In some respects Mill's Essays, published under the title
"Utilitarianism," are among his best writings. They have, in the first
place, the excellence of brevity. Ninety-six pages, printed in handsome
type, make but a light task for the student who wishes to enter into the
intricacies of moral doctrine. Moreover, the last Essay consists of a
digression concerning the nature and origin of the idea of Justice, and
it occupies nearly one-third of the whole book. Thus Mill managed to
compress his discussion of so important a subject as the foundations of
Moral Right and Wrong into some sixty pleasant pages.
And pleasant pages they certainly are, for they are written in Mill's
very best style. Now Mill, even when he is most prolix, when he is
pursuing the intricacies of the most involved points of logic and
philosophy, can seldom or never be charged with dulness and heaviness.
His language is too easy, polished, and apparently lucid. In these
Essays on Utilitarianism, he reaches his own highest standard of style.
There is hardly any other book in the range of philosophy, so far as my
reading has gone, which can be read with less effort. There is something
enticing in the easy flow of sentences and ideas, and without apparent
difficulty the reader finds himself agreeably borne into the midst of
the most profound questions of ethical philosophy, questions which have
been the battle-ground of the human intellect for two thousand five
hundred years.
Partly to this excellence of style, partly to Mill's immense reputation,
acquired by other works and in other ways, must we attribute the
importance which has been generally attached to these ninety-six pages.
Probably no other modern work of the same small typographical extent has
been equally discussed, criticized, and admired, unless, indeed, it be
the Essay on Liberty of the same author. The result is, that Mill has
been generally regarded as the latest and best expounder of the great
Utilitarian Doctrine--that doctrine which is, by one and no doubt the
preponderating school, regarded as the foundation of all moral and
legislative progress. Many there are who think that, what Hume and Paley
and Jeremy Bentham began, Mill has carried nearly to perfection in these
agreeable Essays.
Nothing can be more plain, too, than that Mill himself believed he was
dutifully expounding the doctrines of his father, of his father's
friend, the great Bentham, and of the other unquestionable Utilitarians
among whom he grew up. Mill seems to pride himself upon having been the
first, not indeed to invent, but to bring into general acceptance the
name of the school to which he supposed himself to belong. He says:[76]
"The author of this essay has reason for believing himself to be the
first person who brought the word utilitarian into use. He did not
invent it, but adopted it from a passing expression in Mr. Galt's
'Annals of the Parish.' After using it as a designation for several
years, he and others abandoned it from a growing dislike to anything
resembling a badge or watchword of sectarian distinction. But as a name
for one single opinion, not a set of opinions--to denote the recognition
of utility as a standard, not any particular way of applying it--the
term supplies a want in the language, and offers, in many cases, a
convenient mode of avoiding tiresome circumlocution."
In the Autobiography (p. 79), Mill makes a statement to the same effect,
saying--
"I did not invent the word, but found it in one of Galt's novels,
the 'Annals of the Parish,' in which the Scotch clergyman, of whom
the book is a supposed autobiography, is represented as warning his
parishioners not to leave the Gospel and become utilitarians. With a
boy's fondness for a name and a banner I seized on the word, and for
some years called myself and others by it as a sectarian
appellation; and it came to be occasionally used by some others
holding the opinions it was intended to designate. As those opinions
attracted more notice, the term was repeated by strangers and
opponents, and got into rather common use just about the time when
those who had originally assumed it, laid down that along with other
sectarian characteristics."
It is pointed out, however, by Mr. Sidgwick in his article on
Benthamism,[77] that Bentham himself suggested the name "Utilitarian,"
in a letter to Dumont, as far back as June, 1802.
Mill explicitly states that it was his purpose in these Essays on
Utilitarianism to expound a previously received doctrine of utility.
Towards the close of his first chapter, containing General Remarks, he
says (p. 6): "On the present occasion, I shall, without further
discussion of the other theories, attempt to contribute something
towards the understanding and appreciation of the Utilitarian or
Happiness theory, and towards such proof as it is susceptible of." He
proceeds to explain that a preliminary condition of the rational
acceptance or rejection of a doctrine is that its formula should be
correctly understood. The very imperfect notion ordinarily formed of the
Utilitarian formula was the chief obstacle which impeded its reception;
the main work to be done, therefore, by a Utilitarian writer was to
clear the doctrine from the grosser misconceptions. Thus the question
would be greatly simplified, and a large proportion of its difficulties
removed. His Essays purport throughout to be a defence and exposition of
the Utilitarian doctrine.
But one characteristic of Mill's writings is that there is often a wide
gulf between what he intends and what he achieves. There is even a want
of security that what he is at any moment urging may not be the logical
contrary of what he thinks he is urging. This happens to be palpably the
case with the celebrated Essays before us. Mill explains and defends his
favourite doctrine with so much affection and so much candour that he
finally explains himself into the opposite doctrine. Yet with that
simplicity which is a pleasing feature of his personal character, Mill
continues to regard himself as a Utilitarian long after he has left the
grounds of Paley and Bentham. Lines of logical distinction and questions
of logical consistency are of little account to one who cannot
distinguish between fact and feeling, between sense and sentiment. It is
possible that no small part of the favour with which these Essays have
always been received by the general public is due to the happy way in
which Mill has combined the bitter and the sweet. The uncompromising
rigidity of the Benthamist formulas is softened and toned down. An
apparently scientific treatment is combined with so many noble
sentiments and high aspirations, that almost any one except a logician
may be disarmed.
But nothing can endure if it be not logical. These Essays may be very
agreeable reading; they may make readers congratulate themselves on so
easily becoming moral philosophers; but they cannot really advance moral
science if they represent one thing as being another thing. I make it my
business therefore in this article to show that Mill was intellectually
unfitted to decide what was utilitarian and what was not. In removing
the obstacles to the reception of his favourite doctrine he removed its
landmarks too, and confused everything. It is true that I come rather
late in the day to show this. Some scores, if not hundreds, of critics
have shown the same fact more or less clearly. Eminent men of the most
different schools and tones of thought--such as the Rev. Dr. Martineau,
Mr. Sidgwick, Dr. Ward, Professor Birks, the late Professor Grote--have
criticized and refuted Mill time after time.
Since commencing my analysis of Mill's Philosophy, I have been surprised
to find, too, that some who were supposed to support Mill's school
through thick and thin, have long since discovered the inconsistencies
which I would now expose, at such wearisome length as if they were new
discoveries. Such is the ground which my friend, Professor Croom
Robertson, takes in his quarterly review, _Mind_, which must be
considered our best authority on philosophical questions. As to this
matter of Utilitarianism, a very eminent author, formerly a friend of
Mill himself, assures me that the subject is quite threshed out, and
implies that there is no need for me to trouble the public any more
about it. In fact, it would seem to be allowed within philosophical
circles that Mill's works are often wrongheaded and unphilosophical. Yet
these works are supposed to have done so much good that obloquy attaches
to any one who would seek to diminish the respect paid to them by the
public at large. Philosophers, and teachers of the last generation at
least, have done their best to give Mill's groundless philosophy a hold
upon all the schools and all the press, and yet we of this generation
are to wait calmly until this influence dissolves of its own accord. We
are to do nothing to lessen the natural respect paid to the memory of
the dead, especially of the dead who have unquestionably laboured with
single-minded purpose for what they considered the good of their
fellow-creatures. But in nothing is it more true than in philosophy,
that "the evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred
with their bones." Words and false arguments cannot be recalled. Throw a
stone into the surface of the still sea, and you are powerless to
prevent the circle of disturbance from spreading more and more widely.
True it is, that one disturbance may be overcome and apparently
obliterated by other deeper disturbances; but Mill's works and opinions
were disseminated by the immense former influence of the united band of
Benthamist philosophers. He is criticized and discussed and repeated, in
almost every philosophical work of the last thirty or forty years. He is
taken throughout the world as the representative of British philosophy,
and it is not sufficient for a few eminent thinkers in Oxford, or
Cambridge, or London, or Edinburgh, or Aberdeen, to acknowledge in a
tacit sort of way that this doctrine and that doctrine is wrong.
Eventually, no doubt, the opinion of the Lecture Halls and Combination
Rooms will guide the public opinion; but it may take a generation for
tacit opinions to permeate society. We must have them distinctly and
boldly expressed. It is especially to be remembered that the public
press throughout the English-speaking countries is mostly conducted by
men educated in the time when Mill's works were entirely predominant.
These men are now for the most part cut off, by geographical or
professional obstacles, from the direct influence of Oxford or
Cambridge. The circle of disturbance has spread beyond the immediate
reach of those centres of thought. To be brief, I do not believe that
Mill's immense philosophical influence, founded as it is on confusion of
thought, will readily collapse. I fear that it may remain as a permanent
obstacle in the way of sound thinking. _Citius emergit veritas ex
errore, quam ex confusione._ Had Mill simply erred as did Hobbes about
elementary geometry, and Berkeley about infinitesimals, it would be
necessary merely to point out the errors and consign them to merciful
oblivion. But it is not so easy to consign to oblivion ponderous works
so full of confusion of thought that every inexperienced and unwarned
reader is sure to lose his way in them, and to take for profound
philosophy that which is really a kind of kaleidoscopic presentation of
philosophic ideas and phrases, in a succession of various but usually
inconsistent combinations. To the public at large, Mill's works still
undoubtedly remain as the standard of accurate thinking, and the most
esteemed repertory of philosophy. I cannot therefore consider my
criticism superfluous, and at the risk of repeating much that has been
said by the eminent critics already mentioned, or by others, I must show
that Mill has thrown ethical philosophy into confusion as far as could
well be done in ninety-six pages.
The nature of the Utilitarian doctrine is explained by Mill with
sufficient accuracy in pp. 9 and 10, where he says--
"The creed which accepts as the foundation of morals, Utility, or
the Greatest Happiness Principle, holds that actions are right in
proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to
produce the reverse of happiness. By happiness is intended pleasure,
and the absence of pain; by unhappiness, pain, and the privation of
pleasure. To give a clear view of the moral standard set up by the
theory, much more requires to be said; in particular, what things it
includes in the ideas of pain and pleasure; and to what extent this
is left an open question. But these supplementary explanations do
not affect the theory of life on which this theory of morality is
grounded--namely, that pleasure, and freedom from pain, are the only
things desirable as ends; and that all desirable things (which are
as numerous in the utilitarian as any other scheme) are desirable
either for the pleasure inherent in themselves, or as means to the
promotion of pleasure and the prevention of pain."
Mill proceeds to say that such a theory of life excites inveterate
dislike in many minds, and among them some of the most estimable in
feeling and purpose. To hold forth no better end than pleasure is felt
to be utterly mean and grovelling--a doctrine worthy only of swine. Mill
accordingly proceeds to inquire whether there is anything really
grovelling in the doctrine--whether, on the contrary, we may not include
under pleasure, feelings and motives which are in the highest degree
noble and elevating. The whole inquiry turns upon this question--Do
pleasures differ in quality as well as in quantity? Can a small amount
of pleasure of very elevated character outweigh a large amount of
pleasure of low quality? We should never think of estimating pictures by
their size and number. The productions of West and Fuseli, which were
the wonder and admiration of our grandparents, can now be bought by the
square yard, to cover the bare walls of eating-houses and music-halls.
_Sic transit gloria mundi._ But a choice sketch by Turner sometimes
sells for many pounds per square inch. It is clear, then, that in the
opinion of connoisseurs, which must, for our present purpose, be
considered final, high art is almost wholly a matter of quality. Two
great pictures by West may be nearly twice as valuable as one; and two
equally choice sketches by Turner are twice as good as one; but it would
seem hardly possible in the present day for the disciple of "high art"
to bring West and Turner into the same category of thought. I suppose
that even Turner will presently begin to wane before "the higher
criticism."
A corresponding difficulty lies at the very basis of the Utilitarian
theory of ethics. The tippler may esteem two pints of beer doubly as
much as one; the hero may feel double satisfaction in saving two lives
instead of one; but who shall weigh the pleasure of a pint of beer
against the pleasure of saving a fellow-creature's life.
Paley, indeed, cut the Gordian knot of this difficulty in a summary
manner; he denied altogether that there is any difference between
pleasures, except in continuance and intensity. It must have required
some moral courage to write the paragraph to be next quoted; yet Paley,
however much he may be said to have temporized and equivocated about
oaths and subscription to Articles, cannot be accused of want of
explicitness in this passage. There is a directness and clear-hitting of
the point in Paley's writings which always charms me.
"In strictness, any condition may be denominated happy, in which the
amount or aggregate of pleasure exceeds that of pain; and the degree
of happiness depends upon the quantity of this excess. And the
greatest quantity of it ordinarily attainable in human life, is what
we mean by happiness, when we inquire or pronounce what human
happiness consists in. In which inquiry I will omit much usual
declamation on the dignity and capacity of our nature; the
superiority of the soul to the body, of the rational to the animal
part of our constitution; upon the worthiness, refinement, and
delicacy of some satisfactions, or the meanness, grossness, and
sensuality of others; because I hold that pleasures differ in
nothing, but in continuance and intensity: from a just computation
of which, confirmed by what we observe of the apparent cheerfulness,
tranquillity, and contentment, of men of different tastes, tempers,
stations, and pursuits, every question concerning human happiness
must receive its decision."[78]
Bentham, it need hardly be said, adopted the same idea as the basis of
his ethical and legislative theories. In his uncompromising style he
tells us[79] that
"Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign
masters, _pain_ and _pleasure_. It is for them alone to point out
what we ought to do, as well as to determine what we shall do. On
the one hand the standard of right and wrong, on the other the chain
of causes and effects, are fastened to their throne. They govern us
in all we do, in all we say, in all we think: every effort we can
make to throw off our subjection will serve but to demonstrate and
confirm it. In words a man may pretend to abjure their empire: but
in reality he will remain subject to it all the while. The
_principle of utility_ recognises this subjection, and assumes it
for the foundation of that system, the object of which is to rear
the fabric of felicity by the hands of reason and of law. Systems
which attempt to question it, deal in sounds instead of sense, in
caprice instead of reason, in darkness instead of light."
Elsewhere Bentham proceeds to show how we may estimate the _values_ of
pleasures and pains, meaning obviously by _values_ the quantities or
forces. As these feelings are both the ends and the instruments of the
moralist and legislator, it especially behoves us to learn how to
estimate these values aright, and Bentham tells us most distinctly.[80]
To a person, he says, considered _by himself_, the value of a
pleasure or pain considered _by itself_, will be greater or less,
according to the four following circumstances. 1. Its _intensity_.
2. Its _duration_. 3. Its _certainty_ or _uncertainty_. 4. Its
_propinquity_ or _remoteness_. But when the value of any pleasure or
pain is to be considered for the purpose of estimating the general
tendency of the act, we have to take into account also, 5. The
_fecundity_, or the chance it has of being followed by sensations of
the same kind, that is, pleasures, if it be a pleasure; pains, if it
be a pain. 6. Its _purity_, or the chance it has of _not_ being
followed by sensations of the _opposite_ kind: that is, pains, if it
be a pleasure; pleasures, if it be a pain. Finally, when we consider
the interests of a number of persons, we must also estimate a
pleasure or pain with reference to, 7. Its extent; that is the
number of persons to whom it extends, or who are affected by it.
Thus did Bentham clearly and explicitly lay the foundations of the moral
and political sciences, and to impress these fundamental propositions on
the memory he framed the following curious mnemonic lines, which may be
quoted for the sake of their quaintness:--
"_Intense, long, certain, speedy, fruitful, pure_----
Such marks in pleasures and in pains endure.
Such pleasures seek, if private be thy end:
If it be public, wide let them _extend_.
Such _pains_ avoid, whichever be thy view:
If pains _must_ come, let them _extend_ to few."
In all that Bentham says about pleasure and pain, there is not a word
about the intrinsic superiority of one pleasure to another. He advocates
our seeking _pure_ pleasures; but with him a pure pleasure was clearly
defined as one not likely to be followed by feelings of the opposite
kind; the pleasure of opium-eating, for instance, would be called
impure, simply because it is likely to lead to bad health and consequent
pain; if not so followed by evil consequences, the pleasure would be as
pure as any other pleasure. With Bentham morality became, as it were, a
question of the ledger and the balance-sheet; all feelings were reduced
to the same denomination of value, and whenever we indulge in a little
enjoyment, or endure a pain, the consequences in regard to subsequent
enjoyment or suffering are to be inexorably scored for or against us, as
the case may be. Our conduct must be judged wise or foolish according
as, in the long-run, we find a favourable "hedonic" balance-sheet.
What Mill in his earlier life thought about these foundations of the
utilitarian doctrine, and the elaborate structure reared therefrom by
Bentham, he has told us in his Autobiography, pp. 64 to 70. Subsequently
Mill revolted, as we all know, against the narrowness of the Benthamist
creed. While wishing to retain[81] the precision of expression, the
definiteness of meaning, the contempt of declamatory phrases and vague
generalities, which were so honourably characteristic both of Bentham
and of his own father, James Mill, John Stuart decided to give a wider
basis and a more free and "genial" character to the utilitarian
speculations.
Let us consider how Mill proceeded to give this "genial" character to
the utilitarian philosophy. It must be admitted, he says,[82] that
utilitarian writers in general have placed the superiority of mental
over bodily pleasures _chiefly_ in the greater permanency, safety,
uncostliness, &c., of the former--that is, in their circumstantial
advantages rather than in their intrinsic nature. As regards Bentham, at
least, Mill might have omitted the word _chiefly_. But according to
Mill, there is no need why they should have taken such a ground.
"They might have taken the other, and, as it may be called, higher
ground, with entire consistency. It is quite compatible with the
principle of utility to recognise the fact, that some _kinds_ of
pleasure are more desirable and more valuable than others. It would
be absurd, that while, in estimating all other things, quality is
considered as well as quantity, the estimation of pleasures should
be supposed to depend on quantity alone."
Then Mill proceeds to point out, with all the persuasiveness of his best
style, that there are higher feelings which we would not sacrifice for
any quantity of a lower feeling. Few human creatures, he holds, would
consent to be changed into any of the lower animals for a promise of the
fullest allowance of a beast's pleasures; no intelligent human being
would consent to be a fool, no instructed person would be an ignoramus,
no person of feeling and conscience would be selfish and base, and so
forth. Mill, in fact, treats us to a good deal of what Paley so
cynically called the "usual declamation," on the dignity and capacity of
our nature, and the worthiness of some satisfactions compared with the
grossness and sensuality of others. It must be allowed that Mill has the
best of it, at least with the majority of readers. Paley is simply
brutal as to the way in which he depresses everything to the same level
of apparent sensuality. Mill overflows with genial and noble
aspirations; he hardly deigns to count the lower pleasures as worth
putting in the scale; it is better, he thinks, to be a human being
dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied
than a fool satisfied. If the pig or the fool is of a different opinion,
it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other
party to the comparison knows both sides. In the pages which follow
there is much nobleness and elevation of thought. But where is the
logic? We are nothing if we are not logical. But does Mill, in the
fervour of his revolt against the cold, narrow restraints of the
Benthamist formulas, consider the consistency and stability of his
position? Let us examine in some detail the position to which he has
brought himself.
It is plain, in the first place, that pleasure is with Mill the ultimate
purpose of existence; for the philosophy is that of utilitarianism, and
Mill distinctly assures us (Autobiography, p. 178) that he "never
ceased to be a utilitarian." We must, of course, distinguish between the
pleasure of the individual and the pleasure of other individuals of the
race, between Egoistic and Universalistic Hedonism, as Mr. Sidgwick
calls these very different doctrines. But the happiness of the race is,
of course, made up of the happiness of its units, so that unless most of
the individuals pursue a course ensuring happiness, the race cannot be
happy in the aggregate. Now, to acquire happiness the individual must,
of course, select that line of conduct which is likely to--that is, will
in the majority of cases--bring happiness. He must aim at something
which is capable of being reached. Mill tells us (p. 18) that if by
happiness be meant a continuity of highly pleasurable excitement, it is
evident enough that this is impossible to attain.
"A state of exalted pleasure lasts only moments, or in some cases,
and with some intermissions, hours or days, and is the occasional
brilliant flash of enjoyment, not its permanent and steady flame. Of
this the philosophers who have taught that happiness is the end of
life were as fully aware as those who taunt them. The happiness
which they meant was not a life of rapture; but moments of such, in
an existence made up of few and transitory pains, many and various
pleasures, with a decided predominance of the actual over the
passive, and _having as the foundation of the whole, not to expect
more from life than it is capable of bestowing_.[83] A life thus
composed, to those who have been fortunate enough to obtain it, has
always appeared worthy of the name of happiness."
Then Mill goes on to point out what he considers has been sufficient to
satisfy great numbers of mankind (p. 19):
"The main constituents of a satisfied life appear to be two, either
of which by itself is often found sufficient for the purpose:
tranquillity, and excitement. With much tranquillity, many find that
they can be content with very little pleasure: with much excitement,
many can reconcile themselves to a considerable quantity of pain.
There is assuredly no inherent impossibility in enabling even the
mass of mankind to unite both."
From these passages we must gather that at any rate the mass of mankind
will attain happiness if they are satisfied with these main
constituents, and we are especially told that the foundation of the
whole utilitarian philosophy (Mill does not specify the substantive to
which the adjective _whole_ applies in the above quotation, but it must
from the context be either "utilitarian philosophy," "search for
happiness," or some closely equivalent idea) is _not to expect from life
more than it is capable of bestowing_.
The question, then, may fairly arise whether upon a fair calculation of
probabilities they are not wise, upon Mill's own showing, who aim at
moderate achievements in life, so that in accomplishing these they may
insure a satisfied life. This seems the more reasonable, if, as Mill
elsewhere tells us, the nobler feelings are very apt to be killed off by
the chilly realities of life.
"Many," he says (p. 14), "who begin with youthful enthusiasm for
everything noble, as they advance in years sink into indolence and
selfishness. But I do not believe that those who undergo this very
common change, voluntarily choose the lower description of pleasure
in preference to the higher, I believe that before they devote
themselves exclusively to the one, they have already become
incapable of the other. Capacity for the nobler feelings is in most
natures a very tender plant, easily killed, not only by hostile
influences, but by mere want of sustenance; and in the majority of
young persons it speedily dies away if the occupations to which
their position in life has devoted them, and the society into which
it has thrown them, are not favourable to keeping that higher
capacity in exercise. Men lose their high aspirations as they lose
their intellectual tastes, because they have not time or opportunity
for indulging them; and they addict themselves to inferior
pleasures, not because they deliberately prefer them, but because
they are either the only ones to which they have access, or the only
ones which they are any longer capable of enjoying. It may be
questioned whether any one who has remained equally susceptible to
both classes of pleasure, ever knowingly and calmly preferred the
lower; though many, in all ages, have broken down in an ineffectual
attempt to combine both."
It would seem, then, that for the mass of mankind there is small
prospect indeed of achieving happiness through high aspirations. They
will not have time nor opportunity for indulging them. If they look for
happiness solely to such aspirations they must be disappointed, and
cannot have a satisfied life; if they attempt to combine the higher and
lower lives they are likely to "break down in the ineffectual attempt."
Now, I submit that, under these circumstances, it is folly, according to
Mill's scheme of morality, to aim high; it is equivalent to going into a
life-lottery, in which there are no doubt high prizes to be gained, but
few and far between. It is simply gambling with hedonic stakes;
preferring a small chance of high enjoyment to comparative certainty of
moderate pleasures. Mill clearly admits this when he says (p. 14), "It
is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low has
the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed
being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the
world is constituted, is imperfect."
Although, then, "the foundation of the whole" is not to expect from life
more than it is capable of bestowing, we are actually to prefer becoming
highly endowed, although we cannot expect life to satisfy the
corresponding aspirations. That is to say, although seeking for
happiness, we are to prefer the course in which we are approximately
certain of not obtaining it.
But Mill goes on to give some explanations. He says that the highly
endowed being can learn to bear the imperfections of his happiness, "if
they are at all bearable" (p. 14). This is small comfort if they happen
to be _not at all bearable_, an alternative which is not further pursued
by Mill. And will not this intolerable fate be most likely to befall
those whose aspirations have been pitched most highly? But Mill goes on:
"They (that is, the imperfections of life or happiness?) will not
make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the
imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which
those imperfections qualify. It is better to be a human being
dissatisfied, than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates
dissatisfied, than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is
of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side
of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both
sides."
Concerning this position of affairs the most apposite remark I can make
is contained in the somewhat trite and vulgar saying, "Where ignorance
is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." If Socrates is pretty sure to be
dissatisfied, and yet, owing to his wisdom, cannot help wishing to be
Socrates, he seems to have no chance of that individual happiness which
depends on being satisfied, and not expecting from life more than it is
capable of bestowing. The great majority of people who do not know what
it is like to be Socrates, are surely to be congratulated that they can,
without scruple or remorse, seek a prize of happiness which there is a
fair prospect of securing. But Mill tells us that those who choose the
lower life do so "because they only know their own side of the question.
The other party to the comparison knows both sides." Then Mill
introduces a paragraph, already partially quoted, in which he allows
that men often do, _from infirmity of character_, make their selection
for the nearer good, though they know it to be the less valuable. Many
who begin with youthful enthusiasm for everything noble, sink in later
years into indolence and selfishness. The capacity for the nobler
feelings is easily killed, and men lose their high aspirations because
they have not time and opportunity for indulging them. I submit that,
_from Mill's point of view_, these are all valid reasons why they should
_not_ choose the higher life. We are considering here, not those who
have always been devoid of the nobler feelings, but those who have in
earlier life been full of enthusiasm and high aspirations. If such men,
with few exceptions, decide eventually in favour of the lower life, they
are parties who _do_ know both sides of the comparison, and deliberately
choose not to be Socrates, with the prospect of the very imperfect
happiness (probably involving short rations) which is incident to the
life of Socrates.
Mill, indeed, calmly assumes that the vote goes in his own and Socrates'
favour. He says (p. 15):
"From this verdict of the only competent judges, I apprehend there
can be no appeal. On a question which is the best worth having of
two pleasures, or which of two modes of existence is the most
grateful to the feelings, apart from its moral attributes and from
its consequences, the judgment of those who are qualified by
knowledge of both, or, if they differ, that of the majority among
them, must be admitted as final. And there need be the less
hesitation to accept this judgment respecting the quality of
pleasures, since there is no other tribunal to be referred to, even
on the question of quantity. What means are there of determining
which is the acutest of two pains, or the intensest of two
pleasurable sensations, except the general suffrage of those who are
familiar with both?"
Now, were we dealing with a writer of average logical accuracy there
would be considerable presumption that when he adduces evidence and
claims a result in his own favour in this confident way, there would be
some ground for the claim. But my scrutiny of Mill's "System of Logic"
has taught me caution in admitting such presumptions in respect of his
writings, and here is a case in point. He claims that the suffrage of
the majority is in favour of Socrates' life, although he has admitted
that the vast majority of men somehow or other elect not to be Socrates.
He assumes, indeed, that this is because their aspirations have been
first killed off by unfavourable circumstances; his only residuum of
fact is contained in this somewhat hesitating conclusion already
quoted:--
"It may be questioned whether any one who has remained equally
susceptible to both classes of pleasures, ever knowingly and calmly
preferred the lower; though many, in all ages, have broken down in
an ineffectual attempt to combine both."
Although, then, millions and millions are continually deciding against
Socrates' life, for one reason or another (and many in all ages who make
the ineffectual attempt at a combination break down), Mill gratuitously
assumes that they are none of them competent witnesses, because they
must have lost their higher feelings before they could have descended to
the lower level; then the comparatively few who do choose the higher
life and succeed in attaining it are adduced as giving a large majority,
or even a unanimous vote in favour of their own choice. I submit that
this is a fallacy probably to be best classed as a _petitio principii_;
Mill entirely begs the question when he assumes that every witness
against him is an incapacitated witness, because he must have lost his
capacity for the nobler feelings before he could have decided in favour
of the lower.
The verdict which Mill takes in favour of his high-quality pleasures is
entirely that of a packed jury. It is on a par with the verdict which
would be given by vegetarians in favour of a vegetable diet. No doubt,
those who call themselves vegetarians would almost unanimously say that
it is the best and highest diet; but then, all those who have tried such
diet and found it impracticable have disappeared from the jury, together
with all those whose common sense, or scientific knowledge, or weak
state of health, or other circumstances, have prevented them from
attempting the experiment. By the same method of decision, we might all
be required to get up at five o'clock in the morning and do four hours
of head-work before breakfast, because the few hard-headed and
hard-bodied individuals who do this sort of thing are unanimously of
opinion that it is a healthly and profitable way of beginning the day.
Of course, it will be understood that I am not denying the moral
superiority of some pleasures and courses of life over others. I am only
showing that Mill's attempt to reconcile his ideas on the subject with
the Utilitarian theory hopelessly fails. The few pleasant pages in which
he makes this attempt (Utilitarianism, pp. 8-28), form, in fact, a most
notable piece of sophistical reasoning. Much of the interest of these
undoubtedly interesting passages arises from the kaleidoscopic way in
which the standing difficulties of ethical science are woven together,
as if they were logically coherent in Mill's mode of presentation. The
ideas involved are as old as Plato and Aristotle. The high aspirations
correspond to =to kalon= of Plato. The superior man who can judge both
sides of the question is the =beltistos aner= of Aristotle. The
Utilitarian doctrine is that of Epicurus. Now, Mill managed to persuade
himself that he could in twenty pages reconcile the controversies of
ages.
Nor is it to be supposed that Bentham, in making his analysis of the
conditions of pleasure, overlooked the difference of high and low; he
did not overlook it at all--he analyzed it. A pleasure to be high must
have the marks of intensity, length, certainty, fruitfulness, and
purity, or of some of these at least; and when we take Altruism into
account, the feelings must be of wide extent--that is, fruitful of
pleasure and devoid of evil to great numbers of people. It is a higher
pleasure to build a Free Library than to establish a new Race Course;
not because there is a _Free-Library-building emotion_, which is
essentially better than a _Race-Course-establishing emotion_, each being
a simple unanalyzable feeling; but because we may, after the model of
inquiry given by Bentham, resolve into its elements the effect of one
action and the other upon the happiness of the community. Thus, we
should find that Mill proposed to give "geniality" to the Utilitarian
philosophy by throwing into confusion what it was the very merit of
Bentham to have distinguished and arranged scientifically. We must hold
to the dry old Jeremy, if we are to have any chance of progress in
Ethics. Mill, at some "crisis in his mental history," decided in favour
of a genial instead of a logical and scientific Ethics, and the result
is the mixture of sentiment and sophistry contained in the attractive
pages under review.
In order to treat adequately of Mill's ethical doctrines it would no
doubt be necessary to go on to other parts of the Essays, and to inquire
how he treats other moral elements, such as the Social or Altruistic
Feelings. The existence of such feelings is admitted on p. 46, and,
indeed, insisted on as a basis of powerful natural sentiment,
constituting the strength of the Utilitarian morality. But it would be
an endless work to examine all phases of Mill's doctrines, and to show
whether or not they are logically consistent _inter se_. They are really
not worth the trouble. Just let us notice, however, how he treats the
question whether moral feelings are innate or not. On this point Mill
gives (p. 45) the following characteristic deliverance:--"If, as is my
own belief, the moral feelings are not innate, but acquired, they are
not for that reason the less natural. It is natural to man to speak, to
reason, to build cities, to cultivate the ground, though these are
acquired faculties. The moral feelings are not indeed a part of our
nature, in the sense of being in any perceptible degree present in all
of us; but this, unhappily, is a fact admitted by those who believe the
most strenuously in their transcendental origin. Like the other acquired
capacities above referred to, the moral faculty, if not a part of our
nature, is a natural outgrowth from it; capable, like them, in a certain
small degree, of springing up spontaneously; and susceptible of being
brought by cultivation to a high degree of development." If life were
long enough, I should like, with the assistance of the "Methods of
Ethics," to analyze the ideas involved in this passage. I can merely
suggest the following questions:--If acquired capacities are equally
natural with those not acquired, what is the use of introducing a
distinction without a difference? If moral feelings can spring up
spontaneously, even in the smallest degree, and then be developed by
"natural outgrowths," how do any of our feelings differ from natural
ones? What does Mill mean, at the top of the next page, by speaking of
"moral associations which are wholly of artificial creation?" Are these
also not the less natural because they are of artificial creation? If
not, we should like to know how to draw the line between _acquired_ and
_artificial_ capacities. How, again, are we to interpret the use of the
word _natural_, on p. 50, where, speaking of the deeply-rooted
conception which every individual even now has of himself as a social
being, he says--
"This feeling in most individuals is much inferior in strength to
their selfish feelings, and is often wanting altogether. But to
those who have it, it possesses all the characters of a natural
feeling. It does not present itself to their minds as a superstition
of education," &c.
Here a natural feeling is contrasted to the product of education,
although we were before told that acquired capacities, like speaking,
building, cultivating, were none the less natural. But I must candidly
confess that when Mill introduces the words _nature_ and _natural_, I am
completely baffled. I give it up. I can no longer find any logical marks
to assist me in tracking out his course of thought. The word _nature_
may be Mill's key to a profound philosophy; but I rather think it is the
key to many of his fallacies.
I often amuse myself by trying to imagine what Bentham would have said
of Benthamism expounded by Mill. Especially would it be interesting to
hear Bentham on Mill's use of the word "natural." No passage in which
Bentham analyzes the meaning of "nature," or "natural," occurs to me,
but the following is his treatment of the word "unnatural," as employed
in Ethics:--
"Unnatural, when it means anything, means unfrequent: and there it
means something; although nothing to the present purpose. But here
it means no such thing: for the frequency of such acts is perhaps
the great complaint. It therefore means nothing; nothing, I mean,
which there is in the act itself. All it can serve to express is,
the disposition of the person who is talking of it: the disposition
he is in to be angry at the thoughts of it."[84]
Would that the grand old man, as he still sits benignly pondering in his
own proper bones and clothes, in the upper regions of a well-known
institution, could be got to deliver himself in like style about
feelings which are _not the less natural because they are acquired_.
Before passing on, however, I must point out, in the extract from p. 45,
the characteristic habit which Mill has of _minimizing_ things which he
is obliged to admit. Instead of denying straightforwardly that we have
moral feelings, he says they are not present in all of us in any
"perceptible degree." The moral faculty is capable of springing up
spontaneously "in a certain small degree." This will remind every reader
of the way in which, in his "Essays on Religion," instead of flatly
adopting Atheism or Theism, which are clear logical negatives each of
the other, he concludes that though God is almost proved not to exist,
He may possibly exist, and we must "imagine" this chance to be as large
as we can, though it belongs only "to one of the lower degrees of
probability." Exactly the same manner of meeting a weighty question will
be discovered again in his demonstration of the non-existence of
necessary truths. I shall hope to examine carefully his treatment of
this important part of philosophy on a future occasion. We shall then
find, I believe, that his argument proves non-existence of such things
as necessary truths, because those truths which cannot be explained on
the association principle are very few indeed. I beg pardon for
introducing an incongruous illustration, but Mill's manner of minimizing
an all-important admission often irresistibly reminds me of the young
woman who, being taxed with having borne a child, replied that it was
only a very small one.
Such are the intricacies and wide extent of ethical questions, that it
is not practicable to pursue the analysis of Mill's doctrine in at all a
full manner. We cannot detect the fallacious reasoning with the same
precision as in matters of geometric and logical science. This analysis
is the less needful too, because, since Mill's Essays appeared, Moral
Philosophy has undergone a revolution. I do not so much allude to the
reform effected by Mr. Sidgwick's "Methods of Ethics," though that is a
great one, introducing as it does a precision of thought and
nomenclature which was previously wanting. I allude, of course, to the
establishment of the Spencerian Theory of Morals, which has made a new
era in philosophy.[85] Mill has been singularly unfortunate from this
point of view. He might be defined as the last great philosophic writer
conspicuous for his ignorance of the principles of evolution. He brought
to confusion the philosophy of his master, Bentham; he ignored that
which was partly to replace, partly to complete it.
I am aware that, in her Introductory Notice to the Essays on Religion
(p. viii.), Miss Helen Taylor apologizes for Mill having omitted any
references to the works of Mr. Darwin and Sir Henry Maine "in passages
where there is coincidence of thought with those writers, or where
subjects are treated which they have since discussed in a manner to
which the Author of these Essays would certainly have referred had their
works been published before these were written."[86] Here it is implied
that Mill anticipated the authors of the Evolution philosophy in some of
their thoughts, and it is a most amiable and pardonable bias which leads
Miss Taylor to find in the works of one so dear to her that which is not
there. The fact is that the whole tone of Mill's moral and political
writings is totally opposed to the teaching of Darwin and Spencer,
Taylor and Maine. Mill's idea of human nature was that we came into the
world like lumps of soft clay, to be shaped by the accidents of life, or
the care of those who educate us. Austin insisted on the evidence which
history and daily experience afford of "the extraordinary pliability of
human nature," and Mill borrowed the phrase from him.[87] No phrase
could better express the misapprehensions of human nature which, it is
to be hoped, will cease for ever with the last generation of writers.
Human nature is one of the last things which can be called "pliable."
Granite rocks can be more easily moulded than the poor savages that hide
among them. We are all of us full of deep springs of unconquerable
character, which education may in some degree soften or develop, but can
neither create nor destroy. The mind can be shaped about as much as the
body; it may be starved into feebleness, or fed and exercised into
vigour and fulness; but we start always with inherent hereditary powers
of growth. The non-recognition of this fact is the great defect in the
moral system of Bentham. The great Jeremy was accustomed to make short
work with the things which he did not understand, and it is thus he
disposes of "the pretended system" of a moral sense:[88]
"One man says he has a thing made on purpose to tell him what is
right and what is wrong, and that it is called a _moral sense_; and
then he goes to his work at his ease, and says such a thing is right
and such a thing is wrong--Why? because my moral sense tells me it
is."
Bentham then bluntly ignored the validity of innate feelings, but this
omission, though a great defect, did not much diminish the value of his
analysis of the good and bad effects of actions. Mill discarded the
admirable Benthamist analysis, but failed to introduce the true
Evolutionist principles; thus he falls between the two. It is to Herbert
Spencer we must look for a more truthful philosophy of morals than was
possible before his time.
The publication of the first part of his Principles of Morality, under
the title "The Data of Ethics," gives us, in a definite form, and in his
form, what we could previously only infer from the general course of his
philosophy and from his brief letter on Utilitarianism addressed to
Mill. Although but fragments, these writings enable us to see that a
definite step has been made in a matter debated since the dawn of
intellect. The moral sense doctrine, so rudely treated by Bentham, is no
longer incapable of reconciliation with the greatest happiness
principle, only it now becomes a moving and developable moral sense. An
absolute and unalterable moral standard was opposed to the palpable fact
that customs and feelings differ widely, and Paley, on this ground, was
induced to reject it. Now we perceive that we all have a moral sense;
but the moral sense of one individual, and still more of one race, may
differ from that of another individual or race. Each is more or less
fitted to its circumstances, and the best is ascertained by _eventual
success_.
At the tail end of an article it is, of course, impossible to discuss
the grounds or results of the Spencerian philosophy. To me it presents
itself, in its main features, as unquestionably true; indeed, it is
already difficult to look back and imagine how philosophers could have
denied of the human mind and actions what is so obviously true of the
animal races generally. As a reaction from the old views about innate
ideas, the philosophers of the eighteenth century wished to believe that
the human mind was a kind of _tabula rasa_, or _carte blanche_, upon
which education could impress any character. But if so, why not harness
the lion, and teach the sheep to drive away the wolf? If the moral, not
to speak of the physical characteristics of the lower animals, are so
distinct, why should there not be moral and mental differences among
ourselves, descending, as we obviously do, from different stocks with
different physical characteristics? Notice what Mr. Darwin says on this
point:--
"Mr. J. S. Mill speaks, in his celebrated work, 'Utilitarianism'
(1864, p. 46), of the social feelings as a 'powerful natural
sentiment,' and as 'the natural basis of sentiment for utilitarian
morality;' but on the previous page he says, 'if, as is my own
belief, the moral feelings are not innate, but acquired, they are
not for that reason less natural.' It is with hesitation that I
venture to differ from so profound a thinker, but it can hardly be
disputed that the social feelings are instinctive or innate in the
lower animals; and why should they not be so in man? Mr. Bain and
others believe that the moral sense is acquired by each individual
during his lifetime. On the general theory of evolution this is at
least extremely improbable."[89]
Many persons may be inclined to like the philosophy of Spencer no better
than that of Mill. But, if the one be true and the other false, liking
and disliking have no place in the matter. There may be many things
which we cannot possibly like; but if they are, they are. It is possible
that the Principles of Evolution, as expounded by Mr. Herbert Spencer,
may seem as wanting in "geniality" as the formulas of Bentham. There is
nothing genial, it must be confessed, about the mollusca and other
cold-blooded organisms with which Mr. Spencer perpetually illustrates
his principles. Heaven forbid that any one should try to give geniality
to Mr. Spencer's views of ethics by any operation comparable to that
which Mill performed upon Benthamism.
Nevertheless, I fully believe that all which is sinister and ungenial in
the Philosophy of Evolution is either the expression of unquestionable
facts, or else it is the outcome of misinterpretation. It is impossible
to see how Mr. Spencer, any more than other people, can explain away the
existence of pain and evil. Nobody has done this; perhaps nobody ever
shall do it; certainly systems of Theology will not do it. A true
philosopher will not expect to solve everything. But if we admit the
patent fact that pain exists, let us observe also the tendency which
Spencer and Darwin establish towards its _minimization_. Evolution is a
striving ever towards the better and the happier. There may be almost
infinite powers against us, but at least there is a deep-laid scheme
working towards goodness and happiness. So profound and wide-spread is
this confederacy of the powers of good, that no failure and no series of
failures can disconcert it. Let mankind be thrown back a hundred times,
and a hundred times the better tendencies of evolution will re-assert
themselves. Paley pointed out how many beautiful contrivances there are
in the human form, tending to our benefit. Spencer has pointed out that
the Universe is one deep-laid framework for the production of such
beneficent contrivances. Paley called upon us to admire such exquisite
inventions as a hand or an eye. Spencer calls upon us to admire a
machine which is the most comprehensive of all machines, because it is
ever engaged in inventing beneficial inventions _ad infinitum_. Such at
least is my way of regarding his Philosophy.
Darwin, indeed, cautions us against supposing that natural selection
always leads towards the production of higher and happier types of life.
Retrogression may result as well as progression. But I apprehend that
retrogression can only occur where the environment of a living species
is altered to its detriment. Mankind degenerates when forced, like the
Esquimaux, to inhabit the Arctic regions. Still in retrograding, in a
sense, the being becomes more suited to its circumstances--more capable
therefore of happiness. The inventing machine of Evolution would be
working badly if it worked otherwise. But, however this may be, we must
accept the philosophy if it be true, and, for my part, I do so without
reluctance.
According to Mill, we are little self-dependent gods, fighting with a
malignant and murderous power called Nature, sure, one would think, to
be worsted in the struggle. According to Spencer, as I venture to
interpret his theory, we are the latest manifestation of an
all-prevailing tendency towards the good--the happy. Creation is not yet
concluded, and there is no one of us who may not become conscious in his
heart that he is no Automaton, no mere lump of Protoplasm, but the
Creature of a Creator.