The extent of the intersection between ethics and politics is unclear, but only the most untried absolutist would insist that the two overlap exactly. Divine laws of good and evil, even understood to impossible perfection, shed little light on the wisdom of a tariff or the benefit of a subsidy. When Oscar Wilde wrote that he cared not “whether laws be right or whether laws be wrong,” he spoke for every British prisoner to whom the justice or injustice of their incarceration was cold comfort and the morality of the prison system a question irrelevant to their lives. When a judge enforces a law he considers unjust, he does so because the morality of a given law it outside the scope of his office, but when he demands reverence for the law in his courtroom, the morality of the laws he upholds is genuinely inconsequential. In these circumstances and others, political questions are nonmoral. There are as many circumstances in which a politician’s practical concerns outweigh his moral ones.
Edmund Burke took the existence of objective morality as a given and was more than willing to make political decisions based upon it, as when he claimed to impeach Warren Hastings “in the name and by virtue of those eternal laws of justice which he has violated.” However, he appraised a policy’s worth by its effects rather than its justifications. As relevant as the questions of whether a law falls within the scope of Parliament’s legitimate powers and whether it pursues any of Parliament’s legitimate ends is the question of whether it results in a stable and satisfied society, a standard which by Burke’s own admission depends as much upon the society’s particular habits and character as any objective standard.
This emphasis on practicality and accommodation provides a less compromising critic of Burke with ammunition for the accusation that Burkean statecraft permits ethical demands to be outweighed too often, that it is pragmatic to the point of moral relativism. Philip Francis said so, in so many words, when Burke offered him the chance to review a preliminary draft of Reflections on the Revolution in France, a draft which included Burke’s striking passage on the “delightful vision” of the queen of France “glittering like the morning-star, full of life, and splendor, and joy.” “If she be a perfect female character,” Francis responded, “you ought to take your ground upon her virtues. If she be the reverse it is ridiculous in any but a lover, to place her personal charms in opposition to her crimes.” He challenged Burke to answer the charge that he would defend any jade or Messalina “provided she be handsome.” Burke in his responding letter claimed to “know nothing of your story of Messalina,” and certainly he did not appreciate as acutely as did Francis just how grotesque a figure he might be forced to defend given the universal application of his aesthetic principles.
It was not only women that Burke’s chivalric susceptibility to beauty and nobility inspired him to defend. The “great bad men” of history, too, appear in the Reflections as instructive counterexamples to the Jacobins. Cromwell, for Burke, was a “destroying angel” who “smote the country,” but nevertheless was redeemed, at least in part, by the awe he inspired. “These disturbers were not so much like men usurping power,” Burke asserted, “as asserting their natural place in society. Their rising was to illuminate and beautify the world.” The French revolutionaries, on the other hand, were “low and base,” “ignoble and inglorious,” with “a tendency in all that is done to lower along with individuals all the dignity and importance of the state.” Whether the Jacobins overthrew the state or not would matter little to this objection of Burke’s, if only they had overthrown it with some style and decoration. To say that a wicked man’s vice may lose “half its evil, by losing all its grossness,” is to admit that aesthetic beauty may, for every practical purpose, affect decisions that would otherwise be determined ethically.
Burke’s chivalry, which Francis called “pure foppery,” made him slow to question the virtues of beautiful things. He was as little skeptical of things he regarded as old and established. It does not compromise the rigor of logic very much to say that “prejudice renders a man’s virtue his habit” – even a skeptic would admit that passion, enlisted in the pursuit of reason’s conclusions, can lend speed and fervor to reasonable action – but to claim that “there is no rust of superstition, with which the accumulated absurdity of the human mind might have crusted it over in the course of ages, that ninety-nine in a hundred of the people of England would not prefer to impiety” is to imagine circumstances in which an Englishman would prefer to believe something he had reason to suspect was false rather than give up the comfort of his superstitions. To claim that it “has been the misfortune (not as these gentlemen think it, the glory) of this age, that every thing is to be discussed,” Burke necessarily devalued the fruits of discussion and placed some other good above knowledge, even to the point of perpetuating falsehood and injustice for the sake of stability and ease.
Burke describes the “laws of justice” as eternal and universal, one great, immutable, preexistent law” fashioned by the Creator. However, he invests particular loyalties with importance to rival that of justice’s universal loyalty. He first relates the two to one another: “To be attached to the subdivision, to love the little platoon we belong to in society, is the first principle (the germ, as it were) of public affections. It is the first link in the series by which we proceed towards a love to our country and to mankind.” To say that loyalty to one’s little platoon is the method by which one learns to feel general loyalty to all mankind is not to dispute the priority of the latter over the former. Such a narrative of ethical education does not elevate the particular to equal stature as the general, provided that universal justice, once learned, supersedes patriotism and family affection.
Burke’s rhetoric regarding England, Bristol, and his son Richard, suggest that he valued these relationships as more than means to the end of beatific universal goodwill. The speed with which he leapt to defend his native country did not diminish as his sympathy for the inhabitants of India increased. When he wrote of Eden and Lord Suffolk’s failed delegation to the Continental Congress, his objection focused not on the folly of their proposals but “the degradation of the crown,” “the dishonor of Parliament,” and “the disgrace of England” that their mission had incurred, and claimed that his sensitivity to this disgrace was the necessary response of any “true Englishman.”
In instances when family loyalty and principle were placed in conflict, Burke did not always accommodate the former to the latter. Burke held Protestantism to be morally superior to “Popery,” but when confronted with an Irish law that allowed a Protestant wife to sever contact between her children and her Catholic husband, he condemned the policy for interrupting the natural bonds of family and, by denying a father his children, depriving him of “all the tender satisfaction which a parent can feel in their society.” This is not an unusual objection, but it is an example of sentiment prevailing over sense, and emotion prevailing over Burke’s moral conviction that free men should prefer Protestantism to the church, which had been at the height of its pretense “the proudest domination that ever was endured on earth.”
A multitude of nonmoral concerns populate Burkean political calculus: love of country, love of family, beauty, and expediency. Burke’s declared savior demanded that those who would believe in God sacrifice their ties to their mothers, their fathers, and even the world in order to follow Him. Burke himself declared that it was his privilege as a legislator rather than a lawyer to do “what humanity, reason, and justice tell me I ought to do” – all three universal and objective standards. The demand for a Burke to marshal a defense of his pragmatism is considerable.
During his career, Burke was conscious of the criticism that his pragmatism made him overly accommodating of injustice, and answered this criticism explicitly on more than one occasion. To critics of his reliance on tradition and inheritance he responded with a warning against the unreliability of individual judgment. “We are afraid to put men to live and trade each on his own private stock of reason,” he wrote in the Reflections, “because we suspect that this stock in each man is small, and that the individuals would do better to avail themselves of the general bank and capital of nations, and of ages.” It might be preferable to live and govern according to divine law, but divine law is inaccessible, and the excesses of one man’s misunderstanding are more severe than the misunderstandings inherent in any given tradition, being less tempered by the trials and corrections of centuries of application. The same humility is appropriate to England’s “insect origin of yesterday” relative to the ancient civilization of the Hindostani Gentoo. The overriding priority of morality over convenience is not contradicted by the admission that the former cannot be determined with absolute confidence. Such pragmatism cannot be called relative.
Another compelling impossibility on which Burke grounded his self-defense is the absolute futility of any attempt to overhaul cultural habits through legislation. In answer to those members of the English Parliament who would quell the American Revolution by eliminating the Americans’ distinct and special affinity for liberty, Burke deemed such a reform in their character “for the greater part, or rather entirely, impractical.” Succinctly: “The question is not whether their spirit deserves praise or blame, but what, in the name of God, shall we do with it.” He made the same claim of futility in answer to those who would force Protestantism on Irish Catholics.
In other cases, Burke counseled against abrupt and rigorous adherence to divine morality even when to do so would be possible. The Reflections includes a discussion of the accession of William and Mary to the British throne in which Burke describes the “politic and well-wrought veil” that Parliament used to disguise the interruption that threatened to “weaken the rights, which in the meliorated order of succession they meant to perpetuate.” The two houses of Parliament as well as the monarchs themselves were aware of the danger posed by “a doubtful title of succession,” and so disguised the truth and portrayed the reinstitution of monarchy in 1689 as being no more irregular than the inheritance of the crown by a son from his father. In ordinary circumstances Burke would insist upon honesty in government – he certainly did so in his speeches against Hastings’s attempt to “stifle all inquiry” into his affairs – but his evaluation of the “politic and well-wrought veil” permitted a concern for the stability of the kingdom to outweigh the demands of clear honesty and cold reason. Burke believed that a logical and thoroughly honest examination of the facts would lead any man to the conclusion that William and Mary’s installation had been wise and worthy of support, but in addition to compromising honesty for the sake of stability, he made a compromising concession to the imperfections of human nature which, even when it understands the bare truth, will often abuse it. Governors must govern modestly because they are mortal men, but they may govern dishonestly from time to time because their subjects are no less mortal than they are.
Beyond the ordinary justifications that human frailty offers the pragmatist, Burke also enlisted the excuse of empire. The Parliament he served did not merely rule over imperfect men; it ruled over several different societies of imperfect men, each with its own particular character and each posing different challenges to the legislator. He accepted this complicated responsibility with an openness to pluralism: “I never was wild enough to conceive that one method would serve for the whole, that the natives of Hindustan and those of Virginia could be ordered in the same manner, or that the Cutchery court and the grand jury of Salem could be regulated on a similar plan.” It is clear from his description of the peculiarities of American government that he considers some of their particularities to be undesirable (“this sentiment…has at least as much pride as virtue in it” ), but, while he does not abdicate his right to pass judgment on the moral worth of the American spirit, he does acknowledge his responsibility as a colonial legislator to defer to the customs of colonies.
However, considered apart from his arguments for the practical necessity of modifying moral laws to fit unalterable realities, Burke’s attitude toward the differences between cultures seems to be one of celebration, not resignation. Even during the war between Britain and the American colonies, Burke used none but the most glowing terms to describe American maritime industry:
No sea but what is vexed by their fisheries. No climate that is not witness to their toils. Neither the perseverance of Holland, nor the activity of France, nor the dexterous and firm sagacity of English enterprise, ever carried this most perilous mode of hardy industry to the extent to which it has been pushed by this recent people… [W]hen I see how profitable they have been to us, I feel all the pride of power sink, and all presumption in the wisdom of human contrivances melt and die away within me. My rigor relents. I pardon something to the spirit of liberty.The passage admits that Burke’s wisdom commands him to condemn the colonists’ “spirit of liberty.” Far from denying, it affirms that their enthusiasm for liberty is, measured by a standard in which he has confidence, excessive. It is an illogical response to the sublimity of their whaling feats that inspires him to praise the very aspect of the American character to which the problem of insurrection is attributable.
This brings Burke’s position on conciliation with America near to his defense of Marie Antoinette, one that he found himself less able to defend, confronted with charges of disregard for morality. His letter in response to Philip Francis’s accusation of “pure foppery” answers questions with questions and is less of a defense than an appeal: “Am I obliged to prove juridically the virtues of all those I shall see suffering every kind of wrong, and contumely, and risk of life, before I endeavor to interest others in their sufferings?” He declares that the story of Hecuba interests him simply “because she was Hecuba, the Queen of Troy – the wife of Priam – and suffered, in the close of life, a thousand calamities!” If Francis found Burke’s passage in praise of Marie Antoinette objectionable because he considered its selection of her allurements arbitrary, then it is unclear why he would find Burke’s emphasis on Hecuba’s queenly stature any less so. Neither woman’s fame rested on her exceptional virtue, or any other basis so substantive. Burke implies that it would be base and unseemly to “inquire into the anecdotes of the Court or City of Troy” in pursuit of some truer sketch of Hecuba’s character, but he would not have had to make any active inquiry at all before finding grounds for suspicion that Marie Antoinette had committed enough sins to counteract any special sympathy her beauty might inspire. Francis called his chivalrous spirit foolish; Burke called it natural and true, and went no further. To the claim that Burke would draw his sword “in defense of any jade upon Earth provided she be handsome,” he made no direct reply.
Burke failed to recognize this example of arbitrariness in himself, but his condemnations of arbitrariness in others may make clearer the limits Burke places on imprecise and nonmoral factors. This passage from the second day of his speech opening the impeachment of Warren Hastings deserves to be quoted at length:
Judges are guided and governed by the eternal laws of justice, to which we are all subject. We may bite our chains, if we will, but we shall be made to know ourselves, and be taught that man is born to be governed by law; and he that will substitute will in the place of it is an enemy to God. Despotism…if it has no written law, it neither does nor can cancel the primeval, indefeasible, unalterable law of Nature and of nations; and if no magistracies control its exertions, those exertions must derive their limitation and direction either from the equity and moderation of the ruler, or from downright revolt on the part of the subject by rebellion, divested of all its criminal qualities.Not only do moral laws exist, and not only do they have bearing on political decisions, but they have the power to sanctify rebellion, which is ordinarily the greatest evil in the Burkean politician’s mind.
Burke’s emphatic insistence on the existence of objective rules that transcend arbitrary ones may derive from particular attachment to certain moral laws as inviolable. It may be that there are ethical limits that, for all his realism, he is unwilling to cross. That this selective absolutism explains, at least in part, the fervor of the above condemnation seems likely. He certainly lingers over the Hastings administration’s more emotionally affecting outrages, as if to imply that no land or society could be so alienated from human dignity as to permit a ruler to reduce by theft Munny Begum of Oude to trading in spirits. When Warren Hastings described the people of India as unaccustomed to any government other than a despotic one, Burke declared the “cruelties,” “extortions,” and “briberies” attributed to “Oriental despotism” to be the corruption, and not the principle, of Asian government. As proof, he only posed the rhetorical question of whether his listeners in Parliament thought “that the nation would bear, that any human creature would bear, to hear an English governor defend himself on such principles.” Burke forgave the Americans their high-spirited sensitivity to the faintest whiff of enslavement, and he forgave the Irish Catholics their willingness to swear allegiance to a hybrid monarch whose very existence contradicted Burke’s understanding of religion and state, but he was unwilling to forgive Warren Hastings any exercise of arbitrary power which left his land impoverished and his subordinates corrupt. The first two offenses were benign insofar as they did not inspire stories as wrenching as that of Munny Begum’s descent into indigence or the “Story of the Three Seals” with which Burke opened February 16th’s proceedings. The gravity of the harm done to the Indian people by the Company under Hastings was so great that Burke would make no compromise that deferred their remedy, nor permit any characterization of their culture that minimized the crimes against them. Burke’s political philosophy cannot be reduced to mere alleviation of suffering in any form, but moral offenses related to human suffering seem to inspire his greatest adamance.
The irony that Burke should have been strictest in his adherence to objective moral law during the Hastings impeachment is worth mentioning, because it was in his speeches against Hastings that he was least strict with his rhetoric. It is difficult to defend as precise a speech that compares Warren Hastings unfavorably to Satan (“he looked over the waste of Oude with a diabolical malice which one could hardly suppose existed in the prototype himself”). In a more pragmatic mood, Burke mitigated his moral outrage (for example, against the French aristocracy) for the sake of his own emotional or pragmatic sympathies. In the impeachment of Warren Hastings, Burke’s outrage became as exaggerated as it had been mitigated before. In the former case, Burke was straightforward about his compromises; in the latter case, he disguised his exaggerations in the language of honest indignation. Burke’s outrage at the suffering of the Indian people was genuine, as his letter to Sir Joshua Reynolds’ niece Mary Palmer illustrates, but the evidence against Hastings did not support Burke’s characterization of him as a wantonly rapacious tyrant who abused his subjects out of wickedness. “Mr. Hastings feasts in the dark,” Burke cried, “Mr. Hastings feasts alone; Mr. Hastings feasts like a wild beast; he growls in the corner over the dying and the dead, like the tigers of that country, who drag their prey into the jungles.” To say that “an Hindoo polity, and the spirit of an Hindoo government,” existed in India “until it was finally to be destroyed by Mr. Hastings” cannot be supported by facts. Hastings was not the first bad Governor-General of Bengal, and it is by no means beyond contest that he was the worst. Burke was unwilling to compromise morality in order to allow any pragmatic justification to be made for the excesses of Hastings’s term, but he was willing to harass Hastings with exaggerated personal attacks in order to achieve some broader political goal, which was in some significant way a compromise of his own conscience.
The sketch of the accusation against Burke and his own defense against it are now both fairly clear: he believed fervently in objective ethical laws but allowed their abrogation and overrule for various aesthetic, circumstantial, and emotional reasons. Burke was a pragmatist, but not at the expense of certain overriding moral concerns. The question remains whether Burke’s compromises reveal a man trying to balance principle against pragmatism or whether his pragmatic concerns can be integrated with his moral ones in a unifying principled system. Burke himself never drew nor tried to draw a vision of his political theory beyond the legislative applications that his speeches and letters addressed, but from these applications several possible underlying systems can be inferred. At least one of these renders certain nonmoral factors the expression of objective morality and not exceptions to it.
It is easy to frame discussion of a law’s practicality in moral terms. Bringing the American colonies to heel by force was impractical because it could not be done without considerable loss of life and stability, which were certainly moral problems. However, if the only distinction that put Hastings’s treatment of the Indians beyond any possibility any pragmatic justification were the magnitude of his crimes, then it would not be possible to discern any principle underlying Burke’s decision to condemn him so uncompromisingly. After all, Burke showed compassion for the French aristocracy and Oliver Cromwell, both of whom had been agents of human suffering themselves. Under a model where the relevant threshold is in the degree of wickedness, Parliament’s task in the Hastings trial would be simply to weigh human suffering on one hand and the practicability of prosecution and their own certainty in their conviction on the other. By such thinking, principle and convenience are comparable, but disconnected.
This thinking does not seem to have been Burke’s. Burke did not just believe that Hastings was committing the same sins that other unjust rulers had committed but to a worse extent. He believed that Hastings’s government was different from other tyrannies in kind as much as degree. When Burke railed against arbitrary power, his objection was not that the British East India Company’s system of rule was faulty, but that they operated by no system at all. Theirs was not a competing interpretation of good government, but a renunciation of concern for good government in the first place. A certain amount of arbitrariness is acceptable to Burke, but if any body of men “were mad enough to make an express compact that should release their magistrate from his duty, and should declare their lives, liberties, and properties dependent upon, not rules and laws, but his mere capricious will, that government would be void.” Other unjust policies may be explained by differences between the cultures to which they are applied, but the assertion of arbitrary power is contrary to culture itself. This is a more principled reason for Burke to have a particular objection to Hastings than simply the fact that his crimes were more offensive and Burke more certain of the offense.
In the Reflections, Burke spoke of a “politic and well-wrought veil.” In his opening of the Hastings impeachment, he described a veil of a different kind:
There is a sacred veil to be drawn over the beginnings of all governments. Ours in India had an origin like those which time has sanctified by obscurity. Time, in the origin of most governments, has thrown this mysterious veil over them; prudence and discretion make it necessary to throw something of the same drapery over more recent foundations…This “sacred veil” complicates the relationship of concealment to moral truth in a way that the “politic and well-wrought veil” does not. For one thing, while Parliament’s pragmatic decision to conceal the irregularities of 1689 made the royal accession appear to be what it in fact was (legitimate) by disguising its particulars, Burke in the Hastings trial spoke in favor of making a nation’s origin appear to be what it was not (glorious and honorable). Moreover, in the case of Parliament’s misdirection, direct honesty was approached as a competing benefit that sometimes outweighs moral concerns and sometimes does not. The sacred veil protecting the legend of a nation’s origins is not a necessary evil, but a moral necessity. It casts doubt on whether or not honesty is in every instance a moral interest at all. In the former case, honesty was preferable to dishonesty but the stability of the kingdom was preferable to either. In the latter case, dishonesty is, by its own merits, preferable to fact. Burke suggests that man’s affinity for reverence and superstition is as natural and near to his soul as his desires for justice and freedom, and so is as legitimate as either.
To accept Burke’s “sacred veil” is to conclude that a legend which breeds pride in one’s country is morally preferable to a factual story which breeds shame or humility. This preference for indirect truth may redeem Burke’s foppish ode to the age of chivalry from those of its faults that Philip Francis complained of. The drapery of legend distracts from the moral liberties taken by a country’s founders. The drapery of beauty distracts from the moral worth, good or bad, of a distressed lady. In neither case is the drapery simply a useful means to a preferable end. It is both principled and defensible to say that beauty and legend inspire feelings that are not merely useful in the way that resigning oneself to the quirks of the American spirit is useful but true in the way that compassion for one suffering is true.
Burke’s conception of government office offers its own justifications for nonmoral action. “We fear God; we look up with awe to kings; with affection to parliaments; with duty to magistrates; with reverence to priests; and with respect to nobility,” the Reflections read. Politics is a noble calling, “another priesthood, administering the rites of sacred justice.” In order to earn its natural reverence, government must posses qualities that inspire awe, just as to “make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely.”
The actions that exemplify these awesome qualities will necessarily be nonmoral. Morality is within every man’s power to discern; therefore, morality is too familiar to surprise or inspire men into reverence. If government’s actions are to be sublime, they must proceed from tradition, or honor, or some other thing more mysterious than morality. Such actions will necessarily limit liberty, a condition which Burke valued highly. He believed that “a brave people will certainly prefer liberty, accompanied with a virtuous poverty, to a depraved and wealthy servitude” and considered it bad policy for a government to limit it without compelling reason. However, while the limitations on liberty that serve to make the state sublime are arbitrary, their arbitrariness is not merely a compelling convenience but indispensable to their moral end. Burke’s treatise on beauty and sublimity outlines the importance of obscurity in greater detail:
If I make a drawing of a palace or a temple, or a landscape, I present a very clear idea of those objects; but then (allowing for the effect of imitation which is something) my picture can at most affect only as the palace, temple or landscape would have affected in the reality. On the other hand, the most lively and spirited verbal description I can give, raises a very obscure and imperfect idea of such objects; but then it is in my power to raise a stronger emotion by the description than I could do by the best painting.Burke believed that conscience, like Taste, “is the same in all, high and low, learned and unlearned.” Sublimity requires obscurity, and morality by its nature cannot be obscure. If governments are under a moral obligation to be sublime, then they are under an obligation to limit freedom in ways that are nonmoral.
Burke, in keeping with the Christian tradition of moral philosophy of which he is a part, considered morality to be universal and absolute rather than relative. This does not necessarily imply that moral concerns and particular interests are incompatible. In a Burkean empire, the only alternative to pluralism is “the dismal, cold, dead uniformity of servitude.” However, the emphasis that Burke places on national character and family bonds suggests that he values them as more than an alternative preferable to monotony and enslavement. Investing these duties with the weight of moral commandments allows for the possibility that particular loyalties are not only compatible with morality but somehow related to it.
Certainly every man has his own mother, and each man’s filial piety is directed towards a different woman than his neighbor’s. It may nevertheless be a universal law that men in general ought to love and respect their mothers. A politician’s country of birth is entirely arbitrary, but that does not negate the virtue of patriotism. It merely makes patriotism’s virtue irrelevant to the character of the nation towards which it is directed. Burke considered loyalty to one’s “little platoon” the first step in cultivating one’s conscience; it may be that such loyalties make a good first step not because they are analogous to humanitarian ethics but because they are the most intuitive element of it.
Nevertheless, merely drawing a connection between arbitrary particulars and moral universals does not prove that such particular affinities are anything more than tools helpful to moral education, to be discarded once moral universal loves have been cultivated. It would be equally plausible to say that the special love a man has for his fellow countrymen is merely a concession to his inability, as a finite mortal, to feel such love for all humankind, although a world where men transcended these limitations would be ideal.
Burke himself makes no explicit answer to the question of what to do lesser loyalties after they have fulfilled the task of leading into greater ones, or to whether or not it might be preferable, given perfect power, to transcend them. There are instances when he allowed greater loyalties to override particular ones, as when he told Mary Palmer that he would continue with personal conviction in his proceedings against Hastings, “whether the white people like it or not.” However, it is possible to rank humanitarianism over patriotism without condemning on the arbitrariness of the latter. On the subject of vocations Burke had this to say: “The occupation of a hair-dresser, or of a working tallow-chandler, cannot be a matter of honor to any person… Such descriptions of men ought not to suffer oppression from the state, but the state suffers oppression, if such as they…are permitted to rule.” In all likelihood, Burke considered the duties of arbitrary loyalties to be as binding as the (equally arbitrary) duties associated with one’s vocation, or one’s gender.
The moral law is one and the same for all, but just as moral duty varies from situation to situation, adherence to moral law may require vastly different actions from different men. That such differences should be based on arbitrary distinctions in no way undermines the universality of the rule. To say that a commandment is moral is to say that it is not arbitrary. However, this does not mean that arbitrariness cannot be a feature and component of a system of ethics. The political morality that can be extrapolated from Edmund Burke’s writings reveals the possibility of doing so by incorporating national loyalty, aesthetic chivalry, and family loyalty into divine moral law.
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