prior probability

Correction (10/22): Based on the textual analysis of TMS in my 22 October blog post, I have to update my 21 October post below. To the point, I now see that Adam Smith is using the same set of metaphors (judge and tribunal) to refer to two different entities: (a) to the impartial spectator or man within the breast (Smith uses both of these terms interchangeably), and (b) to the deity/God, depending on whether the word judge is capitalized or not. If it is not capitalized (as in the first of the two TMS passages quoted below), Smith is referring to the impartial spectator/man within the breast. If, however, Judge appears with a capital “J” (as in the second TMS passage quoted below), Smith is referring to God.

In my previous post, we saw how Adam Smith describes the impartial spectator as an “examiner and judge” (TMS, III.i.6) as well as a “great judge and arbiter” (TMS, III.iii.4). But is this imaginary magistrate an external entity, a deity or supreme being (God), or is he just a mental or internal process, a fiction of our moral imaginations (our conscience)? As it happens, Smith uses many other legal locutions — such as the words “appeal”, “judgment”, “sentence”, and “tribunal” — to describe the workings of his impartial spectator:

“But though man has, in this manner, been rendered the immediate judge of mankind, he has been rendered so only in the first instance; and an appeal lies from his sentence to a much higher tribunal, to the tribunal of their own consciences, to that of the supposed impartial and well-informed spectator, to that of the man within the breast, the great judge and arbiter of their conduct.” (TMS, III.ii.32)

“In such cases [i.e. when people think we are guilty of an offense we, in fact, did not commit] the only effectual consolation of [a] humbled and afflicted man lies in an appeal to a still higher tribunal, to that of the all-seeing Judge of the world, whose eye can never be deceived, and whose judgments can never be perverted. A firm confidence in the unerring rectitude of this great tribunal, before which his innocence is in due time to be declared, and his virtue to be finally rewarded, can alone support him under the weakness and despondency of his own mind, under the perturbation and astonishment of the man within the breast, whom nature has set up as, in this life, the great guardian, not only of his innocence, but of his tranquillity.” (TMS, III.ii.33)

In addition, Smith uses yet another legal term to compare and contrast “[t]he jurisdiction of the man without”, i.e. the point of view of the flesh-and-bones man who is being judged, and “[t]he jurisdiction of the man within”, i.e. that of the judge (TMS III.iii.5, my emphasis). The word “jurisdiction” is telling here, as this is a legal term of art that refers to the authority of a court or judge to decide a case or controversy.

But is Smith using these legal terms in a metaphorical or in a literal sense? Our original question is still on the table: is Smith’s moral magistrate more like a divine judge (perfect and infallible), or is he more like a common law judge (well-informed but imperfect)? In short, what kind of judge/tribunal is the impartial spectator? (To be continued …)

One of Adam Smith’s most original — and mysterious — ideas in The Theory of Moral Sentiments (TMS) is the impartial spectator. But who or what is this enigmatic entity? My interpretation is based on the actual text of Smith’s first magnum opus. To the point, the Scottish philosopher describes his imaginary being as an “examiner and judge”, a “great judge and arbiter”, and an “awful and respectable judge” in three separate passages of TMS. For reference, all three passages are reproduced below:

“When I endeavour to examine my own conduct, when I endeavour to pass sentence upon it, and either to approve or condemn it, it is evident that, in all such cases, I divide myself, as it were, into two persons; and that I, the examiner and judge, represent a different character from that other I, the person whose conduct is examined into and judged of.” (TMS, III.i.6)

“It is reason, principle, conscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man within, the great judge and arbiter of our conduct.” (TMS, III.iii.4)

“The man of real constancy and firmness, the wise and just man …. has been in the constant practice, and, indeed, under the constant necessity, of modelling, or of endeavouring to model, not only his outward conduct and behaviour, but, as much as he can, even his inward sentiments and feelings, according to those of this awful and respectable judge. He does not merely affect the sentiments of the impartial spectator. He really adopts them. He almost identifies himself with, he almost becomes himself that impartial spectator, and scarce even feels but as that great arbiter of his conduct directs him to feel.” (TMS, III.iii.25)

In short, the impartial spectator is first and foremost a judge. But what kind of judge? Is he (or she!) more like a divine judge, i.e. one that is perfect and infallible, or is he more like a common law judge, one that is impartial and well-informed but imperfect? (To be continued …)

Last month (September 2025), my colleagues Daniel Klein, Nicholas Swanson, and Jeffrey Young (KSY) published a new paper on Adam Smith’s impartial spectator in the most recent issue of Econ Journal Watch. In summary, KSY claim that Smith’s imaginary spectator is not only a godlike “beholder”; he is also an external entity. That is, according to KSY, this godlike figure is not the same thing as our inner voice or conscience: Smith’s impartial spectator and his “man within the breast” are two different beings or entities. In reply, I wrote up a six-part critique of KSY’s theistic interpretation of the impartial spectator, but what is my take on Smith’s imaginary spectator? Or as we like to say in academia, [*] “it takes a theory to beat theory“! So, starting on Monday (20 Oct.), I will make the case for why Smith most likely modelled his impartial spectator not on a god or deity but rather on a common law judge or juror.

* But, ahem, see this serpentine critique of the “it takes a theory to beat a theory” aphorism.

Nota bene: this is my last blog post (for now) on “the paradox of politics”.

In my previous post, we saw James Madison’s ingenious solution to the problem of factions and the tyranny of public opinion: more factions, more opinions — “extend the sphere” in order to allow for more factions and for more opinions so that they all cancel each other out. But does this Madisonian solution really work? Take, for example, the last sentence of the next-to-last paragraph of Federalist #10 (reprinted in Cohen 2018, p. 326). There, Madison provides three specific examples of “improper or wicked” projects that he hopes his extended sphere will avoid:

“A rage for paper money, for an abolition of debts, for an equal division of property, or for any other improper or wicked project, will be less apt to pervade the whole body of the Union than a particular member of it; in the same proportion as such a malady is more likely to taint a particular county or district, than an entire State.” (p. 326)

Paper money, the abolition of debts, and an equal division of property! The irony of these particular examples cannot be denied. Paper money? Check what’s in your wallet or purse! Abolition of debts? Our previous president, Joe Biden, approved a total of $188.8 billion in student loan forgiveness for 5.3 million borrowers while he was in office. (See here, for example.) An equal division of property? A new generation of populist politicians, like NYC mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani, have proposed a “wealth tax” on millionaires (see here), and what is a wealth tax but yet another step toward socialism?

Above and beyond these three examples, I will conclude this series of blog posts on the paradox of politics with a contemporary example of Madison’s extended sphere: social media. Platforms like Facebook and Instagram contain a cacophony of voices; they are the ultimate extended sphere. But does social media make us or the world better? Should we censor or “regulate” social media platforms (see here, for a recent example) to weed out all the false, dangerous, or harmful content one finds there, or do censorship and regulation produce worse outcomes than the evils they are designed to remedy? All I can say (for now) is that the law-liberty dilemma is alive and well in the 21st century!

Nota bene: this is the eighth of a series of blog posts on “the paradox of politics”.

“By a faction, I understand a number of citizens, whether amounting to a majority or a minority of the whole, who are united and actuated by some common impulse of passion, or of interest, adversed to the rights of other citizens, or to the permanent and aggregate interests of the community.” –James Madison, Federalist #10

By now, the identity of X should be obvious to all: he is none other than James Madison. Although this founding father has many achievements to his name — he was elected the fifth president of the United States, served as secretary of state to the fourth president (Thomas Jefferson), drafted the bill of rights, and was the unofficial secretary of the constitutional convention of 1787 — his greatest legacy and claim to fame was his co-authorship (with John Jay and Alexander Hamilton) of the Federalist Papers.

In my previous post, I extended Madison’s famous definition of factions (quoted above) in Federalist #10 to encompass Hume’s emphasis on public opinion as the invisible social glue that keeps governments, whether despotic or democratic, in power. After all, what is a faction but a group of people with a shared opinion about some matter of private or public interest? In short, the relationship between factions and public opinion is a symbiotic one.

Either way, whether our focus (like Madison’s) is on factions or (like Hume’s) on public opinion, let’s recall why factions are so dangerous. They are, in the eloquent words of Madison, “mortal diseases” that generate nothing but “instability, injustice, and confusion.” (pp. 321-322) But at the same time, factions will always arise in a free society: “Liberty is to faction what air is to fire, an aliment without which it instantly expires.” (p. 322) I like to call this tension between factions and liberty Madison’s dilemma: how do we control factions — and avoid the tyranny of public opinion — without getting ridding of liberty?

One possible solution is the election of a man like George Washington, a great statesman who is able to balance the interests of competing factions and bend public opinion toward the common good, but as Madison correctly notes, don’t hold your breath: “It is in vain to say that enlightened statesmen will be able to adjust these clashing interests, and render them all subservient to the public good. Enlightened statesmen will not always be at the helm.” (p. 323)

Madison’s solution to the problem of factions — and to the tyranny of public opinion more generally — is a structural one: regardless of who is in power, if a faction or opinion consists of less than a majority, ordinary politics will keep such activist groups, however vocal, in check. Or in the immortal words of James Madison: “relief is supplied by the republican principle, which enables the majority to defeat its sinister views by regular vote.” (p. 323) Although such vocal activist groups might be able to stir up some trouble, they lack the votes to carry out their nefarious schemes: “[They] may clog the administration, [they] may convulse the society; but [they] will be unable to execute and mask [their] violence under the forms of the Constitution.” (ibid.)

But what happens when a majority is included in a faction? That is, what happens when public opinion is in agreement with the nefarious plans of some specific faction? It is here where Madison’s full genius is on full display. His proposed solution is so elegant and original — and yet so counterintuitive — that I will quote it in full:

“Extend the sphere, and you take in a greater variety of parties and interests; you make it less probable that a majority of the whole will have a common motive to invade the rights of other citizens; or if such a common motive exists, it will be more difficult for all who feel it to discover their own strength, and to act in unison with each other. Besides other impediments, it may be remarked that, where there is a consciousness of unjust or dishonorable purposes, communication is always checked by distrust in proportion to the number whose concurrence is necessary.” (p. 325)

In other words, Madison’s ingenious solution to the problem of factions — and to the tyranny of public opinion — is … wait for it … more factions, more opinions! To paraphrase Mao, let a thousand factions bloom! Why? Because the more factions and niche opinions there are, the more difficult it will be for any one specific faction or opinion to crowd out and dominate the rest.

But what does this Madisonian solution to the problem of factions have to do with the paradox of politics, i.e. with the tension between law and liberty? Everything! After all, all laws are restrictions of liberty, but under Madison’s “extend the sphere” solution, no law will be enacted unless a sufficient number of factions are able to join forces in support of such law. But in the process of joining forces and forming strategic alliances, the leaders of these factions — i.e. the demagogues and opportunists who shape public opinion — will have to compromise in order to secure enough support to get their preferred policies and measures enacted.

In short, it is this Madisonian process of compromise, the give-and-take of negotiation and alliance-formation, that keeps the ever-present dangers of factions and public opinion in check. But is Madison’s ingenious solution to the paradox of politics still relevant to our world? Even before the election (and re-election!) of Donald J. Trump, our national government has grown to monstrous proportions, a monetary Leviathan indeed. According to the Department of Treasury (see here), for example, the federal government spent $6.75 trillion in fiscal year 2024, or almost one-fourth (23%) of our entire GDP (gross domestic product)! I will conclude my series on the paradox of politics with some closing thoughts in my next post.

Nota bene: this is the seventh of a series of blog posts on “the paradox of politics”.

We saw in my previous post how David Hume replaces natural law and social contracts with public opinion, but is the Scottish skeptic right? Are questions of morality and politics just a matter of public opinion or “the common sentiments of mankind”?

Let’s assume (for now) that Hume is right, that public opinion is the ultimate sovereign. Then what about the rights of those free spirits who dissent from public opinion on a particular topic? In other words, how do we protect ourselves against “the tyranny of the majority”? Also, what about polarization? What happens when the public is split dead even over a given topic? And how do we measure public opinion in the first place?

To my knowledge, only two thinkers have really taken Hume’s public opinion theory of politics seriously and have grappled with these difficult questions. One is John Rawls. The other was a North American contemporary of David Hume. Let’s call him X for now. (I don’t want to reveal his identity yet; instead, I will rehearse his argument to see if you can guess who he is.)

What I like most about X are two things: (1) his poignant diagnosis of the dangers of allowing public opinion to decide policy — among other things, he concedes right off the bat that public opinion, left unchecked and free to rear its ugly head, is a “dangerous vice” and destabilizing force, a “mortal disease” that promotes a “factious spirit” (i.e. an us-against-them mentality) and that generates nothing but “instability, injustice, and confusion” — and (2) his explanation of the central role liberty plays in promoting this mortal political disease.

According to X, there are two methods of curing this mortal political disease: “the one, by removing its causes; the other, by controlling its effects.” (p. 322) But how does one remove the causes of this dangerous vice, the tyranny of public opinion? One is an Orwellian dystopian dictatorship: compel and coerce every person to have the same opinions, the same passions, and the same interests. X, however, rejects this radical solution out of hand (and rightfully so!), for the problem with an Orwellian dictatorship is that people are different. We have different opinions, different passions, different interests, different talents, and “different and unequal faculties of acquiring property”:

“As long as the reason of man continues fallible, and he is at liberty to exercise it, different opinions will be formed. As long as the connection subsists between his reason and his self-love, his opinions and his passions will have a reciprocal influence on each other; and the former will be objects to which the latter will attach themselves. The diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is not less an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests.” (p. 322)

The other way of removing the causes of this mortal political disease is a Marxist-Leninist revolution: do away with liberty, eliminate the freedom to form opinions, express one’s passions, or pursue private interests. Again, X rightfully rejects this remedy as well:

“It could never be more truly said than of the [Marxist-Leninist] remedy, that it was worse than the disease. Liberty is to [public opinion] what air is to fire, an aliment without which it instantly expires. But it could not be less folly to abolish liberty, which is essential to political life, because it nourishes [public opinion], than it would be to wish the annihilation of air, which is essential to animal life, because it imparts to fire its destructive agency.” (ibid.)

Have you figured out who X is yet? I will reveal his identity and describe X’s ingenious solution to the paradox of politics — i.e. the tension between the dangers of public opinion and the importance of liberty — in my next post. (In the meantime, if only the 20th century had listened to X!)

Nota bene: this is the sixth of a series of blog posts on “the paradox of politics”; footnotes are below the fold.

We saw David Hume’s devastating take-down of social contract theories in my previous post — governments and property rights did not originate in some fictitious or fanciful social contract; they are founded on force or fraud — but how does Hume resolve the tension between law and liberty? In a word (two words, actually), Hume’s solution to the paradox of politics is public opinion or “the common sentiments of mankind”:

“We shall only observe, before we conclude, that though an appeal to general opinion may justly, in the speculative sciences of metaphysics, natural philosophy, or astronomy, be deemed unfair and inconclusive, yet in all questions with regard to morals, as well as criticism, there is really no other standard by which any controversy can ever be decided.”[1]

But does political philosophy fall under “the speculative sciences of metaphysics, natural philosophy, or astronomy” or is it more like “all questions with regard to morals, as well as criticism”? Or more simply put, is the paradox of politics a science question or a moral/aesthetic one? For Hume, law and politics are practical matters rooted in human nature and social utility. [2] As a result, Hume’s standard for resolving high-level legal and political disputes is not some objective, universal truth grounded in a hypothetical contract; his standard is purely subjective: public opinion.

Hume’s public-opinion approach to political philosophy is not for the feint of heart; after all, public opinion can not only change over time; the public might also prefer a dictatorship over democracy or racial segregation over racial mixing or whatever. [3] Nevertheless, for my part, I find myself in agreement with Hume’s approach to law and politics: there are no universal or objective “right answers” to contentious legal, moral, and political questions, including the ultimate question of how to balance law and liberty. Instead, it is public opinion (“the common sentiments of mankind”) that is the final arbiter of all moral and political questions. For Hume and me, it is public opinion that ultimately decides how much liberty we are willing to give up in exchange for safety and security.

But Hume’s public opinion approach to politics poses two new open practical questions. One is the measurement question: how do we measure public opinion? Is it even possible to measure such a thing in a reliable and accurate manner? The other open question is the problem of conflicting or diametrically-opposed public opinions (plural): what happens when the public is split or polarized over any given matter? (Also, even if an overwhelming majority of the public agrees on X, what about the rights of the minority?) Stay tuned, I will discuss what I consider to be the most compelling and original reply to these questions in my next post. (To be continued …)

Nota bene: this is the fifth of a series of blog posts on “the paradox of politics”; footnotes are below the fold.

“In vain, are we asked in what records this charter of our liberties is registered.” –David Hume, Of the Original Contract (p. 263) [1]

Last week, I began a new series of blog posts on the paradox of politics, starting with Thomas Hobbes and John Locke (see here and here). In brief, both Hobbes and Locke attempt to solve this perennial paradox by positing two imaginary constructs: a world without law or government (the state of nature) and a hypothetical agreement (the social contract). [2] Alas, to quote Jake’s reply to Lady Brett in The Sun Also Rises, isn’t it pretty to think so?

As it happens, it was the great philosopher-skeptic David Hume (1711–1776) who was the first to point out an embarrassing flaw in Hobbes and Locke’s elegant theoretical solution. [3] Simply put, if the social contract is the foundation of government and law, where do we go to look up the actual “terms and conditions” of this fictitious user agreement?

More specifically, in his Enlightenment-era essay “Of the Original Contract” (reprinted in Cohen 2018, pp. 262-269), Hume explains why the social contract theories of Hobbes and Locke (and Rousseau, for that matter) are “not justified by history or experience, in any age or country of the world.” (p. 264) For Hume, government and laws cannot be traced back to some hypothetical or fanciful agreement among illiterate savages; instead, history teaches us that government and laws are almost always the result of conquest and coercion:

“Almost all the governments which exist at present, or of which there remains any record in story, have been founded originally, either on usurpation or conquest or both, without any presence of a fair consent or voluntary subjection of the people.” (p. 265)

To this Humean historical objection, Hobbes and Locke attempt to salvage their social contract theories with yet another make-believe fantasy, the fiction of tacit consent — or in the case of Rousseau, “the general will” or volonté générale. [4] For Hobbes, for example, “The obligation of subjects to the sovereign, is understood to last as long, and no longer, that the power lasteth, by which he is able to protect them” (quoted in Cohen 2018, p. 201), while Locke writes: “If a man owns or enjoys some part of the land under a given government, while that enjoyment lasts he gives his tacit consent to the laws of that government and is obliged to obey them.” (quoted in ibid., p. 228, Locke’s emphasis)

Really? Hume’s take-down of the fiction of tacit consent is so devastating and logically irrefutable that it deserves to be quoted in full:

“Should it be said that, by living under the dominion of a prince which one might leave, every individual has given a tacit consent to his authority and promised him obedience; it may be answered that such an implied consent can only have place where a man imagines that the matter depends on his choice. But where he thinks (as all mankind do who are born under established governments) that, by his birth, he owes allegiance to a certain prince or certain form of government; it would be absurd to infer a consent or choice, which he expressly, in this case, renounces and disclaims.

“Can we seriously say, that a poor peasant or artisan has a free choice to leave his country, when he knows no foreign language or manners, and lives, from day to day, by the small wages which he acquires? We may as well assert that a man, by remaining in a vessel, freely consents to the dominion of the master; though he was carried on board while asleep, and must leap into the ocean and perish, the moment he leaves her. . . .” (p. 266, Hume’s emphasis)

In other words, Hume calls bullshit! But where does this leave us? Does the paradox of politics have no solution, after all? If it takes a theory to beat a theory, what is Hume’s solution to the law-liberty dilemma? (To be continued …)

I will resume my series on the “paradox of politics” with David Hume in my next post. In the meantime, I am sharing the song “Goodbye Stranger” by the British rock band Supertramp. One of the ironies of this all-time classic is that it met with only limited success in the UK and did not even break the “top ten” in the US!