M. Rossi observes, "Nous pensons que le sens commun et la conscience publique ont constamment tenu le même langage. Le délit n'a pas été consommé, donc la punition doit être moindre.' Cette idée de proportion matérielle, ce sentiment de justice, grossière j'en conviens, est naturel à l'homme." This is the view taken by the unreflecting moral consciousness. To him whose feelings are tempered by thought, "a man," as Seneca says, "is no less a brigand, because his sword becomes entangled in his victim's clothes, and misses its mark." " In the same way as moral indignation, is moral approval influenced by external events. Though we would not praise a person for some deed of his which we clearly recognise to reflect no merit on his will, the benefits which result from a good act easily induce us to exaggerate the goodness of the agent. On the other hand, it is success alone that confers upon a man the full reward which he deserves; good intentions without corresponding deeds meet with little applause even when the failure is due to mere misfortune. "In our real feeling or sentiment," Hume observes, "we cannot help paying a greater regard to one whose station, joined to virtue, renders him really useful to society, than to one who exerts the social virtues only in good intentions and benevolent affections." It is thus only from want of due reflection that moral judgments are influenced by outward deeds. Owing to its very nature, the moral consciousness, when sufficiently influenced by thought, regards the will as the only proper object of moral disapproval or moral praise. That moral qualities are internal, is not an invention of any particular moralist or any particular religion; it has been recognised by thoughtful men in many different countries and different welches ja gerade auf die grosse Menge zu wirken hat, kann dessenungeachtet solche unwillkürlich im Volke sich geltend machende Ansichten nicht unberücksichtigt lassen." Cf. also Finger, op. cit. i. 177. 1 Rossi, Traité de droit pénal, ii. 318. 2. Seneca, Ad Serenum, 7. ages. "He that is pure in heart is the truest priest," said Buddha. In the Taouist work, 'Kan ying peen,' it is written "If you form in your heart a good intention, although you may not have done any good, the good spirits follow you. If you form in your heart a bad intention, although you may not have done any harm, the evil spirits follow you.' According to the Thâi-Shang, 2 mere wishes are sufficient to constitute badness. One of the Pahlavi texts puts the following words into the mouth of the Spirit of Wisdom:-"To be grateful in the world, and to wish happiness for every one; this is greater and better than every good work."+ God, says the Koran, "will not catch you up for a casual word in your oaths, but He will catch you up for what your hearts have earned." According to the Rabbis, the thought of sin is worse than sin, and an unchaste thought is a "wicked thing. It was an ancient Mexican maxim that "he who looks too curiously on a woman commits adultery with his eyes "-a striking parallel to the passage in St. Matthew "Voluntas remuneratur, non opus," says the Canonist. "Licet gladio non occidat, voluntate tamen interficit.' "Non ideo minus delinquit, cui sola deest facultas." v. 28. "8 1 Hopkins, Religions of India, p. 319. 2 Douglas, Confucianism and Taouism, p. 270. 3 Thai-Shang, 4. Dîna-î-Maînôgi Khirad, lxiii. 3 sqq. Cf. ibid. i. 10, where it is said that the good work which a man does unwittingly is little of a good work, though the sin which a man commits unwittingly amounts to a sin in its origin. 5 Koran, ii. 225. Cf. Ameer Ali, Ethics of Islam, p. 26. 6 Schechter, in Montefiore, op. cit. p. 558. Cf. Deutsch, Literary Remains, P. 52. 7 Sahagun, Historia general de las cosas de Nueva España, vi. 22, vol. ii. 147: "Dice el refran què el que curiosamente mira á la muger adultéra con la vista." 8 Gratian, Decretum, ii. 33. 3. 25, 30, 29, CHAPTER X AGENTS UNDER INTELLECTUAL DISABILITY We hold an agent responsible not only for his intention, but for any known concomitant of his act, as also for any such unknown concomitant of it as we attribute to want of due attention. But for anything which he could not be aware of he is not responsible. Hence certain classes of agents-animals, children, idiots, madmen—are totally or partially exempted from moral blame and legal punishment. Though animals are undoubtedly capable of acting, we do not regard them as proper objects of moral indignation. The reason for this is not merely the very limited scope of their volitions and their inability to foresee consequences of their acts, since these considerations could only restrict their responsibility within correspondingly narrow limits. Their total irresponsibility rests on the presumption that they are incapable of recognising any act of theirs as right or wrong. If the concomitant of an act is imputable to the agent only in so far as he could know it, it is obvious that no act is wrong which the agent could not know to be wrong. It is a familiar fact that, by discipline, we may teach domesticated animals to live up to a certain standard of behaviour, but this by no means implies that we awake in them moral feelings. When some writers credit dogs and apes with a conscience, we must remember that an 1 Romanes, Mental Evolution in der Thiere, p. 67. Brehm, From Animals, p. 352. Perty, Seelenleben North Pole to Equator, p. 298. observer's inference is not the same as an observed fact.' It seems that the so-called conscience in animals is nothing more than an association in the animal's mind between the performance of a given act and the occurrence of certain consequences, together with a fear of those consequences. The following is one of the most striking instances of what Professor Romanes regards as "conscience" in animals; it refers to a terrier which had never, even in its puppyhood, been known to steal, but on the contrary used to make an excellent guard to protect property from other animals, servants, and so forth, even though these were his best friends. "Nevertheless," says Professor Romanes, " on one occasion he was very hungry, and in the room where I was reading and he was sitting, there was, within easy reach, a savoury mutton chop. I was greatly surprised to see him stealthily remove this chop and take it under a sofa. However, I pretended not to observe what had occurred, and waited to see what would happen next. For fully a quarter of an hour this terrier remained under the sofa without making a sound, but doubtless enduring an agony of contending feelings. Eventually, however, conscience came off victorious, for emerging from his place of concealment and carrying in his mouth the stolen chop, he came across the room and laid the tempting morsel at my feet. The moment he dropped the stolen property he bolted again under the sofa, and from this retreat no coaxing could charm him for several hours afterwards. Moreover, when during that time he was spoken to or patted, he always turned away his head in a ludicrously conscience-stricken manner. Altogether I do not think it would be possible to imagine a more satisfactory exhibition of conscience by an animal than this; for . . . the particular animal in question was never beaten in its life.” The author then adds in a note that "mere dread of punishment cannot even be suspected to have been the motive principle of action." It may be so, if by punishment be understood the infliction of physical pain. But it can hardly be doubted that the terrier suspected his master to be displeased with his behaviour, and the dread of displeasure or reproof may certainly have been the sole reason for his bringing back the stolen food. Among 3 Romanes, 'Conscience in Animals,' in Quarterly Journal of Science, xiii. 156 sq. "high-life" dogs, as Professor Romanes himself observes, "wounded sensibilities and loss of esteem are capable of producing much keener suffering than is mere physical pain."1 But fear of the anticipated consequences of an act, even when mixed with shame, is not the same as the moral feeling of remorse. There is no indication that the terrier felt that his act was wrong, in the strict sense of the word. However, though most of us, on due reflection, would deny that animals are proper objects of moral censure, there is a general tendency to deal with them as if they were. The dog or the horse that obstinately refuses to submit to its master's will arouses a feeling of resentment which almost claims to be righteous; and the shock given to public feeling by some atrocious deed committed by a beast calls for retribution. As Adam Smith observes, "the dog that bites, the ox that gores, are both of them punished. If they have been the causes of the death of any person, neither the public, nor the relations of the slain, can be satisfied, unless they are put to death in their turn: nor is this merely for the security of the living, but, in some measure, to revenge the injury of the dead."2 If thus our own resentment towards an animal which has caused some injury, when not duly tempered by reason, often comes near actual indignation, it is not surprising to find that, at the lower stages of human civilisation, animals are deliberately treated as responsible agents. The American Indian who eats the vermin which molest him defends his action by arguing that, as the animal has first bitten him, he is only retaliating the injury on the injurer. The custom of blood-revenge is often extended to the animal world. The Kukis, says Mr. Macrae, "are of a most vindictive disposition; blood must always be shed for blood; if a tiger kills 1 Idem, Animal Intelligence, p. 439. 2 Adam Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, p. 137. 3 Harmon, Journal of Voyages and Travels in the Interior of North |