

Ultimately, I do not think the view that I articulate is in fundamental

tension with Hume’s views on moral judgment. These views develop over

time: for instance, the Enquiry seems to leave more room than the Treatise

for differing levels of moral discernment.11 Throughout his work, however,

Hume aims to uphold our sense that moral judgments can be valid or invalidwithout appealing to unique operations of the understanding. The

development of a rich conception of thick moral concepts is entirely

consistent with this aim.

I. Hume on thick moral terms

From the beginning of ‘‘Of the Standard of Taste’’, Hume casts his discussion

in terms of language and questions about term use—a difficulty of applyingproper terms to proper cases. ‘‘We are apt to call barbarous’’, he says in the

first paragraph, ‘‘whatever departs widely from our own taste and

apprehension: But soon find the epithet of reproach retorted on us.’’12 The

earliest uses of ‘‘barbarous’’ referred to language and originally meant not in

the ‘‘pure’’ classical languages.13 Thus this first paragraph contains a double

Humean Moral Knowledge 583


linguistic reference: we accuse others of barbarism—using terms badly—for

using approving language to refer to something we find distasteful, but after

noticing that others feel as strongly about their own taste as we do ours, we

become unsure if we are using this epithet itself correctly.

Hume’s references to language become more explicit in the next

paragraph. Aesthetic sentiments differ, even when ‘‘general discourse is

the same.’’ ‘‘There are certain terms in every language, which import blame,and others praise; and all men, who use the same tongue, must agree in their

application of them.’’ Praise terms include ‘‘elegance, propriety, simplicity,

spirit in writing;’’ on the other hand, we have ‘‘fustian, affectation, coldness,

and a false brilliancy’’ (ST, 227).

These opening paragraphs taxonomize enquiries according to the degree

to which apparent consensus is more or less genuine. When Hume says that

all who use the same tongue ‘‘agree in their application’’ of aesthetic terms,

he means not that they agree on which objects to apply them to, but thatthey agree that these terms convey approbation or disapprobation. ‘‘But

when critics come to particulars,’’ he says, ‘‘… it is found, that they had

affixed a very different meaning to their expressions.’’ In matters of

‘‘opinion and science,’’ however, people probably agree on more than initial

impressions suggest. Finally, in ethics, he finds a problem analogous to the

one in aesthetics.

It would be difficult not to read Hume as referring to himself when he says,

‘‘Those who found morality on sentiment, more than on reason, are inclinedto … maintain, that, in all questions, which regard conduct and manners, the

difference among men is really greater than at first sight it appears’’ (ST, 227–

228). The ensuing discussion, however, is puzzling in many respects. After

noting that all writers praise the same virtues (justice, magnanimity, veracity,

etc.), he allows that the view that credits ‘‘plain reason’’ for this consensus is

‘‘satisfactory’’ to the extent that the consensus is genuine (ST, 228). This

concession seems odd, given Hume’s sentiment-based ethics. We may resolve

this puzzle by keeping in mind Hume’s discussion of ‘‘that reason which isable to oppose our passion, and which we have found to be nothing but a

general calm determination of the passions, founded on some distant view or

reflection’’ (T, 3.3.1.18). In an essay, Hume would have no cause to press his

point about the basis of morality in sentiments as opposed to reason,

especially when he can apparently concede a point to the other side without

misleading careful readers of his strictly philosophical work. ‘‘Reason’’ in this

sense could explain how people in different ages praise the same virtues;

indeed, Hume appeals to such reason to explain how this happens through thegeneral point of view.14

Hume explains, however, that much of this agreement can be imaginary in

ethics as in aesthetics due to the ‘‘very nature of language.’’ ‘‘The word

virtue, with its equivalent in every tongue, implies praise; as that of vice does

blame: And no one, without the most obvious and grossest impropriety,



could affix reproach to a term, which in general acceptation is understood in a

good sense …’’ (ST, 228). The ‘‘impropriety’’ here must be semantic rather

than moral. In a reference to the Koran that follows this passage, he says that

‘‘it would have argued the greatest ignorance, not of morals, but of language’’

to have used the ‘‘ARABIC words, which correspond to the ENGLISH, equity,

justice, temperance, meekness, charity’’ in a non-praiseworthy sense (ST,

229). But again, this level of agreement does not reflect true unanimity:Homer and Fenelon portray different conceptions of heroism and prudence.15

The former ‘‘intermixes a much greater degree of ferocity’’ in heroism and

‘‘cunning and fraud’’ in prudence than the latter (ST, 228). And Mohammad,

Hume says, ‘‘bestows praise on such instances of treachery, inhumanity,

cruelty, revenge, bigotry, as are utterly incompatible with civilized society’’

(ST, 229).

What is most puzzling is that at the end of the next paragraph, Hume

seems to take it all back:

The merit of delivering true general precepts in ethics is indeed very

small. Whoever recommends any moral virtues, really does no more

than is implied in the terms themselves. That people, who invented the

word charity, and used it in a good sense, inculcated more clearly and

much more efficaciously, the precept, be charitable, than any

pretended legislator or prophet, who should insert such a maxim in

his writings. Of all expressions, those, which together with their othermeaning, imply a degree either of blame or approbation, are the least

liable to be perverted or mistaken. (229)

How can Hume say that these terms are the ‘‘least liable to be perverted or

mistaken’’, when he has just explained that they can refer to all manner of

vicious behaviour and traits? Is it not perverse to refer to fraud as ‘‘prudence’’

or to call bigotry ‘‘charity’’? We must, it seems, interpret this claim as we did

the earlier assertion that ‘‘all men, who use the same tongue, must agree in theapplication’’ of certain aesthetic terms. The final sentence of this passage

reiterates the first: what we might call the ‘‘evaluative’’ sense of these terms

cannot be mistaken. Therefore, moralists get little credit for offering advice

like, ‘‘It is good to be just.’’ Those who use language with facility cannot utter

sentences such as, ‘‘Saving those children was heroic, but we won’t hold that

against him’’, unless they are making an odd joke. Apparent counter-

examples seem parasitic on this general understanding. Suppose Scorsese

grins and says, ‘‘Thank you’’, in response to ‘‘That was just cruel.’’ Werecognize that the grin reflects evil delight, because we know that such delight

arises partly from resistance to general disapproval of cruelty.

The mention of an evaluative sense may make it seem that these terms

cannot refer to thick concepts. ‘‘A concept of this sort’’, Williams says,

‘‘may be rightly or wrongly applied, and people who have acquired it can



agree that it applies or fails to apply in some new situation.’’ Ambiguous

cases do not imply that any use of the term is valid: ‘‘As with other concepts

that are not totally precise, marginal disagreements can indeed help to show

how their use is controlled by the facts.’’16 Thus, the terms are world-guided.

‘‘If a concept of this kind applies,’’ moreover, ‘‘this often provides someone

with a reason for action, though that reason need not be a decisive one and

may be outweighed by other reasons ….’’17 So they are also action-guiding.But because these concepts are inextricably both world-guided and action-

guiding, they undermine the fact-value distinction. Therefore, Hume’s

suggestion that the evaluative sense of these terms might come apart from

what we might call their descriptive sense seems inconsistent with Williams’s

conception of these terms, although they seem to be the kind of terms

Williams calls ‘‘thick’’. (Their examples even overlap in treachery).18

We have here two related objections. First, if the descriptive and the

evaluative senses of Hume’s terms are separable, then it seems that these termsdo not constitute the union of fact and value that Williams appeals to when he

argues that facility with thick moral language can constitute mitigated moral

knowledge. Second, if the evaluative rather than the descriptive sense of such

terms is stable, then it seems that the concepts are not world-guided after all,

because evaluative stability will not help us distinguish between proper and

improper uses of the terms. Let us consider each objection in turn.

With regard to the first objection, Williams’s primary target is a

prescriptivism that sees the descriptive as the stable element of the term. Onthis view, the concept ‘‘is guided round the world by its descriptive content,

but has a prescriptive flag attached to it. It is the first feature that allows it to

be world-guided, while the second makes it action-guiding.’’ Accordingly,

‘‘for any concept of this sort, you could produce another that picked out just

the same features of the world but worked simply as a descriptive concept,

lacking any prescriptive or evaluative force.’’19 One could, it is claimed,

specify the descriptive meaning of a term like ‘‘brutality’’ yet leave open the

question, ‘‘But is brutality good or bad?’’20 The prescriptive or evaluativeelements of such terms depend on the logical properties of thinner terms (like

‘‘good’’ or ‘‘right’’,) which generate their moral force.21

Note, however, that Hume does not suggest that the evaluative sense of

the thick terms is unstable. The sense of approbation or disapprobation

carried by these terms is their ‘‘least liable to be perverted or mistaken’’

aspect, as I have argued. Hume’s worry in ‘‘Of the Standard of Taste’’ is not

that people will continue to call acts of self-giving love ‘‘charity’’ yet do so

with a negative sense. It is rather that people will continue to use ‘‘charity’’or ‘‘charitable’’ in a positive sense but apply it to different acts or character

traits. The variation that makes agreement in morals seem greater than it is

derives from changes in the descriptive, not evaluative, sense of thick terms.

The prescriptivist division of fact and value threatens the viability of

moral knowledge because it houses the moral element of such terms in their



evaluative sense but construes this sense as not world-guided. Linguistic

properties of the moral may bind users of moral language to apply

evaluative terms in a certain way, but not because the facts dictate this

usage. Because Hume argues that the use of thick moral terms can vary, he

does raise a problem for the attempt to ground moral knowledge in the

world-guidedness of such terms, which I will address later. But it is not the

problem that is Williams’s concern.Williams’s target is the notion that ‘‘what governs the application of the

concept to the world is the descriptive element and that the evaluative

interest of the concept plays no part in this.’’22 He insists that thick

concepts’ evaluative sense determines their linguistic role as well, and that

we will not understand their meaning or application without appreciating

this sense. Hume’s remarks in ‘‘Of the Standard of Taste’’ do not contradict

this point; indeed, they support it.23 His assertion that thick terms imply

praise or blame suggests that the evaluative sense of such terms is essentialfor their function in human language.

The second objection claims that evaluative stability cannot help establish

the world-guidedness of thick concepts, because evaluative sense does not

determine which are the proper and which the improper uses of thick terms.

It should be evident now that this objection begs the important question. We

will only find a stable evaluative element irrelevant to deciding how a term is

applied if we believe that the evaluative sense does no work in picking out

how the term functions in our language. If we are trying to decide whether itis proper to call a particular act ‘‘heroic’’, or to deem a particular character

trait ‘‘arrogant’’, our intention to praise the former and condemn the latter

is not irrelevant to the decision. In the next section, I give several examples

that show how the evaluative function of these terms can indeed help us

distinguish between proper and improper applications of them.24

These considerations suggest that Humean thick moral terms may be

world-guided inasmuch as at least one sense of those terms—the evaluative

sense—is stable in such a way that users of the language can agree on whento apply these terms. When new users to a language use approving moral

terms to express disapprobation or disapproving moral terms to express

approval, they misapply those terms to the moral world they occupy. Hume

identifies a more problematic (because more likely) misapplication

difficulty, concerning application of the terms’ descriptive sense. If the

ability to apply thick terms correctly is to count as Humean moral

knowledge, we must address this descriptive problem: how might we decide

which is the true heroism—Homer’s or Fenelon’s? The world-guidedness ofthick concepts, and therefore ascriptions of moral knowledge, require the

ability to make such distinctions. Developing a Humean account of such

discernment is the work of the next section.25

What about the other characteristic of thick ethical terms: their reason-

giving force or action-guidingness? Even without Hume’s insistence, in the



Treatise and second Enquiry, on moral distinctions’ motivating force, ‘‘Of

the Standard of Taste’’ provides evidence of this action-guidingness.

Consider his claim that those ‘‘who invented the word charity, and used it

in a good sense, inculcated more clearly and much more efficaciously, the

precept, be charitable, than any pretended legislator or prophet ….’’ To say

that designating certain acts or traits as falling under a particular ethical

description like ‘‘charitable’’ efficaciously inculcates a moral precept isradical but not implausible. This claim suggests that the mere denomination

gives people a reason to perform these acts or encourage these traits.

Though the reason may be overridden, the general motivating force of

moral distinctions means that it is a reason to be reckoned with. Suppose

that I accuse you of craven behaviour. The designation of your behaviour as

craven carries with it a primary characteristic of a reason for action: if you

choose to continue behaving in this way, I will expect some response to my

accusation. I cannot force you to give me such a response; it might even besilly to demand one. But I will be surprised if you fail to offer one, because I

think I have given you a reason to stop.

II. The discerning moral critic

The conception of moral knowledge I am attempting to develop claims that

facility with thick ethical terms constitutes such knowledge: language users

who appropriately apply these terms possess moral knowledge insofar as theterms denote discernable features of the moral world. Various aspects of

experience constitute this world, but those with moral knowledge need not

access some irreducibly other realm of metaphysically necessary ‘‘moral

facts’’. The problem for this theory that Hume identifies in ‘‘Of the Standard

of Taste’’ is that people disagree about the proper application of these terms

to specific behaviours and traits. Unless we can distinguish between valid

and invalid application of these terms, it is unclear how their use could

evince moral knowledge in particular language users.Hume responds to the analogous problem in aesthetics by articulating the

standard of taste as the joint verdict of true judges. The absurdity of

proclaiming all artists of equal genius moves him to seek such a standard.

(Can Ogilby be equal to Milton? Michael Bolton to Mozart?) Human nature

responds to certain objects and characteristics with sentiments of aesthetic

approval. The ‘‘rules of composition’’, he says, are ‘‘general observations,

concerning what has been universally found to please in all countries and in

all ages’’ (ST, 231). If features of a composition are ‘‘found to please, theycannot be faults …’’ (ST, 232). In the Treatise, he writes similarly about

morals: ‘‘The distinction of moral good and evil is founded on the pleasure

or pain which results from the view of any sentiment or character; and, as

that pleasure or pain cannot be unknown to the person who feels it, it

follows, that there is just so much vice or virtue in any character as every one



places in it, and that it is impossible in this particular we can ever be

mistaken’’ (T, 3.2.8.8). It seems as if Hume thinks we can never have

grounds for questioning moral judgment, but he makes this qualification in

a footnote: ‘‘This proposition must hold strictly true with regard to every

quality that is determined merely by sentiment. In what sense we can talk

either of a right or a wrong taste in morals, eloquence, or beauty, shall be

considered afterwards. In the meantime it may be observed, that there issuch an uniformity in the general sentiments of mankind, as to render such

questions of but small importance’’ (T, 3.2.8.8.fn 80).

Despite this confidence in the uniformity of humankind’s sentiments,

Hume clearly considered ‘‘such questions’’ of philosophical, if not practical,

import. He returns to them in both ‘‘Of the Standard of Taste’’ and in ‘‘A

Dialogue’’. In the Treatise footnote, he acknowledges that particular moral

judges might be mistaken. (Perhaps they fail to perceive relevant aspects of

the situation or character, or perhaps self-interest overrides the moralsentiment they would have in response to some trait; these failures would

not be ‘‘determined merely by sentiment’’.) And in discussing the point of

view from which we make moral judgments, he addresses the question of

what makes a moral judgment reasonable or unreasonable, just or unjust. In

the Treatise, Hume claims that we judge characters by sympathizing with

the effects that traits tend to have on their possessor and those ‘‘who have a

connexion with him’’, not the trait’s actual effects or its effects on ourselves

and those we love (T, 3.3.1.30). In the Enquiry, Hume emphasizes theimportance of reasoning in moral judgment26 and notes that, because of

differences in temper, ‘‘great superiority is observable in one man over the

other’’ in ‘‘a delicate feeling of all moral distinctions’’ (EPM, 5.39).27 He

then says, however, that ‘‘none are so entirely indifferent to the interest of

their fellow-creatures as to perceive no distinctions of moral good and evil’’.

If some people are more morally discerning than others, and we are faced

with conflicting applications of thick terms, a better moral judge might

help us discern which applications are appropriate. Williams, in a laterdevelopment of the ideas in Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, suggests

such a model for the transmission of moral knowledge:

An all-round advisor … who is prepared to help you to decide what is

the best thing to do period, may well contribute some ethical insight to

this, and that insight may take the form of certain kinds of knowledge

under ethical concepts—that a certain course of action would be

cowardly, for instance, or would count as a betrayal, or would notreally be kind, and contributions of this kind can offer the person who

is being advised a genuine discovery.28

Again, Williams is pessimistic about extending these kinds of advisor-

knowledge to support a broad-spectrum cognitivism. But for our purposes,



the question is: can we offer any compelling description of the Humean

moral judge?

Hume’s criteria for the good aesthetic judge, I submit, are good starting

points for such a description. The significant differences between aesthetic

and moral judgment mean that some of the characteristics of the good

aesthetic judge will be unnecessary for the good moral judge and vice

versa.29 Nonetheless, some overlap between the criteria should not besurprising, especially if one finds plausible, as I do, Hume’s suggestion that

cultivation of aesthetic taste contributes to cultivation of moral character.30

Hume summarizes the characteristics of the ‘‘true judge in the finer arts’’

as ‘‘[s]trong sense, united to delicate sentiment, improved by practice,

perfected by comparison, and cleared of all prejudice’’. The ‘‘joint verdict of

such,’’ he says, ‘‘is the true standard of taste and beauty’’ (ST, 241). I will

consider the relevant characteristics in the order in which Hume presents

them, beginning with delicate sentiment or, as he initially characterizes it,delicacy of imagination.31 The delicate critic can perceive the minute

presence of those qualities that all generally agree make some particular

thing an excellent instance of its kind. Appropriately, he chooses a wine-

tasting example, but one from Don Quixote (so, he says, ‘‘not to draw our

philosophy from too profound a source’’ (ST, 234)). Two men are asked to

taste an excellent vintage of wine. Though both admit the wine’s quality, one

claims that it smacks slightly of iron, and the other finds a slight leather

flavour. The observers roundly abuse them, until they find a key with aleather thong at the bottom of the container.

The men qualify as excellent judges not because they deprecate qualities

that others would love. (Presumably, few people like leather or iron-tasting

wine.) They simply notice and respond to those qualities when other people

do not. Acknowledged models of excellence help us to formulate general

principles of aesthetics, but such principles do not depend on there being

actual cases of extremely beautiful or extremely ugly artistic performances.

It would be more difficult to mortify the bad critic without such examples,but not impossible:

But when we show him an avowed principle of art; when we illustrate

this principle by examples, whose operation, from his own particular

taste, he acknowledges to be conformable to the principle; when we

prove, that the same principle may be applied to the present case,

where he did not perceive or feel its influence: He must conclude, upon

the whole, that the fault lies in himself, and that he wants the delicacy,which is requisite to make him sensible of every beauty and every

blemish, in any composition or discourse (ST, 236).32

What analogous kind of delicacy would help us distinguish between better

and worse moral judges, or between those who properly apply thick moral



terms and those who do not? A literary example might prove illuminating.

In Pride and Prejudice, numerous sources (including the local townspeople)

warn Elizabeth Bennet of Georgiana Darcy’s vicious pride. Elizabeth

expects, upon meeting her, a young woman contemptuous of those beneath

her in rank and circumstance. Instead, ‘‘the observation of a very few

minutes convinced her, that she was only exceedingly shy.’’33 Jane Austen

does not say precisely how Elizabeth discerns this shyness; she mentionsMiss Darcy’s unwillingness to speak, that ‘‘there was sense and good

humour in her face,’’ and that ‘‘her manners were perfectly unassuming and

gentle.’’34 Georgiana’s reticence must contribute to her reputation for

conceit, but Elizabeth sees this for what it is.35 Elizabeth notices signs that

others miss: perhaps a reluctance to raise the eyes, a tone of voice, or a

willingness to defer to others’ judgment. Anyone, presumably, who

recognized these features would not mistakenly label Miss Darcy ‘‘proud’’,

but one who lacked delicacy would miss them because of their subtlety. Hermost salient characteristic is a refusal to talk. Without noticing the other

features, then, most people assume she is proud.

This example shows how moral perception might be more or less delicate

and illustrates Hume’s point that the good judge responds to features

approvable by all. Given the opportunity, Elizabeth could make a case that

Georgiana is not proud, and reasonable townspeople would admit that

Georgiana’s exhibiting the relevant behaviours would support Elizabeth’s

view. Hume’s various references to the ‘‘sound state of the organ’’ suggest thatsome people may, by nature, possess less aesthetic delicacy than others (ST,

234).36 That he is willing to allow for innate deficiency in moral judgment is

questionable, although he suggests that superstitious religion, for example,

can damage capacities for moral judgment.37 And, as noted above, in the

Enquiry he allows for differences in delicacy with regard to moral distinctions.

Surely, whether by nature or nurture, some people possess the kind of delicate

sensibility that Elizabeth exhibits and others do not.

On the other hand, this example may suggest that delicacy of sentiment isimmaterial to the problem at hand, which is not that people might agree

about what features make a particular ethical term apply but fail to perceive

those features in a specific case. The problem arises because people might

disagree over the application criteria of a thick term. Take, for example,

proper pride as opposed to vicious pride. Suppose I say that people who

publicly glory in athletic prowess are arrogant, and you insist that they

exemplify the honesty and self-knowledge that constitutes proper pride. We

disagree not because you see something I do not or vice versa. We disagreeabout the application criteria of the terms.

It turns out, however, that delicacy of sentiment is relevant to this

particular concern. Hume claims that moral judgment involves imagining

from a certain point of view the effects that a character trait tends to have

on its possessor or others and then sympathizing with those effects. Thus,



determining which of similar character traits are virtuous or vicious requires

consideration of the precise kinds of effects those traits may have. Hume is

careful, for instance, when discussing pride, to distinguish between various

kinds of pride and their associated effects. He famously praises ‘‘a well-

regulated pride, which secretly animates our conduct, without breaking out

into such indecent expressions of vanity, as may offend the vanity of others’’

(T, 3.3.2.13). We approve of this pride because of sympathy with itsusefulness and agreeableness for its possessor. It is useful only when

regulated by prudence but always agreeable, as it ‘‘conveys an elevated and

sublime sensation to the person, who is actuated by it …’’ (T, 3.3.2.14). Now

Hume has something to explain. Consider another example: the pompous

academic, (call him Jacques.) He is always giving his vita, turns all

conversations into recitations of his accomplishments, and greets you at

conferences with stories of how much Professor Famous Person admired his

argument or paper or book. Hume must explain why we find this characterinsufferable, given that the pompous academic derives such pleasure from

his self-esteem.

Hume’s explanation is not flattering: ‘‘any expression of pride and

haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our own pride,

and leads us by sympathy into a comparison, which causes the disagreeable

passion of humility’’ (T, 3.3.2.17). Even if Jacques has never been haughty

to us in particular, we disapprove ‘‘from a sympathy with others, and from

the reflection, that such a character is highly displeasing and odious to everyone, who converses or has any intercourse with the person possest of it’’ (T,

3.3.2.17).

Note that this kind of judgment, involving sympathy with both the

possessor of the trait and those likely to be affected by it, requires strong

delicacy of sentiment. Moreover, this delicacy determines when we have a

case of proper pride as opposed to arrogance, not just in the sense of

deciding when someone’s character trait satisfies agreed-upon criteria, but

also in the sense of determining the proper criteria. Hume’s idea that thecritic should be able to defend her views to someone without her

discernment may be helpful. Suppose the good moral judge—call her

Elizabeth—insists that Jacques is indeed arrogant and thus possesses a vice.

Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, insists that Jacques is merely self-assured

and possesses proper pride. Let us stipulate that Jacques’s esteem for himself

is merited; he is talented and well-respected in his field. Elizabeth and

Fitzwilliam both perceive this merit and believe in the value of an honest

perusal of one’s own character, (Elizabeth does not believe that good peoplethink less of themselves than they deserve.) Elizabeth, however, insists that

Jacques’s tendency to public self-promotion is insensitive to others’ feelings

and beneath one of superior academic achievement; Fitzwilliam counters

that it animates Jacques’s work by providing him with pleasant reinforce-

ment for his accomplishments, informs Jacques’s colleagues of his



accomplishments (which is wise in a competitive work environment), and

inspires those colleagues to strive for excellence as well.38

If Elizabeth’s moral discernment is superior to Jacques’s, then she may

possess more delicacy, enabling her to see, for instance, the dejection in

Jacques’s peers after one of his bragging sessions. Or perhaps, though

Jacques clearly derives pleasure from regaling his company with tales of his

achievements, she imaginatively perceives a calmer, more inspiring, andmore lasting pleasure that he might receive from caring more about his

colleagues’ work and keeping his own accomplishments to himself. The

results of her reflection might extend beyond Jacques’s case. If she can

plausibly claim that these more hidden negative effects of traits like

Jacques’s, though only discernable through delicacy of taste, are commonly

caused by a kind of self-esteem that manifests itself in public pronounce-

ments, she gives warrant for the view that ‘‘proper pride’’, which is a virtue,

does not include these tendencies. Thus, her heightened delicacy of taste,while appealing to features of character that other moral judges (all else

being equal) would approve equally could they see them, gives her reasons

for applying a thick term in a particular way that others do not have as long

as they fail to perceive those features. Note also that her warrant for

applying the terms as she does depends on the stable evaluative meaning of

the thick terms: braggarts do not possess proper pride (an approbation)

because their trait’s negative effects lead the discerning judge, through

sympathy, to condemn that trait as vicious.39

After explaining the importance of delicacy of taste, Hume argues that the

good judge’s delicacy will be ‘‘improved by practice’’ and ‘‘perfected by

comparison’’. These two characteristics of good aesthetic judges in part

explain how one hones the first characteristic (delicacy) but are interesting in

themselves as well. Hume details what improvements in critical ability come

from each kind of training. First, ‘‘practice in a particular art, and the

frequent contemplation of a particular species of beauty’’ enables the judge

to be more confident in his general judgment of a work’s beauty and betteridentify what features of the work contribute to its aesthetic success or

failure. ‘‘He not only’’, Hume says, ‘‘perceives the beauties and defects of

each part, but marks the distinguishing species of each quality, and assigns it

suitable praise or blame’’ (ST, 237).

In addition to studying many examples of, for example, abstract

expressionist paintings, the critic should repeatedly scrutinize a particular

work, like Jackson Pollock’s Convergence. This kind of practice prevents

misjudgments arising from two sources of confusion: the ‘‘flutter or hurry ofthought which attends the first perusal of any piece’’ and the pleasing

impression that might arise from a quick look at ‘‘florid’’ artwork appealing

to a childlike fascination with shiny things (ST, 238). By examining the same

piece at different times under different conditions, the judge can make more

precise distinctions. When she first encounters a work, ‘‘[t]he several



perfections and defects seem wrapped up in a species of confusion, and

present themselves indistinctly to the imagination’’ (ST, 238).

Moreover, one must compare ‘‘several species and degrees of excellence’’

to avoid mistakes in judgment arising from not having experienced anything

higher than what appeals to base sensibility. ‘‘By comparison alone’’, Hume

says, ‘‘we fix the epithets of praise or blame, and learn how to assign the due

degree of each’’ (ST, 238).Each of these benefits of aesthetic practice has corollary benefits for

improving our application of thick ethical terms. Take, for example, the

virtue of temperance, conceived as the appropriate moderation of desires for

bodily goods. Consider first the benefits of comparison for discerning how

to apply this term. One’s upbringing undoubtedly has a strong, but not

necessarily predictable, effect on one’s sensibilities here. A child reared by a

father whose extreme alcohol consumption make him an abusive parent

may grow to see a level of drinking that is still excessive as temperate,because it is less excessive than her father’s or does not lead to physical

abuse. Or she may decide that drinking is inherently evil and that

temperance requires complete abstinence from alcohol. On the other hand,

a child reared in a teetotalling home may adopt her parents’ standards and

see any drinking as intemperance, or a rebellious spirit may make her find

absurd the suggestion that one has any obligation to moderate alcohol

consumption.

All of these over-reactions demonstrate how lack of comparison couldcorrupt our application of thick ethical terms. What we deem temperate

depends to a large degree on our observations about what kind of bodily

desires humans can resist, and what we see as virtuous in general depends on

the limits and possibilities that we find in our observations of human

behaviour. If we think, for instance, that people have no control over sexual

appetites, we will not recommend even occasional abstinence as virtuous,

just as we do not suggest that giving up eating for months at a time is

virtuous. More realistically, people may believe that a middling level ofdecency is virtuous, because they have never seen anyone strive for anything

higher and therefore believe it to be impossible for human nature to do so.

Comparison of people from different times and cultures could correct this

tendency to indulgent ethical evaluations.

We might see studies of particular character traits as analogous to

practice in a particular art, or repeated survey of a particular species of

beauty. Take, for example, solicitude, where this term refers to the virtue of

being properly concerned for those in distress and disposed to take action toameliorate that distress insofar as doing so is in one’s power. This virtue

manifests itself in a number of ways: attempts to comfort those who are

wounded, efforts to think constructively about ways to tend those wounds,

anger at those responsible for the suffering, and respect for the importance

of the sufferer’s making some effort to help herself as much as possible



under the circumstances. At an early stage of moral education, we may see

any gestures of concern or efforts to help as signalling the virtue of

solicitude. As we gain practice in observing varieties of related traits,

however, we learn to recognize the degree to which these different aspects of

solicitude contribute to someone’s possessing this virtue. The sympathy that

proved important in training delicacy of taste may help us become better

able to judge which of these aspects is most important to the virtue. Perhaps,for example, comforting the sufferer is more crucial to the virtue than

righteous indignation. Observing different instances of this trait would teach

us ways that these aspects of the trait tend towards the good of those who

possess the trait and others affected by it.

Repeated examination of one particular instance of a trait, finally, might

help us decide when to apply the thick term describing this trait in other

cases. Hume’s claim that this kind of practice helps us overcome mistakes

due to florid expressions of beauty is suggestive. Consider, for instance, howinstructive repeated observation of someone with a scatological sense of

humour would be for determining the proper application of the term ‘‘wit’’.

Even here, we have the potential for increased ethical knowledge.40

The last characteristic of the true aesthetic judge that Hume discusses is

good sense, which qualifies one ‘‘to discern the beauties of design and

reasoning, which are the highest and most excellent’’ (ST, 241). Here he strives

to show the importance of reason to the operation of our essentially passional

taste. Reason enables the true judge to discern the relations between the partsof a work of art as well as evaluate how well the work is adapted to its

intended end or purpose. Among the relations that the good judge discerns

are the ‘‘chain of propositions and reasonings’’ that constitute ‘‘every kind of

composition’’ insofar as fictional persons must be portrayed as acting in ways

befitting their character and circumstances (ST, 240). Furthermore, ‘‘the same

excellence of faculties which contributes to the improvement of reason, the

same clearness of conception, the same exactness of distinction, the same

vivacity of apprehension, are essential to the operations of true taste, and areits infallible concomitants’’ (ST, 240–241).

Hume thus assigns reason an expansive role in aesthetic judgment. I will

focus, however, on a single point about reason’s analogous role in moral

judgment, concerning inferences about how well some work or act is

adapted to its purpose. Because Hume insists that we judge acts only as

‘‘signs or indications of certain principles in the mind and temper’’, moral

judgment requires causal inferences about the relations between motive and

act (T, 3.2.1.2). Acts themselves are too ephemeral to be proper objects ofmoral judgment. In Hume’s words, ‘‘Actions themselves, not proceeding

from any constant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or

humility; and consequently are never consider’d in morality’’ (T, 3.3.1.4).

For the natural virtues, at least, when we praise or blame any particular act,

‘‘we always suppose, that one in that situation shou’d be influenc’d by the



proper motive of that action, and we esteem it vicious in him to be regardless

of it’’ (T, 3.2.1.3).41 To make specific moral judgments, then, the spectator

must infer the intention of the agent who performed the act, as well as the

relation between that intention and the agent’s character.42 In particular,

the moral judge wants to know whether an act that appears praiseworthy,

for example, reflects the appropriate natural motive.

Consider, for instance, the virtue of complaisance.43 The OED offers in itsfirst definition of complaisance: the ‘‘habit of making oneself agreeable;

desire and care to please; compliance with, or deference to, the wishes of

others …’’ (2nd ed). How might we distinguish acts reflecting these

admirable impulses from those reflecting sinister motives of flattery? It

may seem relatively easy to do so; flattery, we might say, involves deception.

It is false praise as opposed to genuine expression of admiration. Such

deception is difficult to conceal unless one is a particularly skilled flatterer.

The object of the person doling out the praise is, however, at least asimportant if not more so than the presence of deception. Is someone who

compliments a friend on an abysmal performance to spare the friend’s

feelings properly called a ‘‘flatterer’’? Perhaps, but we might also identify

this error (if it is one) with a less disapproving term. How about someone

whose praise is always veracious but also carefully tailored to manipulate

others for the service of her own ends? (She makes sure to say anything

complimentary she can think of to her boss, for instance, but spends no

mental energy seeking opportunities to praise those who work for her.)These examples show that the ends of true complaisance are different

from and indeed incompatible with the ends of flattery. The virtuously

complaisant person pleases others because she wants to further their ends;

she shows deference to those ends and enjoys seeing others pleased. The

flatterer, however, pleases others for the sake of achieving her own private

ends and would disregard the purposes of others to achieve her own.

Now consider again the borderline case of the complimentary friend who

lies to spare feelings. If I think that such a lie is an excusable or evenappropriate component of virtuous complaisance, and you insist that any

dishonesty implicates the friend as a vicious flatterer, we disagree over the

application criteria of thick terms. One possible way to adjudicate this

dispute would be to appeal to the natural motives of the virtue of

complaisance and discuss whether or not lying to a friend tends to serve

those motives. This kind of reflection calls for the kind of causal reasoning

that Hume insists that the good judge must possess. We need not assume

that you and I will be able to settle our dispute to everyone’s satisfaction, oreven that an obvious and distinct judgment will be available. The possibility

that it will not, I take it, is one of the reasons why Hume appeals to the

judgment of people for standards of taste, as opposed to setting out a list of

rules anyone could follow. But we will have some criteria to appeal to,

something over which to dispute rationally. Just as the good aesthetic judge



must discern whether a work is suited to its particular end or purpose, a

good moral judge must discern whether a particular tendency is suited to the

ends of virtue.

III. Conclusion

My aims here have been modest. I do not claim that training moral judgeswith the characteristics I describe here can resolve all disputes over the

application criteria of thick ethical terms. I only claim that judges with these

traits have more warrant for their moral judgments than those without these

traits. Practiced judges with delicacy of taste and good sense have reasons

for insisting that heroism is never ferocious and prudence never dishonest.

These reasons are not in principle unavailable to other moral judges, but

failures of capacity or training may preclude other judges’ seeing what the

good moral judge sees. The verdicts of good moral judges determinethe world-guidedness of ethical terms insofar as they tell us what features of

the moral world must be present for a particular thick term to apply. A

space is thereby opened between full consensus on how thick terms should

be applied and complete scepticism about the possibility of our having the

kind of moral knowledge had by those who properly use such terms. In that

space, even discerning moral judges may disagree: Hume sets the standard

of taste as the ‘‘joint verdict’’ of good judges, I think, because in such

complex matters, having a standard does not imply always knowingprecisely when we are correctly following the standard. As Williams says,

‘‘marginal disagreements can indeed help to show how’’ a term’s use ‘‘is

controlled by the facts.’’ In times of moral confusion, we might appeal to

discerning moral counsellors to help us to decide difficult cases, and

although our counsellors may not immediately agree among themselves,

they have reason to hope that discussion between them may lead to greater

consensus. The hope here is not that we might eliminate all moral

disagreement but that we might be able to account for the differencesbetween better and worse use of moral language.

One might wonder why those without the characteristics of good moral

judges would or should care about the good judges’ assessment. If

Fitzwilliam cannot see that Jacques is a braggart rather than properly

prideful, how could Elizabeth’s assessment motivate him to resist developing

Jacques’s trait, rear his children to keep their pride to themselves, or even

disapprove of Jacques himself? And if her assessment cannot provide such

motivation, then how is this kind of ethical knowledge reason-giving in aHumean sense at all, given Hume’s repeated insistence on the motivating

power of moral distinctions?

Hume’s Treatise account of one way in which moral distinctions motivate

may seem to exacerbate the problem: we catch others’ approbation or

disapprobation through the working of sympathy, and these pleasures and



pains transform into pride or humility.44 Because virtue is therefore pleasant

and vice painful, this complex interaction provides motives to pursue the

former and avoid the latter. But these motives rise to the level of obligations

at least in part because we cannot avoid them simply by changing the

company we keep. These are inescapable motives. The fabric of Hume’s

moral society seems to require almost ubiquitous intercourse between agent

and spectator, where the spectator always provides at least a secondarymotive to virtue.

These issues are important, but I do not have space to address them fully

here. That the criteria to which the discerning moral judge appeals are in

principle available to everyone may be of some help, however. Elizabeth’s

standards are not foreign to Fitzwilliam; she is simply a more accomplished

observer of human nature and therefore has evidence that he does not have.

We would all prefer, it seems, not to apply our own standards irrationally.

As Hume says, no one bears ‘‘patiently the imputation of ignorance andstupidity’’ (EPM, 6.16). But to explain why the moral verdicts of more

discerning judges would motivate me, we need not appeal to the fear of

appearing foolish, which may seem too external to moral concerns to count

as moral motivation. Nor need we make too much of a desire for rational

consistency, which might seem to conflict both with Hume’s anti-

rationalism and his philosophical anthropology.

If we are continually catching others’ sentiments and therefore judgments,

we will of course have some initially conflicting opinions. Which of thesebecomes our own, however, is not necessarily a straightforward function of

which happens to be the more prevalent opinion. A discerning observer who

can articulate the bases for her judgments in terms of shared standards will

inspire admiration, and, Hume says, such people are more likely to influence

us: ‘‘The judgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as

that of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own

judgment’’ (T, 2.1.11.11).45 Therefore, someone who can explain her moral

judgments will have more influence than a crowd of facile observers.Because of sympathy, this influence results in others’ adopting the good

judge’s ethical assessments, which then have their own motivating force.

This account does imply that moral progress may require conversation with

those more advanced than we, and it also suggests that some people—deaf

to or unimpressed with the good judge—will not feel the force of some

moral judgments. Both of these results, I think, are plausible and consistent

with Hume’s ethics.46

Clearly, the discerning judgment I am describing requires a great deal ofreflection, but it is not the kind of reflection that Williams believes will

destroy the moral knowledge had by those who are masters of their

community’s moral language. It does not involve reflection about whether a

common ethical theory could justify using our thick terms as opposed to any

other terms. Instead, it involves reflection beginning from where we are, in



our little corner of the moral universe, which attempts to clarify the moral

discourse that we have. The degree to which we share Hume’s optimism

about the universality of human nature or are willing to supplement Hume’s

confidence about our common moral sentiments with theories of human

nature that go beyond Hume’s oblique references to the ‘‘sound state of the

organ’’ will determine, I suspect, the degree to which we are optimistic about

how far such reflection will take us.47

Notes

1. Hume, D. [1739–1740] (2002) A Treatise of Human Nature. Edited by David Fate Norton

and Mary J. Norton (Oxford: Oxford University Press) 3.1.2.1; and Hume, D. [1748] (1999)

An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Tom L. Beauchamp (Oxford:

Oxford University Press) 12.33. Future references to the Treatise will be to this edition

and identified parenthetically in the text by ‘‘T’’ followed by book, chapter, section, and

paragraph numbers. Future references to the first Enquiry will be to this edition and

identified parenthetically as ‘‘EHU’’ followed by section and paragraph numbers.

2. Hume explains this strict sense of knowledge at T, 1.3.1.2 and 1.3.11.2. He uses

‘‘knowledge’’ in looser senses as well. See, for example, EHU, 12.3.6: ‘‘It is only

experience, which teaches us the nature and bounds of cause and effect, and enables us

to infer the existence of one object from that of another. Such is the foundation of moral

reasoning, which forms the greater part of human knowledge, and is the source of all

human action and behaviour.’’

3. Williams, B. (1985) Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy (Cambridge: Harvard University

Press), pp. 129 and 141.

4. Ibid., 129–130.

5. Ibid., 167.

6. See, for instance, Sayre-McCord, G. (1994) ‘‘On Why Hume’s General Point of View

Isn’t Ideal—and Shouldn’t Be’’, Social Philosophy and Policy 11, pp. 202–228 and

Mason, M. (2001) ‘‘Moral Prejudice and Aesthetic Deformity: Rereading Hume’s ‘Of

the Standard of Taste’’’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 59, pp. 59–71. For a

helpful general review of the contemporary literature on Hume’s aesthetics, see

Costelloe, T. M. (2004) ‘‘Hume’s Aesthetics: The Literature and Directions for

Research’’, Hume Studies 30, pp. 87–126.

7. Cf. Allan Gibbard’s claim that ‘‘with reasons and with thick description, when we ask

after the logic of a concept, we are in effect inquiring into agreement and disagreement

conditions’’ (2003) ‘‘Reasons Thin and Thick’’, The Journal of Philosophy 100, p. 289.

8. See Blackburn, S. (1992) ‘‘Through Thick and Thin’’, Aristotelian Society Supplementary

Volume 66, pp. 285–299 and Blackburn, S. (1998) Ruling Passions (Oxford: Clarendon)

pp. 101ff.

9. In the course of arguing for a related, ‘‘advisor model’’ of ethical knowledge, Williams

says that ‘‘the model does very little for the larger concerns of cognitivism. Cognitivism’s

question has often been expressed simply by asking whether there is any ethical

knowledge or not, but in fact it has typically been concerned with the hopes of resolving

the kinds of disagreement that separate from one another the local practices of advice

under shared ethical presuppositions’’ (1993) ‘‘Who Needs Ethical Knowledge?’’ in: A.

Phillips Griffiths (Ed.), Ethics, p. 208 (New York: Cambridge University Press). For a

partial defence of the claim that deployment of thick terms constitutes knowledge that

reflection may destroy, see Moore, A. W. (2003) ‘‘Williams on Ethics, Knowledge, and

Reflection’’, Philosophy 78, pp. 337–354. Even if one disagrees with Williams’s analysis



of moral knowledge, one could allow that judges with the characteristics I describe below

produce more justified moral judgments than others. I am grateful to an anonymous

reader for this suggestion.

10. See Dancy, J. (1995) ‘‘In Defense of Thick Concepts’’, Midwest Studies in Philosophy 20,

pp. 266ff.

11. In drawing from both the Treatise and the Enquiry to explain aspects of Hume’s moral

philosophy, I do not mean to imply that we can assume that these texts are entirely

consistent with one another, or with essays such as ‘‘The Standard of Taste’’. I do think,

however, that the psychological principles from the Treatise that I appeal to are

consistent with the later works and that Hume does not radically revise his views about

sympathy, for example, after the Treatise.

12. Hume, D. [1757] (1985) ‘‘Of the Standard of Taste’’, in: E. F. Miller (Ed.), Essays Moral,

Political, and Literary, p. 227 (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund). Hereafter, references to this

essay will be made parenthetically in the text as ‘‘ST’’.

13. See OED, 2nd ed., ‘‘barbarous’’, 1a.

14. See T, 3.3.1.18.

15. Cf. Hume, D. [1751] (2003) An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals. Edited by T.

L. Beauchamp (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 7.15. Future references to the second

Enquiry will be to this edition and identified parenthetically as ‘‘EPM’’ followed by

section and paragraph number.

16. Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, p. 141.

17. Ibid., p. 140.

18. Jacqueline Taylor briefly discusses the apparent thickness of Hume’s trait terms in

relation to the separability of their evaluative and descriptive senses in (2002) ‘‘Hume on

the Standard of Virtue’’, The Journal of Ethics, 6, pp. 59–60.


20. Such an interpretation of moral concepts grows out of and fits comfortably with a

Moorean open-question suspicion of ethical naturalism, where ‘‘naturalism’’ refers to

any attempt to define basic moral terms like ‘‘good’’.

21. As R. M. Hare puts it, ‘‘We say something prescriptive if and only if, for some act A,

some situation S and some person P, if P were to assent (orally) to what we say, and not,

in S, do A, he logically must be assenting insincerely’’ (1981) Moral Thinking (Oxford:

Oxford University Press), p. 21.


23. Hence Simon Blackburn’s criticism of Hume on this point. Blackburn quotes Hume’s

parallel remarks in the second Enquiry that the names of certain traits ‘‘force an avowal

of their merit’’ and laments, ‘‘Unfortunately, it is fairly plain that Hume is wrong…’’

(‘‘Through Thick and Thin’’, pp. 285–286).

24. This does not imply that the descriptive sense of the terms could stand on its own either:

we do not have purely descriptive senses of ‘‘cruelty’’, for example, that get fed into some

mechanism to determine whether they are the appropriate ones to be designated as really

cruel. What we have are complex actions and attitudes to which we are tempted to apply

the label, and part of Hume’s point is that we fail to understand the meaningful place of

these actions and attitudes in human life if we fail to understand the way in which our

evaluations of them change the moral landscape we inhabit. Dancy suggests that a

proper understanding of thick terms does not hold ‘‘that there are two ‘really’ distinct

elements which by a pseudo-chemical reaction somehow become indistinguishable from

each other. There are no elements at all, in any normal sense. There is indeed a property

and an attitude …, but these things are not elements of a concept. They are incapable of

being so because the property is best characterized as being that of meriting the attitude,

and the attitude is best characterized as the appropriate one given the presence of the

property’’ (‘‘In Defense of Thick Concepts’’, p. 268).



25. For an interesting account of how we might distinguish valid from invalid extensions of

thick terms into new contexts, see Flakne, A. (2005) ‘‘Through Thick and Thin: Validity

and Reflective Judgment’’, Hypatia, 20, pp. 115–126.

26. See EPM, 1.9.

27. Jacqueline Taylor argues that this emphasis on the virtues of good judgment represents a

fundamental break from and improvement on the account of moral evaluation that

Hume gives in the Treatise. (‘‘Hume on the Standard of Virtue’’, pp. 43–62, especially

pp. 56–57.)

28. ‘‘Who Needs Ethical Knowledge’’, p. 206.

29. Michelle Mason, for instance, has argued (in ‘‘Moral Prejudice and Aesthetic

Deformity’’) that aesthetic judgment is first-personal, whereas moral judgment is

third-personal. Jacqueline Taylor notes the greater inclusiveness of the ‘‘‘intercourse of

sentiments’’’ that produce moral standards: ‘‘Experience with certain forms of art

typically requires an education not readily available to all, but nearly everyone has the

capacity to cultivate a sense of morality and acquire experience of different characters’’

(‘‘Hume on the Standard of Virtue’’, p. 57).

30. See, for example, ‘‘Of the Delicacy of Taste and Passion’’, where Hume argues that ‘‘a

cultivated taste for the polite arts … improves our sensibility for all the tender and

agreeable passions; at the same time that it renders the mind incapable of the rougher

and more boisterous emotions’’ (in Essays Moral, Political, and Literary, p. 6).

31. The imagination’s ability to produce related ideas in accordance with the principles of

association is central to our judgments of beauty, according to Hume. See Dabney

Townsend’s discussion of delicacy of imagination in (2001) Hume’s Aesthetic Theory

(London: Routledge), p. 204.

32. It is important not to underestimate the obstacles to communication resulting from a

lack of shared delicacy. In an interesting discussion of the relationship between the

development of aesthetic delicacy and character, Rochelle Gurstein notes that ‘‘from the

perspective of someone who has taste, the person who lacks it is regarded as blind or

tone-deaf. Such people seem to be missing a faculty of perception and, in consequence,

occupy a different world’’ (‘‘Taste and ‘the Conversible World’ in the Eighteenth

Century’’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 61, p. 220).

33. Austen, J. (1988) Pride and Prejudice, in: The Novels of Jane Austen, vol. 2. Edited by R.

W. Chapman (Oxford: Oxford University Press), p. 261.

34. Ibid.

35. Although the events of the novel turn on particular failures of Elizabeth’s discernment,

these failures are interesting in part because Elizabeth is not generally undiscerning.

36. For example: ‘‘Some particular forms or qualities, from the original structure of the

internal fabric, are calculated to please, and others to displease; and if they fail of their

effect in any particular instance, it is from some apparent defect or imperfection in the

organ’’ (ST, p. 233). See ST, pp. 234, 235, and 241 for additional examples.

37. See, for example, Hume’s oft-cited criticism of the monkish virtues at EPM, 9.3. He does

say here, however, that no superstition has ‘‘force sufficient, among men of the world, to

pervert entirely these natural sentiments’’ that distinguish virtue from vice.

38. Hume, somewhat humourously, addresses a version of this issue himself in ‘‘Of

Impudence and Modesty’’ (Essays Moral, Political, and Literary, pp. 552–556).

39. The differences between those people whom Jacques’s trait affects adds another level of

complexity here, not only because of the resulting different effects of the trait, but also

because we sympathize with people differently based on their relations to us. I cannot

address these complexities here, but doing so would appeal to the correction of Hume’s

general point of view. Of course, Hume discusses an analogous kind of correction in

aesthetics when he argues that the critic must place herself in the position of the intended

audience of a work. See ST, 239ff.



40. When Hume suggests in appendix 4 to the second Enquiry that wit might be a virtue, he

probably means wit in the sense of ‘‘mental quickness or sharpness,’’ or ‘‘wisdom, good

judgement, discretion, prudence’’. (See OED, 2nd ed, definitions 5a and 6a.) He does,

however, pair wit with ‘‘humour’’ in this appendix, and the wit that he classes with

qualities agreeable to others in section 8 seems to be wit allied with humour.

41. One of the reasons why artificial virtues are ‘‘artificial’’, according to Hume, is that they

do not exhibit this clear connection between a natural motive and action. This

disconnect means that moral discernment about artificial virtues will involve a different

level of complexity. Unfortunately, an examination of these issues is beyond the scope of

this paper.

42. This is not to say that the judgments themselves are inferences, which would pose

problems for Hume’s anti-rationalism. My claim is only that the moral judge must make

some inferences prior to having the sentimental response that Hume thinks constitutes

the judgment of virtue or vice. For a discussion of the challenges posed by the apparently

inferential nature of the general point of view, see Cohon, R. (1997) ‘‘The Common

Point of View in Hume’s Ethics’’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 57,

pp. 827–850. For Hume’s discussion of the complexity of the relationship between

intention, character, and our evaluation of an agent, see T, 2.2.3.4.

43. I recognize that this term is somewhat archaic, but I think it nonetheless signals an

important and admirable trait of character, not captured by related terms such as

‘‘people-pleaser’’, ‘‘considerate’’, or ‘‘respectful’’.

44. See T, 3.1.2.5.

45. Hume makes this remark in the context of discussing the influence of sympathy on the

relationship between others’ opinions of our own character and our own pride or

humility. This discussion makes it clear that Hume recognizes that we do not see all

character evaluations as equal, and that our estimation of the spectator in question

determines to a great extent whether or not we will sympathetically adopt her

evaluations.

46. Hume emphasizes the importance of linguistic communication in correcting moral

sentiments in his discussions of the general point of view. See, e.g., T, 3.3.1.16 and EPM,

5.42.

47. A Baylor University research leave in the fall of 2006 supported the research for this

piece. I am grateful to two anonymous readers for Inquiry for very helpful suggestions

for improvement. I am also thankful to my colleagues, Robert Kruschwitz and Robert

Miner, who both read earlier versions of this article and provided valuable feedback and

conversation about these ideas.



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