THE MORAL TEST AND ITS JUSTIFICATION.
The moral feeling, as we have seen, follows immediately and necessarily
on the moral judgment. But what considerations guide the moral judgment?
Our moral judgments, as we have also seen, are the result of a logical
process of reference to a class or of association with similars. This
particular action is like certain other actions, or belongs to a class
of actions, which we habitually regard as right or wrong, and,
consequently, as soon as the reference or association is made, the moral
feeling supervenes. Now, in this process, there are two possible sources
of error. In the first place, the act of reference or association may be
faulty, and the action may not really belong to the class to which we
refer or really be like the other actions with which we associate it.
This fault is one of classification, and can only be remedied, as all
other faulty acts of classification, by learning to discriminate between
the essential and the non-essential marks of similarity, and insisting
on the presence of the essential marks. In criminal cases, this is one
of the functions of the jury, and, unless they exercise great care, they
may easily be mistaken as to whether an alleged act of fraud, theft,
assault, &c., was really an act of that kind. But, even if the action be
referred to its right head, there remains the second question whether we
are really justified in regarding the class of actions itself as right
or wrong. Failure to prosecute for or punish heresy or witchcraft was at
one time regarded at least as wrong as failure to punish or prosecute
for theft or murder would now be. To decline to fight a duel was, till
quite recently, to place yourself outside the pale of gentlemen. A
reluctance to sacrifice herself on the funeral pile of her dead husband
was, till the practice of Suttee was abolished by the British
government, one of the most immoral traits which a Brahman widow could
exhibit. Now, have we any means of discriminating, and, if so, how do we
discriminate, between those acts which are really, and those which are
only reputed, right or wrong? That there is great need of such a test,
if it can be discovered, is plain. The wide divergences of opinion on
matters of conduct in different ages, in different countries, in
different classes of society, and even amongst men of the same class In
the same country and at the same time, shew at once the vast importance
of ascertaining some common measure of actions, and that there is no
uniform rule of right and wrong to be found in the human mind itself. If
there is such a rule, it must be derived from some external
considerations, and, if there is no such rule, then morality must be, to
a large extent, a matter of prejudice, fancy, and caprice. Now I
conceive that there is a simple mode of ascertaining whether there is
any test of actions other than the merely subjective determinations of
our own minds, or, in other words, whether there are any reasons or
external considerations by which the mind guides itself in its decisions
on matters of conduct. Do our moral opinions merely vary, or do they
grow? Is there any progress to be traced in morality, or does it simply
oscillate, within certain limits, round a fixed point? If some 'simple'
and 'innate' idea of right, or some universal sense, were the test of
morality, then we might expect that the moral decisions of all men would
be uniform, or, at least, approximately uniform; if, on the other hand,
there were no test at all, or, what amounts to much the same thing, a
merely personal test, then we might expect that the moral judgments of
mankind would vary arbitrarily according to the disposition and
temperament of each individual man. But, if there be a test derived from
external considerations and capable of being applied to particular cases
by the ordinary processes of reasoning, then we may fairly expect that,
as the opportunities of observation and experience increase, the test
will be applied more widely and more accurately, and that the science of
conduct will grow, like all other sciences, with the advance of
knowledge and of general civilisation. Now, what, as a mutter of fact,
has been the case? Can anyone affect to doubt that the morality of
civilized countries is far higher and purer, and far better adapted to
secure the preservation and progress of society, than the customs of
savage or barbaric tribes? Or, however enamoured a man may be of
classical antiquity, is there any one who would be prepared to change
the ethical code and the prevailing ethical sentiment of modern times
for those of the Greeks or Romans? Or, again, should we be willing, in
this respect, to go back three hundred, or two hundred, or even one
hundred years in our own history? Are not the abolition of slavery, the
improved and improving treatment of captives taken in war, of women and
children, of the distressed and unfortunate, and even of the lower
animals, alone sufficient to mark the difference between the morality of
earlier and of later times? I shall assume, then, that there is a test
of conduct, and that this test is of such a character that its continued
application, by individual thinkers or by mankind at large, consciously
or semi-consciously, is sufficient to account for the existence of a
progressive morality. But, if so, it must be a test which experience
enables us to apply with increasing accuracy, and which is derived from
external considerations, or, in other words, from the observation of the
effects and tendencies of actions. And here I may observe,
parenthetically, that to make 'conscience' or 'moral reason' or 'moral
sense' the test of action, as, for instance, Bishop Butler appears to do
in the case of conscience, is, even on the supposition of the
independent existence of these so-called 'faculties,' to confound the
judge with the law which governs his decisions, the 'faculty' with the
rules in accordance with which it operates. Limiting ourselves,
therefore, to a test which is derived from a consideration of the
results, direct and indirect, immediate and remote, of our actions, we
simply have to enquire what is the characteristic in these results which
men have in view when they try to act rightly, and which they mistake,
ignore, or lose sight of, when they act wrongly.
There are, in the main, three answers to this question, though they are
rather different modes, I conceive, of presenting the same idea, than
distinct and independent explanations. It may be said that we look to
the manner in which the action will affect the happiness or pleasure of
those whom it concerns, or their welfare or well-being, or the
development or perfection of their character. Now it seems to me that
these are by no means necessarily antagonistic modes of speaking, and
that, in attempting to determine the test of right action, they are all
useful as complementing each other. There is, however, a view of the
measure of actions which, though derived from external considerations,
is opposed to them all, and which it may be desirable to notice at once,
with the object of eliminating it from our enquiry. It is that we are
only concerned with actions so far as they affect ourselves, and that,
providing we observe the law of the land, which will punish us if we do
not observe it, we are under no further obligations to our
fellow-citizens. This paradox, for such it is, has mainly acquired
notoriety though the advocacy of Hobbes, though it has sometimes been
ignorantly attributed to Bentham and other writers of what is called the
utilitarian school. But, be this as it may, it is so plainly
inconsistent with some of the most obvious facts of human nature, and
specially with the existence of that large and essential group of
emotions which we call the sympathetic feelings, as well as with the
constitution of family, social, and civic life, that it is unnecessary
here further to discuss it. The views now generally accepted as to the
origin of society in the family or tribal relations are alike
irreconcileable with the selfish psychology from which Hobbes educes his
system of morality and with that 'state of nature in which every man was
at war with every man' from which he traces the growth of law and
government. Reverting, therefore, to those tests of conduct which
recognise, the independent existence of social as well as self-regarding
springs of action, I shall now make some remarks on the appropriateness
and adequacy, for the purpose of designating such tests, of the three
classes of terms, noticed above. To begin with happiness or pleasure.
Taking happiness to mean the balance of pleasures over pains, and
degrees of happiness the proportions of this balance, it will be
sufficient if I confine myself to the word 'pleasure.' One statement,
then, of the test of the morality or rightness of an action is that it
should result in a larger amount of pleasure than pain to all those whom
it affects. But it is at once objected that there is the greatest
variety of pleasures and pains, intellectual, moral, aesthetic,
sympathetic, sensual, and so on; and it is asked how are we to determine
their respective values, and to strike the balance between the
conflicting kinds? How much sensual pleasure would compensate for the
pangs of an evil conscience, or what amount of intellectual enjoyment
would allay the cravings of hunger or thirst? The only escape from this
difficulty is frankly to acknowledge that there are some pleasures and
pains which are incommensurable with one other, and that, therefore,
where they are concerned, we must forego the attempt at comparison, and
so act as to compass the immeasurably greater pleasure or avoid the
immeasurably greater pain. Especially is this the case with the
pleasures and pains attendant on the exercise of the moral feelings. A
man who is tormented with the recollection of having committed a great
crime will, as the phrase goes, 'take pleasure in nothing;' while,
similarly, a man who is enjoying the retrospect of having done his duty,
in some important crisis, will care little for obloquy or even for the
infliction of physical suffering. Making this admission, then, as well
as recognising the fact that our pleasures differ in quality as well as
in volume, so that the pleasures of the higher part of our nature, the
religious, the intellectual, the moral, the aesthetic, the sympathetic
nature, affect us with a different kind of enjoyment from the sensual
pleasures, or those which are derived from them, we may rightly regard
the tendency to produce a balance of pleasure over pain as the test of
the goodness of an action, and the effort and intention to perform acts
having this tendency as the test of the morality of the agent. But when
we enunciate the production of pleasure as our aim, or the balance of
pleasure-producing over pain-producing results as the test of right
action, we are not always understood to have admitted these
explanations, and, consequently, there is always a danger of our being
supposed to degrade morality by identifying it with the gratification,
in ourselves and others, of the coarser and more material impulses of
our nature. Though, then, if due distinctions and admissions be made,
the tendency to produce, in the long run, the greatest amount of
happiness or misery, pleasure or pain, may be taken as the test of the
goodness or badness of an action, the phraseology is so misleading, and
so liable to frustrate the practical objects of the moralist, that it is
desirable, if possible, to find terms not equally lending themselves to
misinterpretation and perversion. Let us now, then, consider whether we
are supplied with such terms in the phrases 'perfection' or
'development' of 'character.' It is a noble idea of human action to
suppose that its end is the perfection of individual men, or the
development of their various capacities to the utmost extent that is
available. And yet, as the phrases 'pleasure' and 'happiness' are apt
too exclusively to suggest material well-being and the gratification of
the more animal parts of our nature, so the phrases 'perfection' or
'development' of 'character' are apt altogether to keep out of sight
these necessary pre-suppositions of a healthy and progressive condition
of humanity. Unless there were some standard of comfortable living, and
a constant effort not only to maintain but to improve it, and unless
some zest were given to every-day life by the gratification of the
appetites, within reasonable limits, and the endeavour to obtain the
means of indulging them, men, constituted as they are, would be in
danger of sinking into sloth, squalor, and indigence, and, to the great
mass of mankind, the opportunity of developing and perfecting their
higher nature would never occur. We seem, therefore, to require some
term which will not only suggest the highest results of moral endeavour,
but also the conditions which, in the case of humanity, are essential to
the attainment of those results. Moreover, to a greater extent even than
the words 'pleasure' and 'happiness,' the expressions 'perfection' and
'development' of 'character' are in danger of being supposed to imply an
exclusive reference to self. It is true that we cannot properly develope
our characters, much less attain to all the perfection of which they are
capable, without quickening the moral feeling and giving larger scope to
the sympathetic emotions; but, in the mere attempt to improve their own
nature, men are very apt to lose sight of their relations to others. The
phrases ought, however, to be taken, and usually are intended to be
taken, to include the effort to improve the character of others as well
as our own; and if this extension of their meaning be well understood,
and it is also understood that the development or perfection of
character implies certain conditions of material comfort and the
gratification, within reasonable limits, of our appetitive nature, there
ought to be no objection on the part of the moralist to their employment
for the purpose of designating the test of right conduct; and, any way,
they are useful as supplementing, correcting, and elevating the
associations attached to the more commonly employed terms, pleasure and
happiness. But are there no terms by which the somewhat exclusive
associations connected with the two sets of phrases already examined may
be avoided? I venture to suggest that such terms may be found by
reverting to the old, but now usually discarded, expressions 'welfare'
and 'well-being.' These words, it seems to me, do not primarily suggest
material prosperity, like happiness, nor the gratification of the lower
parts of our nature, like pleasure, nor the exclusive development of the
higher parts of our nature, like perfection, but cover the whole ground
of healthy human activity and the conditions which are favourable to it.
Corresponding, too, almost exactly with the [Greek: eudaimonia] of
Aristotle, they have the advantage of venerable historic associations.
Lastly, they seem to have less of a personal and more of a social
reference than any of the other terms employed. We speak, I think, more
naturally of the well-being or welfare of society, than of the
happiness, pleasure, or perfection of society. I cannot, therefore, but
think that the moralist would be wise in at least trying the experiment
of recurring to these terms in place of those which, in recent systems
of ethics, have usually superseded them. If it be said that they are
vague, and that different people will attach different meanings to them,
according to their own prepossessions and their own theories of life, I
can only reply that this objection applies with at least equal force to
any of the other terms which we have passed in review. And, if it be
said that our conceptions of well-being and welfare are not fixed, but
that our ideas of the nature and proper proportions of their
constituents are undergoing constant modification and growth, I may ask
if this is less the case with regard to happiness, or the sum of
pleasures, or the balance of pleasures over pains, or the perfection or
due development of human character, all of which expressions, indeed,
when properly qualified and explained, I acknowledge to be the
equivalents of those for which I have stated a preference. And here
occurs a difficulty with respect to all these expressions and ideas. If
their meaning or content is not fixed, and specially if they are
undergoing a constant change, in the way of growth, with the progress of
reason and society, how can we employ them as a test of morality, which
is itself also a variable conception? Surely this is to make one
indefinite idea the gauge of another indefinite idea. The answer to this
question will, I trust, bring out clearly the nature of a moral test, as
well as the different modes of its application.
The ultimate origin of moral rules, I conceive, so far at least as
science can trace them, is to be found in the effort of men to adapt
themselves to the circumstances, social and physical, in which they are
placed. At first, probably, this process of adaptation was almost
automatic and unconscious, but, when men once began consciously to adapt
means to ends, they would soon begin to reflect on their acts, and to
ask themselves the reasons why they had selected this course of conduct
rather than another. The justifying reasons of their past acts, like the
impelling motives of their future acts, could have reference to nothing
but the convenience or gratification of themselves or those amongst whom
they lived. And the acts which they justified in themselves they would
approve of in others. Here, then, already we have a test consciously
applied to the estimation of conduct. Experience shews that this or that
action promotes some object which is included in the narrow conception
of well-being entertained by the primitive man. He, therefore, continues
to act in accordance with the rule which prescribes it, or the habit
from which it proceeds. And, in like manner, if he finds from experience
that the action does not promote that object, and he is free to exercise
his own choice, he desists from it and, perhaps, tries the experiment of
substituting another. Now, in these cases, it is plain that any judgment
which the man exercises independently, and apart from the society of
which he is a member, is guided solely by the consideration whether the
course of conduct is efficacious in attaining its end, that end being
part of his conception of the well-being of himself, his family, or his
tribe. If he thinks about the matter for himself at all, this is the
only consideration of which he can take account. There are three courses
open to him. He need not reflect on the action at all, but simply follow
in the wake of his neighbours (and this, of course, is far the commonest
case); or, if there is any divergence of opinion about it amongst his
neighbours, he may deliberate as to whose opinion it is safest to
follow; or, lastly, he may consider for himself, whether the action is
really the best means of attaining the end aimed at, that is to say, he
may test the means by its conduciveness to the end, which is always, in
some shape, the welfare of himself or others. If he follows the opinion
of others, it is plain that their opinion, so far as it has been formed
independently, has been formed in the manner above described. The only
alternative, therefore, is between the acceptance of existing opinions,
without any consideration or examination, and their reference to the
conception of well-being, or however else the idea may be expressed, as
a measure of their appropriateness and sufficiency. The idea of
well-being itself may be inadequate, and even in parts incorrect, and,
as society advances, it is undoubtedly undergoing a constant process of
expansion and rectification; but it seems to me that this regard for
their own welfare or that of others, however we may phrase it, is the
only guiding-principle of conduct, in the light of which men can
reconsider and review their rules. Unless they follow the mere blind
impulses of feeling (in which case they do not follow rules at all, but
simply act irrationally), or else observe implicitly the maxims of
conduct which they find prevalent around them, they must, and can only,
ask the question whether it is possible to alter their conduct for the
better, that is to say, whether they can better promote their own
welfare or that of others by some modification of their actions. Take
the case of Slavery. There was a time when savage or barbaric tribes,
moved by a regard to their own interests, and also, we may trust,
touched by some compassion for their victims, began to substitute, for
the wholesale butchery of their enemies defeated in war, the practice of
retaining some or all of them for the purposes of domestic or agrarian
service. Again, there came a time when, viewed by the side of other
forms of service which had meanwhile come into existence, slavery, with
its various incidents, began to shock the philanthropic sentiments of
the more civilized races of mankind, while the question also began to be
raised whether slave-labour was not economically at a disadvantage, when
compared with free labour, and the result of these combined
considerations, often aided by a strong and enthusiastic outburst of
popular feeling, has been the total disappearance of slavery amongst
civilized, and its almost total disappearance even amongst barbaric or
semi-civilized races. Take, too, the revolting practice, common among
many savage tribes, past and present, of killing and eating aged parents
or other infirm members of the tribe, when engaged in war. This practice
which, at first sight, seems so utterly unnatural, was doubtless
dictated, in part at least, by the desire to save their victims from the
worse fate of being tortured and mutilated by their enemies.
Subsequently, in the history of some of these tribes, there has come a
time when it has been discovered that a more humane mode of attaining
the same object is to build strong places and leave the feebler folk at
home. If we follow the varying marriage customs of savage or barbaric
tribes, we shall find, in the same way, that they have always been
originally framed on reasons of convenience, and that, when they have
been changed, it has been because different views of well-being,
including the needs of purity, closer attachment, increased care of
children, and the like, have begun to prevail. In all these examples,
which might be multiplied to any extent, it is plain that changes of
conduct are moulded and determined by changes of opinion as to what is
best and most suitable for the circumstances of the individual, the
family, the tribe, or whatever the social aggregate may be. And I may
venture to affirm that, wherever any change of moral conduct takes
place, unless it be dictated by blind passion, or mere submission to
authority, enforced or voluntary, the change is invariably due to some
change of opinion on what constitutes the advantage of the persons whom
it affects. It is true, therefore, that moral conduct varies, and it is
true that our conceptions of well-being vary, but the two do not vary
independently of one another, or either of them capriciously. Increased
experience of ourselves and of others, enlarged observation of the
external world, more matured reflexion are constantly expanding and
rectifying our conceptions of what constitutes human welfare, and to
this constantly amended conception are readjusted, from time to time,
our conduct and our sentiments on the conduct both of ourselves and of
others. In brief, then, the conduct of men and the sentiments of men on
conduct vary with their conceptions of well-being, and their conceptions
of well-being are determined by experience (including the opportunity
for experience) and reflexion.
My conclusion may, perhaps, be illustrated and enforced by one further
consideration. It generally happens, in the progress of society, that,
after a number of rules of conduct have been accumulated, they become
enshrined in some sacred book, some code, or, at least, some constant
and authoritative tradition. In this manner they may be stereotyped for
ages. Now, after a time, these rules, especially if they are numerous
and minute, become unsuited, at least in part, to the altered
circumstances of the society, and probably bear hardly on many of the
individuals composing it. When this condition of things is beginning to
be intolerable, there often arises the social reformer, and what is the
course which he pursues? He endeavours to shew how unsuitable the rules
have become to attain the ends which they were originally intended to
compass, in how much better a manner other rules would attain these
objects, how grievously the present rules bear on many classes and
individuals in the state, how unequal they are in their incidence, at
what a disadvantage they place the community in comparison with
neighbouring communities, how easily they may be altered, and the like.
In fact, the considerations which he urges may all be included in the
one argument that the existing rules are opposed to the well-being of
the state, and that the advantages resulting from their abrogation will
more than compensate for any disturbance of existing relations which may
ensue from the change. Apart from force, or mere rant, rhetoric, or
imposture, it is difficult to see what other resource the reformer has
open to him. And, in those cases where there is no accumulation of
antiquated rules and no need of the individual reformer, but where
society at large has the happy knack of imperceptibly accommodating its
practice and principles of action to altered circumstances, there can be
no doubt that it is by considerations of well-being, half conscious
though the process of application may be, that the change is directed.
The plastic power by which men accommodate their actions and even their
maxims of conduct to modifications in surrounding circumstances is one
of the advantages which they gain by the progress of civilisation. In
ancient society the tyranny of custom is often almost absolute. In
modern society changes, which would otherwise require the drastic hand
of the reformer, are often quietly effected by the gradual and almost
imperceptible action of the people themselves. It is thus that the
equity branch of English law, and much of our case law, grew up, giving
expression to changes which had already occurred in the current of
popular opinion. It is thus that the obligation of 'gentlemen' to offer,
on the slightest provocation, and to accept, without questioning, a
'challenge' to take each other's lives, has, in most civilized
countries, now grown obsolete, having gradually become enfeebled
together with the exaggerated military spirit which gave it birth. It is
thus also that, with an increase of the industrial spirit, with softened
manners, and with that quickening of our sympathetic nature which has
gradually been effected by the teaching of Christianity, a strong
sentiment against slavery, a respect for human life as such, a regard
for the weak, the suffering, the oppressed, and many tender feelings of
a similar kind, have almost insensibly been developed as an essential
element in modern civilisation.
These considerations naturally lead me to notice the two different ways
in which the test of conduct may be, and as a fact is, applied. One mode
is the conscious and intentional application of it by the reflective
man. The other is the semi-conscious and almost instinctive application
of it by the community at large. In morals, as in the arts, men, almost
without knowing it, are constantly re-adjusting their means to their
ends, feeling their way to some tentative solution of a new difficulty
or a better solution of an old one, shaping their conduct with reference
to the special needs of the situation in which they are placed. It is
thus, for the most part, that new circumstances develope new rules, and
that the simple maxims of a primitive people are gradually replaced by
the multifarious code of law and morals with which we are now familiar.
The guiding principle throughout the process is the conception of their
own good, comprehending, as it does, not only ease, personal comfort,
and gratification of the various appetites and desires, which, in the
early stages of society, are the preponderating considerations, but also
those higher constituents of welfare, both individual and social, which
attain an ever-increasing importance as society advances, such as are
the development of the moral, the intellectual, and the aesthetic
faculties; the purification of the religious sentiments, the expansion
of the sympathetic feelings, the diffusion of liberty and prosperity,
the consolidation of national unity, the elevation of human life. This
principle works throughout the community, actuating some men in its
higher, others in its lower forms; but, except where the force of
tradition or prejudice is too strong for it, invariably moulding conduct
into accordance with the more complex requirements of advancing
civilisation. Its action, of course, is not wholly advantageous. Growing
needs and more complicated relations suggest to men fresh devices for
compassing their selfish ends, such as the various forms of fraud,
forgery, and conspiracy, as well as more enlarged or more effective
schemes of beneficence, stricter or more intelligent applications of the
principle of justice, and possibilities of higher and freer developments
of their faculties. But, on the whole, and setting aside as exceptional
certain periods of retrogression, such as the decline of the Roman
Empire, the evolution of society seems to be attended by the progress of
morality, and specially by the amelioration of social relations, whether
between individuals, families, or states. The intelligence that
apprehends the greater good re-acts upon the desire to attain it, and
the result is the combination of more rational aims with a purer
interest in the pursuit of them.
This tendency in society at large to modify and re-adjust its conduct in
conformity with fuller and more improved conceptions of well-being,
which are themselves suggested by a growing experience, is reinforced,
especially in the later stages of civilisation, by the consciously
reflective action of philosophers and reformers. It is the function of
these classes not only to give expression to the thoughts which are
working obscurely in the minds of other men, but also to detect those
aspects and bearings of conduct which are not obvious to the general
intelligence. This task is effected partly by tracing actions to their
indirect and remote results, partly by more distinctly realising their
results, whether immediate or remote, direct or indirect, and partly by
generalising them, that is to say, by considering what would happen to
society if men generally were to act in that manner. Thus, take the case
of lying. In primitive states of society, and even in some more advanced
nations, no great opprobrium attaches to telling a lie. In ancient
Greece, for instance, veracity by no means occupied the same prominent
position among the virtues that it does among ourselves, and, even now,
Teutonic races are generally credited with a peculiar sensitiveness on
the subject of truthfulness. This improved sentiment as regards veracity
is, no doubt, partly due to the realisation of its importance and of the
inconveniences which result from the breaches of it, especially in
commercial affairs, by the members of a community at large; but it must
also, to a great extent, have been produced by the definite teaching
conveyed in books, and by moral and religious instructors. Follow out a
lie to all its consequences, realise the feelings of the person deceived
by it, when he has discovered the deception, above all, consider what
would be the result if men were commonly to deceive one another, and no
man could place any dependence on the information which his neighbour
gave him; and then a falsehood excites very different feelings from what
it does when regarded simply as an isolated act. Or, again, take the
evasion of taxes. There is probably, even yet, no country in which the
popular sentiment on this subject is sufficiently enlightened and
severe. A man smuggles a box of cigars, or evades paying a tax for his
dog, or makes an insufficient return of his income, and few of his
neighbours, if the fact come to their knowledge, think the worse of him.
The character and consequences of the action are not obvious, and hence
they do not perceive what, on reflexion, or, if guided by proper
instruction, they could hardly fail to realise, that the act is really a
theft, only practised on the community at large instead of on an
individual member of it, and that, if every one were to act in the same
way, the collection of taxes and, consequently, the administration and
defence of the country, the maintenance of its army and navy, its
police, its harbours and roads, would become an impossibility, and it
would quickly relapse into barbarism. Other familiar instances of the
advantage to be derived from the conscious and intentional application
of the reasoning powers to matters of conduct may be found in the
successive reforms of the penal code of any civilized country, or in the
abolition of slavery. Punishment is, in all very early stages of
society, capricious, mostly unregulated by any definite customs or
enactments, and, consequently, often disproportioned, either in the way
of excess or defect, to the character of the offence. As the community
advances in complexity and intelligence, successive reformers arise who
attempt, by definite enactment, to regulate the amount of punishment due
to each description of offence, and, from time to time, to increase or
diminish, as occasion seems to require, the severity of the existing
code. The considerations by which, at least in our own time, these
reforms are determined are such as these: the adequacy or inadequacy of
the punishment to deter men from the commission of the offence, the
tendency of excessive punishment to produce a reaction of sentiment in
favour of the criminal, and a reluctance on the part of the judge or
jury to convict, the superfluous suffering inflicted by that part of the
punishment which is in excess of the requirements of the case, due
publicity and notoriety as a means of warning others, the reform of the
criminal himself, and so on. All these considerations, it will be
observed, are derived from tracing the effects of the punishment either
on the criminal himself, or on persons who are under a similar
temptation to commit the crime, or on the sentiment of society at large,
or of that portion of society which is connected with the administration
of justice, and it is only by the exercise of great circumspection, and
of a keen intelligence on the part of the statesman, the jurist, or the
moralist, that grave errors can be avoided, and an adequate estimate of
the probable results can be formed. The mere instinct of the community,
unmodified and uncorrected by the conscious speculations of its more
thoughtful members, would be in much danger of either causing a large
amount of needless suffering to the criminal, or of seriously
diminishing the security of society. It would almost certainly be guilty
of grave inequalities in the apportionment of punishment to specific
crimes. The history of slavery similarly shews the importance of the
functions of the moralist and the reformer. It must have been at the
suggestion of some prominent member of a tribe, whose intelligence was
in advance of that of his fellows, that men first took to capturing
their defeated enemies, with a view to future service, instead of
slaughtering them on the field of battle. And we know that, in the time
of Plato and Aristotle, there had already arisen a strong sentiment
against the enslaving of Greeks by Greeks, originating probably in the
instinctive sympathy of race, but quickened and fostered, doubtless, by
the superior capacity which men possess of realising suffering and
misfortune in those who are constituted and endowed like themselves, by
the new conception of a Pan-hellenic unity, and by the vivid sense
which, on reflexion, the citizens of each state must have entertained of
their own liability to be reduced, in turn, to the same condition. In
modern times, the movement which has led to the entire abolition of
slavery in civilized countries owes much, undoubtedly, to the softened
manners and wider sympathies of a society largely transformed by the
combined operation of Christianity and culture, but it has been
promoted, to no inconsiderable degree, by conscious reflexion and direct
argument. Social and religious reasons, derived from the community of
nature and origin in man, reinforced by a vivid realisation of the
sufferings of others, and appealing forcibly to the tender and
sympathetic feelings, have co-operated with the economical
considerations drawn from the wastefulness and comparative inefficiency
of slave labour, and with what may be called the self-regarding reason
of the hardening and debasing effect of slave-owning on the character of
the slave-owner himself.
It will be sufficient, in this connexion, simply to allude to the ideals
of mercy, purity, humility, long-suffering, and self-denial, which are
pourtrayed in the Christian teaching and have, ever since the early days
of Christianity, exercised so vast and powerful an influence on large
sections of mankind.
There is, of course, a process of constant Interaction going on between
the two elements in the constitution of moral sentiment which I have
been attempting to describe. The circumstances, opinions, and feelings
of the society of which he is a member, must necessarily contribute to
determine the opinions and feelings, the character and aims, of the
moralist or the reformer. In turn, the moralist or reformer modifies,
corrects, and elevates the current moral sentiment of those who are
brought within the influence of his work. And this result is usually a
permanent one. When the average moral sentiment on a particular point of
conduct has been consciously raised, and the change is fully realised,
it seldom happens that it afterwards recedes, though the automatic or
semi-conscious adaptations of society to new needs and circumstances,
when regarded from a more general point of view, are not infrequently
found to be regressive as well as progressive. Thus, though we may
imagine the distinctions between the different classes of society
becoming more numerous or more accentuated (as I believe to have
actually occurred in England during the present century), or the evasion
of taxation becoming more general than it at present is, we can hardly
conceive a recurrence to slavery, or a needless increase in the severity
of punishments, or a revival of the hard-drinking habits of the last
century. When society is fully aware of its moral gains, it is not
likely knowingly to surrender them. Hence, allowing for occasional
oscillations and for possible exceptions in certain departments of
conduct, morality, as a whole, almost necessarily advances with the
general progress of intelligence.
It is not altogether easy to adjust the respective claims of society at
large and of the individual thinker in the constitution of moral theory,
or, in other words, to determine the limits within which the speculative
moralist may legitimately endeavour to reform the existing moral
sentiment. It is plain that it must be open to the moralist, and, in
fact, to every intelligent citizen, to criticize the current morality,
or else moral progress, even if it took place at all, would, on many
points of conduct, be exceedingly slow. But, on the other hand, it is
equally plain that a constant discussion of the accepted rules of
conduct would weaken the moral sentiment, lessen the sense of
obligation, and suggest a general uncertainty as to the validity of the
maxims which, in their relations to one another, men usually take for
granted. Hence, though it would be almost fatal to moral progress to
discourage speculation on moral topics, the moralist must always bear in
mind that his task is one which is not lightly to be undertaken, and
that, with an exception to be noticed presently, the presumption should
always be in favour of existing rules of conduct. If for no other
reason, this presumption ought to be made on the practical ground that a
disturbance of the moral sentiment on one point is likely to weaken its
force generally, and, before we expose men to this danger, we ought to
have some adequate justification. But there is also the speculative
ground that any given society, and indeed mankind generally, has been
engaged for ages in feeling its way, instinctively or semi-consciously,
towards a solution of the self-same problems which the philosopher is
attempting to solve consciously and of set purpose. That, on the whole,
a society has solved these problems in the manner best suited to its
existing needs and circumstances may fairly be taken for granted, and,
even where the ethical stand-point of the reformer is very superior to
the stand-point of the society which he wishes to reform, he will be
wise in endeavouring to introduce his reforms gradually, and, if
possible, in connexion with principles already acknowledged, rather than
in attempting to effect a moral revolution, the ultimate results of
which it may be impossible to foresee. The work of the moralist is,
therefore, best regarded as corrective of, and supplementary to, the
work which mankind is constantly doing for itself, and not as
antagonistic to it. The method is the same in both cases: only it is
applied semi-consciously, and merely as occasions suggest it, in the one
case; consciously and spontaneously in the other. In both cases alike
the guiding principle, whether of action or of speculation upon action,
is the adaptation of conduct to surrounding circumstances, physical and
social, with a view to promote, to the utmost extent possible, the
well-being of the individual and of the society of which he is a member.
Where the interests of the individual and of the society clash, society,
that is to say, a man's fellow-citizens, usually approves, as we saw in
the last chapter, of the sacrifice of individual to social interests, a
course of conduct which is also, on reflexion, usually stamped by the
individual's own approbation, and hence we may say briefly that their
tendency to promote or impair the welfare of society is the test by
which, in different ways, all actions are estimated alike by the
philosopher, in his hours of speculation, and by the community at large,
in the practical work of life.
In laying down the principle that the presumption of the moralist should
always be in favour of existing rules of conduct, I intimated that there
was one exception to this principle. The exception includes all those
cases which are legitimate, though not obvious, applications of existing
rules, and to which, therefore, the ordinary moral sentiment does not
attach in the same way that it does to the plainer and more direct
applications. Thus, if it can be shewn, as it undoubtedly can be, that
smuggling falls under the head of stealing, and holding out false hopes
under that of lying, the moralist need take no account of the lax moral
sentiment which exists with regard to these practices, though, of
course, in estimating the guilt of the individual as distinct from the
character of the act, due allowance must be made for his imperfect
appreciation of the moral bearings of his conduct. This exception, as
will be found in the next chapter, covers, and therefore at once
justifies, a large proportion of the criticisms which, in the present
advanced stage of morality, when the more fundamental principles have
been already settled, it is still open to us to make.
It remains now to enquire what is the justification of the test
propounded in this chapter. I do not found it on any external
considerations, whether of Law or Revelation, both of which, I conceive,
presuppose morality, but on the very make and constitution of our
nature. The justification of the moral test and the source of the moral
feeling are alike, I conceive, to be discovered by an examination of
human nature, and, so far as that nature has a divine origin, so far is
the origin of morality divine. Whatever the ultimate source of morality
may be, to us, at all events, it can only be known as revealed or
reflected in ourselves. What, then, is it in the constitution of our
nature, which leads us to aim at the well-being of ourselves and those
around us, and to measure our own conduct and that of others by the
extent to which it promotes these ends? In answering this question, I
must give a brief account of the ultimate principles of human nature,
though this account has been partly anticipated in the last chapter.
Human nature, in its last analysis, seems, so far as it is concerned
with action, to consist of certain impulses or feelings, and a power of
comparing with one another the results which follow from the
gratification of these feelings, which power reacts upon the several
feelings themselves by way of intensifying, checking, or controlling
them. This power we call Reason. The feelings themselves fall into two
principal groups, the egoistic or self-regarding feelings, which centre
in a man's self, and are developed by his personal needs, and the
altruistic or sympathetic feelings, which centre in others and are
developed by the social surroundings in which he finds himself placed.
These two groups of feelings, I conceive, were independent of one
another from the first, or at least as soon as man could be called man,
and neither of them admits of being resolved into the other. As the one
was developed by and adapted to personal needs, so the other was
developed by and adapted to the manifold requirements of family or
tribal life, which, from the first, was inseparable from the life of the
individual. Intermediate between these two groups of feelings, the
purely self-regarding and the purely sympathetic, and derived probably
from the interaction of both, is another group, which may be called the
semi-social group. This group includes shame, love of reputation, love
of notoriety, desire of fame, and the like, but, on analysis, it will be
found that all these feelings admit of being referred to two heads, the
love of approbation and the fear of disapprobation. Lastly, if any of
our desires or feelings are thwarted by the intentional action of other
men, the result in our minds is a feeling which we call Resentment, and
which, though it regards others, is, unlike the sympathetic feelings, a
malevolent and not a benevolent feeling. It is important, in considering
the economy of human nature, to notice that Resentment, as is also the
case with the love of cruelty, is a secondary not a primary, a derived
not an original affection of our minds; for, apart from the desire to
gratify some self-regarding or sympathetic feeling, or disappointment
when that desire is not gratified, there is, I conceive, no such thing
as ill-feeling in one human being towards another. Resentment is
properly a reflex form of sympathy or self-regard, arising when our
sympathetic feelings are wounded by an injury done to another, or our
self-regarding desires are frustrated by an injury done to ourselves;
when, in fact, any emotional element in our nature is, by the
intentional intervention of another, disappointed of attaining its end.
Each of these groups of feelings admits of being studied apart, though
in the actual conduct of life they are seldom found to operate alone,
and each, under the continued action of reason, assumes a form or forms
in which its various elements are brought into harmonious working with
each other, so as best to promote the ends which the whole group
subserves. These forms, thus rationalised or moralised, if I may be
allowed the use of such expressions, are, in the case of the
self-regarding feelings, self-respect and rational self-love; in the
case of the sympathetic feelings, rational benevolence; in the case of
the semi-social feelings, a reasonable regard for the opinion of others;
and in the case of the resentful feelings, a sense of justice. These
higher forms of the several groups of feelings themselves require to be
harmonised, before man can satisfy the needs of his nature as a whole.
And, when co-ordinated under the control of reason, they become a
rational desire for the combined welfare of the individual and of
society, or, if we choose to use different but equivalent expressions,
of the individual considered as an unit of society, or of society
considered as including the individual. In a settled state of existence,
the interests of the individual and of society, even leaving out of
account the pleasures and pains of the moral sanction, are, for the most
part, identical. If an individual pursues a selfish course of conduct,
neglecting the interests and feelings of others, he is almost certain to
suffer for it in the long run. And the prosperity and general well-being
of the community in which they live is, to citizens, living a normal
life and pursuing ordinary avocations, an essential condition of their
own prosperity and well-being. On the other hand, it is by each man
attending to his own business and directing his efforts to the promotion
of his own interests or those of his family, his firm, or whatever may
be the smaller social aggregate in which his work chiefly lies, that the
interests of the community at large are best secured. Men whose time is
mainly taken up with philanthropic enterprises are very likely to
neglect the duties which lie immediately before them. 'To learn and
labour truly to get mine own living, and to do my duty in that state of
life, unto which it shall please God to call me' is a very homely, but
it is an essential lesson. That the great mass of the citizens of a
country should lay it well to heart, and act habitually on it, is the
first condition of national prosperity. Of course, this primary regard
to our own interests, or those of the persons with whom we are more
immediately connected, must be limited by wider considerations. A man
has duties, not only to himself and his own family, but to his
neighbours, to the various institutions with which he is connected, to
his town, his country, mankind at large, and even the whole sentient
creation. How far these should limit each other or a man's individual or
family interests is a question by no means easy to answer, and is the
main problem which each man has to be perpetually solving for himself,
and society at large for us all. There is hardly any waking hour in
which we have not to attempt to settle rival claims of this kind, and,
according as we settle them to our own satisfaction or not, so have we
peace or trouble of mind. No one can reasonably deny that the more
immediate interests of the individual and of the various social
aggregates, including society at large, are frequently in conflict. It
seems to me, I must confess, that it is also futile to deny that there
are occasions, though such occasions may be rare, in which even a man's
interests in the long run are incompatible with his social duties. To
take one or two instances. It may sometimes be for the good of society
that a man should speak out his mind freely on some question of private
conduct or public policy, though his utterances may be on the unpopular
side or offend persons of consideration and influence. The man performs
what he conceives to be his duty, but he knows that, in doing so, he is
sacrificing his prospects. Or, again, he is invited to join in some
popular movement which he believes to be of a questionable or pernicious
tendency, and, because he believes that to take part in it would be
untrue to his own convictions and possibly harmful to others, he
refrains from doing so, at the risk of losing preferment, or custom, or
patronage. Then, we are all familiar with the difficulties in which men
are often placed, when they have to record a vote; their convictions and
the claims of the public service being on one side, and their own
interests and prospects on the other. In all these cases it is true
that, if their moral nature be in a healthy condition, they approve, on
reflexion, of having taken the more generous course, while it is often a
matter of life-long regret if they have sacrificed their nobler impulses
to their selfish interests. And, taking into account these
after-feelings of self-approbation and self-disapprobation, it is often
the case, and is always the case where these feelings are very strong,
that a man gains more happiness, in the long run, by following the path
of duty and obeying his social impulses than by confining himself to the
narrow view which would be dictated by a cool calculation of what is
most likely to conduce to his own private good. But, where the moral
feelings are not strong, and still more where they are almost in
abeyance, I fear that the theory that virtue and happiness are
invariably coincident will hardly be supported by a candid examination
of facts. To some men, I fear it must be acknowledged, present wealth
and power and dignity are more than a sufficient recompense for any
remorse which they may continue to feel for past greed or lack of
candour or truthfulness. These considerations will serve to shew the
immense importance of moral education, alike in the family, the school,
and the state. If we are to depend on men acting rightly, and with a due
regard to wider interests than their own, we must take pains to develope
in them moral feelings sufficiently strong and sensitive to make the
reflexion on wrong or selfish acts more painful to them than the
sacrifice which is needed for dutiful and generous conduct. So far as
society, through its various instruments of law and opinion, of
education and domestic influences, can effect this object, so far will
it promote its own security and advancement.
Our adoption, then, of a tendency to promote social welfare or
well-being, as the test of conduct, is justified, I conceive, by an
examination of the internal constitution of human nature and of the
conditions which are necessary to secure the harmonious working of its
various parts. It may be objected that this test is vague in its
conception and difficult in its application. Both objections, to a great
extent, hold good. If they did not, moral theory and moral practice
would be very easy matters, but, as a fact, we know that they are by no
means easy. The conception of social well-being must be more or less
vague, because we are constantly filling it up by experience; it is not
a fixed, but a growing conception, and, though we may be certain of the
character and importance of many of the elements which have already been
detected in it by the experience of past generations, it seems
impossible to fix any limits to its development in the future history of
mankind. Man will constantly be discovering new wants, new and more
refined susceptibilities of his nature, and with them his conception of
human well-being must necessarily grow. But, though not a fixed or final
conception, the idea of social well-being is sufficiently definite, in
each generation, to act as a guide and incentive to conduct. It is the
star, gradually growing brighter and brighter, which lights our path,
and, any way, we know that, if it were not above us in the heavens, we
should be walking in the darkness.
It must be confessed that the test of social well-being is not always
easy of application. Even, when we know what the good of the community
consists in, it is not always easy to say what course of action will
promote it, or what course of action is likely to retard it. Society
arrives, in a comparatively early period of its development, at certain
broad rules of conduct, such as those which condemn murder, theft,
ingratitude to friends, disobedience to parents. But the more remote
applications of these rules, the nicer shades of conduct, such as those
relating to social intercourse, the choice between clashing duties, the
realisation of our obligations to the community at large, require for
their appreciation a large amount of intelligence and an accumulated
stock of experience which are not to be found in primitive societies.
Hence, the rules of conduct, which at first are few and simple,
gradually become more numerous and complex. Nor have we yet arrived at
the time, nor do we seem to be within any appreciable distance of it,
when the code is complete, or even the parts of it which already exist
are altogether free from doubt and discussion. In the simpler relations
of life, he that runs may read, but with increasing complications comes
increasing uncertainty. To remove, as far as may be, this uncertainty
from the domain of conduct is the task of advancing civilisation, and
specially of those members of a community who have sufficient leisure,
education, and intelligence to review the motives and compare the
results of actions. The task has doubtless its special difficulties, and
the conclusions of the moralist will by no means always command assent,
but that the art of life is an easy one, who is there, at all
experienced in affairs or accustomed to reflexion, that will contend?
I may here pause for a moment, in order to emphasise the fact, which is
already abundantly apparent from what has preceded, that, with ever
widening and deepening conceptions of well-being, man is constantly
learning to subordinate his individual interests to those of society at
large, or rather to identify his interests with those of the larger
organism of which he is a part. It is thus that we may justify the
peculiar characteristic of the moral sentiment, indicated in the last
chapter, which seems, in all acts of which it approves, to demand an
element of sacrifice, whether of the lower to the higher self, or of the
individual to his fellows. In order thoroughly to realise ourselves, we
must be conscious of our absorption, or at least of our inclusion, in a
greater and grander system than that of our individual surroundings; in
order to find our lives, we must first discover the art of losing them.