CHAPTER VI.

THE IDEAL.

=110.= By an ‘ideal’ state of things may be meant either (1)

the Summum Bonum or absolutely best, or (2) the best which the

laws of nature allow to exist in this world, or (3) anything

greatly good in itself: this chapter will be principally

occupied with what is ideal in sense (3)--with answering the

fundamental question of Ethics; 183

=111.= but a correct answer to this question is an essential

step towards a correct view as to what is ‘ideal’ in senses (1)

and (2). 184

=112.= In order to obtain a correct answer to the question

‘What is good in itself?’ we must consider what value things

would have if they existed absolutely by themselves; 187

=113.= and, if we use this method, it is obvious that personal

affection and aesthetic enjoyments include by far the greatest

goods with which we are acquainted. 188

=114.= If we begin by considering I. _Aesthetic Enjoyments_, it

is plain (1) that there is always _essential_ to these some one

of a great variety of different emotions, though these emotions

may have little value _by themselves_: 189

=115.= and (2) that a cognition of really beautiful qualities

is equally essential, and has equally little value by itself. 190

=116.= But (3) granted that the appropriate combination of

these two elements is always a considerable good and may be

a very great one, we may ask whether, where there is _added_

to this _a true belief in the existence of the object of the

cognition_, the whole thus formed is not much more valuable

still. 192

=117.= I think that this question should be answered in the

affirmative; but in order to ensure that this judgment is

correct, we must carefully distinguish it 194

=118.= from the two judgments (_a_) that knowledge is valuable

_as a means_, (_b_) that, where the object of the cognition

is itself a good thing, its existence, of course, adds to the

value of the whole state of things: 195

=119.= if, however, we attempt to avoid being biassed by these

two facts, it still seems that mere true belief may be a

condition essential to great value. 197

=120.= We thus get a _third_ essential constituent of many

great goods; and in this way we are able to justify (1) the

attribution of value to _knowledge_, over and above its value

as a means, and (2) the intrinsic superiority of the proper

appreciation of a _real_ object over the appreciation of an

equally valuable object of mere imagination: emotions directed

towards real objects may thus, even if the object be inferior,

claim equality with the highest imaginative pleasures. 198

=121.= Finally (4) with regard to the _objects_ of the

cognition which is essential to these good wholes, it is the

business of Aesthetics to analyse their nature: it need only be

here remarked (1) that, by calling them ‘beautiful,’ we mean

that they have this relation to a _good_ whole; and (2) that

they are, for the most part, themselves complex wholes, such

that the admiring contemplation of the whole greatly exceeds

in value the sum of the values of the admiring contemplation of

the parts. 200

=122.= With regard to II. _Personal Affection_, the object is

here not merely beautiful but also good in itself; it appears,

however, that the appreciation of what is thus good in itself,

viz. the mental qualities of a person, is certainly, by itself,

not so great a good as the whole formed by the combination

with it of an appreciation of corporeal beauty; it is doubtful

whether it is even so great a good as the mere appreciation of

corporeal beauty; but it is certain that the combination of

both is a far greater good than either singly. 203

=123.= It follows from what has been said that we have every

reason to suppose that a cognition of _material qualities_, and

even their existence, is an essential constituent of the Ideal

or Summum Bonum: there is only a bare possibility that they are

not included in it. 205

=124.= It remains to consider _positive evils_ and _mixed

goods_. I. _Evils_ may be divided into three classes, namely 207

=125.= (1) evils which consist in the love, or admiration, or

enjoyment of what is evil or ugly 208

=126.= (2) evils which consist in the hatred or contempt of

what is good or beautiful 211

=127.= and (3) the consciousness of intense pain: this appears

to be the only thing, either greatly good or greatly evil,

which does not involve _both_ a cognition _and_ an emotion

directed towards its object; and hence it is not analogous to

pleasure in respect of its intrinsic value, while it also seems

not to add to the vileness of a whole, _as a whole_, in which

it is combined with another bad thing, whereas pleasure does

add to the goodness of a whole, in which it is combined with

another good thing; 212

=128.= but pleasure and pain are completely analogous in this,

that pleasure by no means always increases, and pain by no

means always decreases, the total value of a whole in which it

is included: the converse is often true. 213

=129.= In order to consider II. _Mixed Goods_, we must first

distinguish between (1) the value of a whole _as a whole_,

and (2) its value _on the whole_ or total value: (1) = the

difference between (2) and the sum of the values of the parts.

In view of this distinction, it then appears: 214

=130.= (1) That the mere combination of two or more evils is

never positively good _on the whole_, although it may certainly

have great intrinsic value _as a whole_; 216

=131.= but (2) That a whole which includes a cognition of

something evil or ugly may yet be a great positive good _on the

whole_: most virtues, which have any intrinsic value whatever,

seem to be of this kind, _e.g._ (_a_) courage and compassion,

and (_b_) moral goodness; all these are instances of the hatred

or contempt of what is evil or ugly; 216

=132.= but there seems no reason to think that, where the evil

object _exists_, the total state of things is ever positively

good _on the whole_, although the existence of the evil may add

to its value _as a whole_. 219

=133.= Hence (1) no actually existing evil is necessary to the

Ideal, (2) the contemplation of imaginary evils is necessary to

it, and (3) where evils already exist, the existence of mixed

virtues has a value independent both of its consequences and of

the value which it has in common with the proper appreciation

of imaginary evils. 220

=134.= Concluding remarks. 222

=135.= Summary of chapter. 224

CHAPTER I.

THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF ETHICS.

=1.= It is very easy to point out some among our every-day judgments,

with the truth of which Ethics is undoubtedly concerned. Whenever

we say, ‘So and so is a good man,’ or ‘That fellow is a villain’;

whenever we ask, ‘What ought I to do?’ or ‘Is it wrong for me to do

like this?’; whenever we hazard such remarks as ‘Temperance is a virtue

and drunkenness a vice’--it is undoubtedly the business of Ethics

to discuss such questions and such statements; to argue what is the

true answer when we ask what it is right to do, and to give reasons

for thinking that our statements about the character of persons or

the morality of actions are true or false. In the vast majority of

cases, where we make statements involving any of the terms ‘virtue,’

‘vice,’ ‘duty,’ ‘right,’ ‘ought,’ ‘good,’ ‘bad,’ we are making

ethical judgments; and if we wish to discuss their truth, we shall be

discussing a point of Ethics.

So much as this is not disputed; but it falls very far short of

defining the province of Ethics. That province may indeed be defined as

the whole truth about that which is at the same time common to all such

judgments and peculiar to them. But we have still to ask the question:

What is it that is thus common and peculiar? And this is a question to

which very different answers have been given by ethical philosophers

of acknowledged reputation, and none of them, perhaps, completely

satisfactory.

=2.= If we take such examples as those given above, we shall not be

far wrong in saying that they are all of them concerned with the

question of ‘conduct’--with the question, what, in the conduct of us,

human beings, is good, and what is bad, what is right, and what is

wrong. For when we say that a man is good, we commonly mean that he

acts rightly; when we say that drunkenness is a vice, we commonly mean

that to get drunk is a wrong or wicked action. And this discussion of

human conduct is, in fact, that with which the name ‘Ethics’ is most

intimately associated. It is so associated by derivation; and conduct

is undoubtedly by far the commonest and most generally interesting

object of ethical judgments.

Accordingly, we find that many ethical philosophers are disposed to

accept as an adequate definition of ‘Ethics’ the statement that it

deals with the question what is good or bad in human conduct. They hold

that its enquiries are properly confined to ‘conduct’ or to ‘practice’;

they hold that the name ‘practical philosophy’ covers all the matter

with which it has to do. Now, without discussing the proper meaning

of the word (for verbal questions are properly left to the writers of

dictionaries and other persons interested in literature; philosophy,

as we shall see, has no concern with them), I may say that I intend to

use ‘Ethics’ to cover more than this--a usage, for which there is, I

think, quite sufficient authority. I am using it to cover an enquiry

for which, at all events, there is no other word: the general enquiry

into what is good.

Ethics is undoubtedly concerned with the question what good conduct

is; but, being concerned with this, it obviously does not start at the

beginning, unless it is prepared to tell us what is good as well as

what is conduct. For ‘good conduct’ is a complex notion: all conduct is

not good; for some is certainly bad and some may be indifferent. And on

the other hand, other things, beside conduct, may be good; and if they

are so, then, ‘good’ denotes some property, that is common to them and

conduct; and if we examine good conduct alone of all good things, then

we shall be in danger of mistaking for this property, some property

which is not shared by those other things: and thus we shall have made

a mistake about Ethics even in this limited sense; for we shall not

know what good conduct really is. This is a mistake which many writers

have actually made, from limiting their enquiry to conduct. And hence

I shall try to avoid it by considering first what is good in general;

hoping, that if we can arrive at any certainty about this, it will be

much easier to settle the question of good conduct: for we all know

pretty well what ‘conduct’ is. This, then, is our first question: What

is good? and What is bad? and to the discussion of this question (of

these questions) I give the name of Ethics, since that science must, at

all events, include it.

=3.= But this is a question which may have many meanings. If, for

example, each of us were to say ‘I am doing good now’ or ‘I had a

good dinner yesterday,’ these statements would each of them be some

sort of answer to our question, although perhaps a false one. So, too,

when A asks B what school he ought to send his son to, B’s answer

will certainly be an ethical judgment. And similarly all distribution

of praise or blame to any personage or thing that has existed, now

exists, or will exist, does give some answer to the question ‘What is

good?’ In all such cases some particular thing is judged to be good or

bad: the question ‘What?’ is answered by ‘This.’ But this is not the

sense in which a scientific Ethics asks the question. Not one, of all

the many million answers of this kind, which must be true, can form a

part of an ethical system; although that science must contain reasons

and principles sufficient for deciding on the truth of all of them.

There are far too many persons, things and events in the world, past,

present, or to come, for a discussion of their individual merits to be

embraced in any science. Ethics, therefore, does not deal at all with

facts of this nature, facts that are unique, individual, absolutely

particular; facts with which such studies as history, geography,

astronomy, are compelled, in part at least, to deal. And, for this

reason, it is not the business of the ethical philosopher to give

personal advice or exhortation.

=4.= But there is another meaning which may be given to the question

‘What is good?’ ‘Books are good’ would be an answer to it, though

an answer obviously false; for some books are very bad indeed. And

ethical judgments of this kind do indeed belong to Ethics; though

I shall not deal with many of them. Such is the judgment ‘Pleasure

is good’--a judgment, of which Ethics should discuss the truth,

although it is not nearly as important as that other judgment, with

which we shall be much occupied presently--‘Pleasure _alone_ is

good.’ It is judgments of this sort, which are made in such books on

Ethics as contain a list of ‘virtues’--in Aristotle’s ‘Ethics’ for

example. But it is judgments of precisely the same kind, which form

the substance of what is commonly supposed to be a study different

from Ethics, and one much less respectable--the study of Casuistry.

We may be told that Casuistry differs from Ethics, in that it is much

more detailed and particular, Ethics much more general. But it is

most important to notice that Casuistry does not deal with anything

that is absolutely particular--particular in the only sense in which

a perfectly precise line can be drawn between it and what is general.

It is not particular in the sense just noticed, the sense in which

this book is a particular book, and A’s friend’s advice particular

advice. Casuistry may indeed be _more_ particular and Ethics _more_

general; but that means that they differ only in degree and not in

kind. And this is universally true of ‘particular’ and ‘general,’ when

used in this common, but inaccurate, sense. So far as Ethics allows

itself to give lists of virtues or even to name constituents of the

Ideal, it is indistinguishable from Casuistry. Both alike deal with

what is general, in the sense in which physics and chemistry deal with

what is general. Just as chemistry aims at discovering what are the

properties of oxygen, _wherever it occurs_, and not only of this or

that particular specimen of oxygen; so Casuistry aims at discovering

what actions are good, _whenever they occur_. In this respect Ethics

and Casuistry alike are to be classed with such sciences as physics,

chemistry and physiology, in their absolute distinction from those of

which history and geography are instances. And it is to be noted that,

owing to their detailed nature, casuistical investigations are actually

nearer to physics and to chemistry than are the investigations usually

assigned to Ethics. For just as physics cannot rest content with the

discovery that light is propagated by waves of ether, but must go on

to discover the particular nature of the ether-waves corresponding to

each several colour; so Casuistry, not content with the general law

that charity is a virtue, must attempt to discover the relative merits

of every different form of charity. Casuistry forms, therefore, part

of the ideal of ethical science: Ethics cannot be complete without it.

The defects of Casuistry are not defects of principle; no objection can

be taken to its aim and object. It has failed only because it is far

too difficult a subject to be treated adequately in our present state

of knowledge. The casuist has been unable to distinguish, in the cases

which he treats, those elements upon which their value depends. Hence

he often thinks two cases to be alike in respect of value, when in

reality they are alike only in some other respect. It is to mistakes of

this kind that the pernicious influence of such investigations has been

due. For Casuistry is the goal of ethical investigation. It cannot be

safely attempted at the beginning of our studies, but only at the end.

=5.= But our question ‘What is good?’ may have still another meaning.

We may, in the third place, mean to ask, not what thing or things are

good, but how ‘good’ is to be defined. This is an enquiry which belongs

only to Ethics, not to Casuistry; and this is the enquiry which will

occupy us first.

It is an enquiry to which most special attention should be directed;

since this question, how ‘good’ is to be defined, is the most

fundamental question in all Ethics. That which is meant by ‘good’

is, in fact, except its converse ‘bad,’ the _only_ simple object of

thought which is peculiar to Ethics. Its definition is, therefore,

the most essential point in the definition of Ethics; and moreover a

mistake with regard to it entails a far larger number of erroneous

ethical judgments than any other. Unless this first question be fully

understood, and its true answer clearly recognised, the rest of Ethics

is as good as useless from the point of view of systematic knowledge.

True ethical judgments, of the two kinds last dealt with, may indeed

be made by those who do not know the answer to this question as well

as by those who do; and it goes without saying that the two classes

of people may lead equally good lives. But it is extremely unlikely

that the _most general_ ethical judgments will be equally valid, in

the absence of a true answer to this question: I shall presently try

to shew that the gravest errors have been largely due to beliefs in a

false answer. And, in any case, it is impossible that, till the answer

to this question be known, any one should know _what is the evidence_

for any ethical judgment whatsoever. But the main object of Ethics,

as a systematic science, is to give correct _reasons_ for thinking

that this or that is good; and, unless this question be answered, such

reasons cannot be given. Even, therefore, apart from the fact that a

false answer leads to false conclusions, the present enquiry is a most

necessary and important part of the science of Ethics.

=6.= What, then, is good? How is good to be defined? Now, it may be

thought that this is a verbal question. A definition does indeed often

mean the expressing of one word’s meaning in other words. But this

is not the sort of definition I am asking for. Such a definition can

never be of ultimate importance in any study except lexicography. If I

wanted that kind of definition I should have to consider in the first

place how people generally used the word ‘good’; but my business is not

with its proper usage, as established by custom. I should, indeed, be

foolish, if I tried to use it for something which it did not usually

denote: if, for instance, I were to announce that, whenever I used the

word ‘good,’ I must be understood to be thinking of that object which

is usually denoted by the word ‘table.’ I shall, therefore, use the

word in the sense in which I think it is ordinarily used; but at the

same time I am not anxious to discuss whether I am right in thinking

that it is so used. My business is solely with that object or idea,

which I hold, rightly or wrongly, that the word is generally used to

stand for. What I want to discover is the nature of that object or

idea, and about this I am extremely anxious to arrive at an agreement.

But, if we understand the question in this sense, my answer to it

may seem a very disappointing one. If I am asked ‘What is good?’ my

answer is that good is good, and that is the end of the matter. Or if

I am asked ‘How is good to be defined?’ my answer is that it cannot

be defined, and that is all I have to say about it. But disappointing

as these answers may appear, they are of the very last importance. To

readers who are familiar with philosophic terminology, I can express

their importance by saying that they amount to this: That propositions

about the good are all of them synthetic and never analytic; and that

is plainly no trivial matter. And the same thing may be expressed more

popularly, by saying that, if I am right, then nobody can foist upon

us such an axiom as that ‘Pleasure is the only good’ or that ‘The good

is the desired’ on the pretence that this is ‘the very meaning of the

word.’

=7.= Let us, then, consider this position. My point is that ‘good’

is a simple notion, just as ‘yellow’ is a simple notion; that, just

as you cannot, by any manner of means, explain to any one who does

not already know it, what yellow is, so you cannot explain what good

is. Definitions of the kind that I was asking for, definitions which

describe the real nature of the object or notion denoted by a word,

and which do not merely tell us what the word is used to mean, are

only possible when the object or notion in question is something

complex. You can give a definition of a horse, because a horse has many

different properties and qualities, all of which you can enumerate.

But when you have enumerated them all, when you have reduced a horse

to his simplest terms, then you can no longer define those terms. They

are simply something which you think of or perceive, and to any one who

cannot think of or perceive them, you can never, by any definition,

make their nature known. It may perhaps be objected to this that we

are able to describe to others, objects which they have never seen or

thought of. We can, for instance, make a man understand what a chimaera

is, although he has never heard of one or seen one. You can tell him

that it is an animal with a lioness’s head and body, with a goat’s head

growing from the middle of its back, and with a snake in place of a

tail. But here the object which you are describing is a complex object;

it is entirely composed of parts, with which we are all perfectly

familiar--a snake, a goat, a lioness; and we know, too, the manner

in which those parts are to be put together, because we know what is

meant by the middle of a lioness’s back, and where her tail is wont to

grow. And so it is with all objects, not previously known, which we are

able to define: they are all complex; all composed of parts, which may

themselves, in the first instance, be capable of similar definition,

but which must in the end be reducible to simplest parts, which can no

longer be defined. But yellow and good, we say, are not complex: they

are notions of that simple kind, out of which definitions are composed

and with which the power of further defining ceases.

=8.= When we say, as Webster says, ‘The definition of horse is “A

hoofed quadruped of the genus Equus,”’ we may, in fact, mean three

different things. (1) We may mean merely: ‘When I say “horse,” you are

to understand that I am talking about a hoofed quadruped of the genus

Equus.’ This might be called the arbitrary verbal definition: and I

do not mean that good is indefinable in that sense. (2) We may mean,

as Webster ought to mean: ‘When most English people say “horse,” they

mean a hoofed quadruped of the genus Equus.’ This may be called the

verbal definition proper, and I do not say that good is indefinable

in this sense either; for it is certainly possible to discover how

people use a word: otherwise, we could never have known that ‘good’ may

be translated by ‘gut’ in German and by ‘bon’ in French. But (3) we

may, when we define horse, mean something much more important. We may

mean that a certain object, which we all of us know, is composed in a

certain manner: that it has four legs, a head, a heart, a liver, etc.,

etc., all of them arranged in definite relations to one another. It is

in this sense that I deny good to be definable. I say that it is not

composed of any parts, which we can substitute for it in our minds when

we are thinking of it. We might think just as clearly and correctly

about a horse, if we thought of all its parts and their arrangement

instead of thinking of the whole: we could, I say, think how a horse

differed from a donkey just as well, just as truly, in this way, as now

we do, only not so easily; but there is nothing whatsoever which we

could so substitute for good; and that is what I mean, when I say that

good is indefinable.

=9.= But I am afraid I have still not removed the chief difficulty

which may prevent acceptance of the proposition that good is

indefinable. I do not mean to say that _the_ good, that which is good,

is thus indefinable; if I did think so, I should not be writing

on Ethics, for my main object is to help towards discovering that

definition. It is just because I think there will be less risk of error

in our search for a definition of ‘the good,’ that I am now insisting

that _good_ is indefinable. I must try to explain the difference

between these two. I suppose it may be granted that ‘good’ is an

adjective. Well ‘the good,’ ‘that which is good,’ must therefore be the

substantive to which the adjective ‘good’ will apply: it must be the

whole of that to which the adjective will apply, and the adjective must

_always_ truly apply to it. But if it is that to which the adjective

will apply, it must be something different from that adjective itself;

and the whole of that something different, whatever it is, will be

our definition of _the_ good. Now it may be that this something will

have other adjectives, beside ‘good,’ that will apply to it. It may be

full of pleasure, for example; it may be intelligent: and if these two

adjectives are really part of its definition, then it will certainly be

true, that pleasure and intelligence are good. And many people appear

to think that, if we say ‘Pleasure and intelligence are good,’ or if we

say ‘Only pleasure and intelligence are good,’ we are defining ‘good.’

Well, I cannot deny that propositions of this nature may sometimes be

called definitions; I do not know well enough how the word is generally

used to decide upon this point. I only wish it to be understood that

that is not what I mean when I say there is no possible definition of

good, and that I shall not mean this if I use the word again. I do most

fully believe that some true proposition of the form ‘Intelligence is

good and intelligence alone is good’ can be found; if none could be

found, our definition of _the_ good would be impossible. As it is,

I believe _the_ good to be definable; and yet I still say that good

itself is indefinable.

=10.= ‘Good,’ then, if we mean by it that quality which we assert to

belong to a thing, when we say that the thing is good, is incapable

of any definition, in the most important sense of that word. The most

important sense of ‘definition’ is that in which a definition states

what are the parts which invariably compose a certain whole; and in

this sense ‘good’ has no definition because it is simple and has no

parts. It is one of those innumerable objects of thought which are

themselves incapable of definition, because they are the ultimate

terms by reference to which whatever _is_ capable of definition must

be defined. That there must be an indefinite number of such terms is

obvious, on reflection; since we cannot define anything except by

an analysis, which, when carried as far as it will go, refers us to

something, which is simply different from anything else, and which by

that ultimate difference explains the peculiarity of the whole which we

are defining: for every whole contains some parts which are common to

other wholes also. There is, therefore, no intrinsic difficulty in the

contention that ‘good’ denotes a simple and indefinable quality. There

are many other instances of such qualities.

Consider yellow, for example. We may try to define it, by describing

its physical equivalent; we may state what kind of light-vibrations

must stimulate the normal eye, in order that we may perceive it. But a

moment’s reflection is sufficient to shew that those light-vibrations

are not themselves what we mean by yellow. _They_ are not what we

perceive. Indeed we should never have been able to discover their

existence, unless we had first been struck by the patent difference of

quality between the different colours. The most we can be entitled to

say of those vibrations is that they are what corresponds in space to

the yellow which we actually perceive.

Yet a mistake of this simple kind has commonly been made about ‘good.’

It may be true that all things which are good are _also_ something

else, just as it is true that all things which are yellow produce a

certain kind of vibration in the light. And it is a fact, that Ethics

aims at discovering what are those other properties belonging to all

things which are good. But far too many philosophers have thought that

when they named those other properties they were actually defining

good; that these properties, in fact, were simply not ‘other,’ but

absolutely and entirely the same with goodness. This view I propose

to call the ‘naturalistic fallacy’ and of it I shall now endeavour to

dispose.

=11.= Let us consider what it is such philosophers say. And first it is

to be noticed that they do not agree among themselves. They not only

say that they are right as to what good is, but they endeavour to prove

that other people who say that it is something else, are wrong. One,

for instance, will affirm that good is pleasure, another, perhaps, that

good is that which is desired; and each of these will argue eagerly

to prove that the other is wrong. But how is that possible? One of

them says that good is nothing but the object of desire, and at the

same time tries to prove that it is not pleasure. But from his first

assertion, that good just means the object of desire, one of two things

must follow as regards his proof:

(1) He may be trying to prove that the object of desire is not

pleasure. But, if this be all, where is his Ethics? The position he is

maintaining is merely a psychological one. Desire is something which

occurs in our minds, and pleasure is something else which so occurs;

and our would-be ethical philosopher is merely holding that the latter

is not the object of the former. But what has that to do with the

question in dispute? His opponent held the ethical proposition that

pleasure was the good, and although he should prove a million times

over the psychological proposition that pleasure is not the object of

desire, he is no nearer proving his opponent to be wrong. The position

is like this. One man says a triangle is a circle: another replies

‘A triangle is a straight line, and I will prove to you that I am

right: _for_’ (this is the only argument) ‘a straight line is not a

circle.’ ‘That is quite true,’ the other may reply; ‘but nevertheless

a triangle is a circle, and you have said nothing whatever to prove

the contrary. What is proved is that one of us is wrong, for we agree

that a triangle cannot be both a straight line and a circle: but which

is wrong, there can be no earthly means of proving, since you define

triangle as straight line and I define it as circle.’--Well, that is

one alternative which any naturalistic Ethics has to face; if good is

_defined_ as something else, it is then impossible either to prove that

any other definition is wrong or even to deny such definition.

(2) The other alternative will scarcely be more welcome. It is that the

discussion is after all a verbal one. When A says ‘Good means pleasant’

and B says ‘Good means desired,’ they may merely wish to assert that

most people have used the word for what is pleasant and for what is

desired respectively. And this is quite an interesting subject for

discussion: only it is not a whit more an ethical discussion than the

last was. Nor do I think that any exponent of naturalistic Ethics

would be willing to allow that this was all he meant. They are all so

anxious to persuade us that what they call the good is what we really

ought to do. ‘Do, pray, act so, because the word “good” is generally

used to denote actions of this nature’: such, on this view, would be

the substance of their teaching. And in so far as they tell us how we

ought to act, their teaching is truly ethical, as they mean it to be.

But how perfectly absurd is the reason they would give for it! ‘You are

to do this, because most people use a certain word to denote conduct

such as this.’ ‘You are to say the thing which is not, because most

people call it lying.’ That is an argument just as good!--My dear sirs,

what we want to know from you as ethical teachers, is not how people

use a word; it is not even, what kind of actions they approve, which

the use of this word ‘good’ may certainly imply: what we want to know

is simply what _is_ good. We may indeed agree that what most people

do think good, is actually so; we shall at all events be glad to know

their opinions: but when we say their opinions about what _is_ good, we

do mean what we say; we do not care whether they call that thing which

they mean ‘horse’ or ‘table’ or ‘chair,’ ‘gut’ or ‘bon’ or ‘ἀγαθός’; we

want to know what it is that they so call. When they say ‘Pleasure is

good,’ we cannot believe that they merely mean ‘Pleasure is pleasure’

and nothing more than that.

=12.= Suppose a man says ‘I am pleased’; and suppose that is not a lie

or a mistake but the truth. Well, if it is true, what does that mean?

It means that his mind, a certain definite mind, distinguished by

certain definite marks from all others, has at this moment a certain

definite feeling called pleasure. ‘Pleased’ _means_ nothing but having

pleasure, and though we may be more pleased or less pleased, and even,

we may admit for the present, have one or another kind of pleasure;

yet in so far as it is pleasure we have, whether there be more or less

of it, and whether it be of one kind or another, what we have is one

definite thing, absolutely indefinable, some one thing that is the

same in all the various degrees and in all the various kinds of it

that there may be. We may be able to say how it is related to other

things: that, for example, it is in the mind, that it causes desire,

that we are conscious of it, etc., etc. We can, I say, describe its

relations to other things, but define it we can _not_. And if anybody

tried to define pleasure for us as being any other natural object; if

anybody were to say, for instance, that pleasure _means_ the sensation

of red, and were to proceed to deduce from that that pleasure is a

colour, we should be entitled to laugh at him and to distrust his

future statements about pleasure. Well, that would be the same fallacy

which I have called the naturalistic fallacy. That ‘pleased’ does not

mean ‘having the sensation of red,’ or anything else whatever, does not

prevent us from understanding what it does mean. It is enough for us to

know that ‘pleased’ does mean ‘having the sensation of pleasure,’ and

though pleasure is absolutely indefinable, though pleasure is pleasure

and nothing else whatever, yet we feel no difficulty in saying that we

are pleased. The reason is, of course, that when I say ‘I am pleased,’

I do _not_ mean that ‘I’ am the same thing as ‘having pleasure.’ And

similarly no difficulty need be found in my saying that ‘pleasure

is good’ and yet not meaning that ‘pleasure’ is the same thing as

‘good,’ that pleasure _means_ good, and that good _means_ pleasure.

If I were to imagine that when I said ‘I am pleased,’ I meant that

I was exactly the same thing as ‘pleased,’ I should not indeed call

that a naturalistic fallacy, although it would be the same fallacy

as I have called naturalistic with reference to Ethics. The reason

of this is obvious enough. When a man confuses two natural objects

with one another, defining the one, by the other, if for instance,

he confuses himself, who is one natural object, with ‘pleased’ or

with ‘pleasure’ which are others, then there is no reason to call the

fallacy naturalistic. But if he confuses ‘good,’ which is not in the

same sense a natural object, with any natural object whatever, then

there is a reason for calling that a naturalistic fallacy; its being

made with regard to ‘good’ marks it as something quite specific, and

this specific mistake deserves a name because it is so common. As for

the reasons why good is not to be considered a natural object, they may

be reserved for discussion in another place. But, for the present, it

is sufficient to notice this: Even if it were a natural object, that

would not alter the nature of the fallacy nor diminish its importance

one whit. All that I have said about it would remain quite equally

true: only the name which I have called it would not be so appropriate

as I think it is. And I do not care about the name: what I do care

about is the fallacy. It does not matter what we call it, provided we

recognise it when we meet with it. It is to be met with in almost every

book on Ethics; and yet it is not recognised: and that is why it is

necessary to multiply illustrations of it, and convenient to give it a

name. It is a very simple fallacy indeed. When we say that an orange is

yellow, we do not think our statement binds us to hold that ‘orange’

means nothing else than ‘yellow,’ or that nothing can be yellow but an

orange. Supposing the orange is also sweet! Does that bind us to say

that ‘sweet’ is exactly the same thing as ‘yellow,’ that ‘sweet’ must

be defined as ‘yellow’? And supposing it be recognised that ‘yellow’

just means ‘yellow’ and nothing else whatever, does that make it any

more difficult to hold that oranges are yellow? Most certainly it does

not: on the contrary, it would be absolutely meaningless to say that

oranges were yellow, unless yellow did in the end mean just ‘yellow’

and nothing else whatever--unless it was absolutely indefinable. We

should not get any very clear notion about things, which are yellow--we

should not get very far with our science, if we were bound to hold that

everything which was yellow, _meant_ exactly the same thing as yellow.

We should find we had to hold that an orange was exactly the same thing

as a stool, a piece of paper, a lemon, anything you like. We could

prove any number of absurdities; but should we be the nearer to the

truth? Why, then, should it be different with ‘good’? Why, if good is

good and indefinable, should I be held to deny that pleasure is good?

Is there any difficulty in holding both to be true at once? On the

contrary, there is no meaning in saying that pleasure is good, unless

good is something different from pleasure. It is absolutely useless,

so far as Ethics is concerned, to prove, as Mr Spencer tries to do,

that increase of pleasure coincides with increase of life, unless good

_means_ something different from either life or pleasure. He might just

as well try to prove that an orange is yellow by shewing that it always

is wrapped up in paper.

=13.= In fact, if it is not the case that ‘good’ denotes something

simple and indefinable, only two alternatives are possible: either it

is a complex, a given whole, about the correct analysis of which there

may be disagreement; or else it means nothing at all, and there is no

such subject as Ethics. In general, however, ethical philosophers have

attempted to define good, without recognising what such an attempt

must mean. They actually use arguments which involve one or both of

the absurdities considered in § 11. We are, therefore, justified in

concluding that the attempt to define good is chiefly due to want of

clearness as to the possible nature of definition. There are, in fact,

only two serious alternatives to be considered, in order to establish

the conclusion that ‘good’ does denote a simple and indefinable notion.

It might possibly denote a complex, as ‘horse’ does; or it might have

no meaning at all. Neither of these possibilities has, however, been

clearly conceived and seriously maintained, as such, by those who

presume to define good; and both may be dismissed by a simple appeal to

facts.

(1) The hypothesis that disagreement about the meaning of good is

disagreement with regard to the correct analysis of a given whole,

may be most plainly seen to be incorrect by consideration of the fact

that, whatever definition be offered, it may be always asked, with

significance, of the complex so defined, whether it is itself good. To

take, for instance, one of the more plausible, because one of the more

complicated, of such proposed definitions, it may easily be thought,

at first sight, that to be good may mean to be that which we desire

to desire. Thus if we apply this definition to a particular instance

and say ‘When we think that A is good, we are thinking that A is one

of the things which we desire to desire,’ our proposition may seem

quite plausible. But, if we carry the investigation further, and ask

ourselves ‘Is it good to desire to desire A?’ it is apparent, on a

little reflection, that this question is itself as intelligible, as the

original question ‘Is A good?’--that we are, in fact, now asking for

exactly the same information about the desire to desire A, for which

we formerly asked with regard to A itself. But it is also apparent

that the meaning of this second question cannot be correctly analysed

into ‘Is the desire to desire A one of the things which we desire to

desire?’: we have not before our minds anything so complicated as the

question ‘Do we desire to desire to desire to desire A?’ Moreover any

one can easily convince himself by inspection that the predicate of

this proposition--‘good’--is positively different from the notion of

‘desiring to desire’ which enters into its subject: ‘That we should

desire to desire A is good’ is _not_ merely equivalent to ‘That A

should be good is good.’ It may indeed be true that what we desire to

desire is always also good; perhaps, even the converse may be true: but

it is very doubtful whether this is the case, and the mere fact that we

understand very well what is meant by doubting it, shews clearly that

we have two different notions before our minds.

(2) And the same consideration is sufficient to dismiss the hypothesis

that ‘good’ has no meaning whatsoever. It is very natural to make the

mistake of supposing that what is universally true is of such a nature

that its negation would be self-contradictory: the importance which has

been assigned to analytic propositions in the history of philosophy

shews how easy such a mistake is. And thus it is very easy to conclude

that what seems to be a universal ethical principle is in fact an

identical proposition; that, if, for example, whatever is called ‘good’

seems to be pleasant, the proposition ‘Pleasure is the good’ does not

assert a connection between two different notions, but involves only

one, that of pleasure, which is easily recognised as a distinct entity.

But whoever will attentively consider with himself what is actually

before his mind when he asks the question ‘Is pleasure (or whatever

it may be) after all good?’ can easily satisfy himself that he is not

merely wondering whether pleasure is pleasant. And if he will try

this experiment with each suggested definition in succession, he may

become expert enough to recognise that in every case he has before his

mind a unique object, with regard to the connection of which with any

other object, a distinct question may be asked. Every one does in

fact understand the question ‘Is this good?’ When he thinks of it, his

state of mind is different from what it would be, were he asked ‘Is

this pleasant, or desired, or approved?’ It has a distinct meaning for

him, even though he may not recognise in what respect it is distinct.

Whenever he thinks of ‘intrinsic value,’ or ‘intrinsic worth,’ or

says that a thing ‘ought to exist,’ he has before his mind the unique

object--the unique property of things--which I mean by ‘good.’

Everybody is constantly aware of this notion, although he may never

become aware at all that it is different from other notions of which

he is also aware. But, for correct ethical reasoning, it is extremely

important that he should become aware of this fact; and, as soon as the

nature of the problem is clearly understood, there should be little

difficulty in advancing so far in analysis.

=14.= ‘Good,’ then, is indefinable; and yet, so far as I know, there

is only one ethical writer, Prof. Henry Sidgwick, who has clearly

recognised and stated this fact. We shall see, indeed, how far many of

the most reputed ethical systems fall short of drawing the conclusions

which follow from such a recognition. At present I will only quote one

instance, which will serve to illustrate the meaning and importance of

this principle that ‘good’ is indefinable, or, as Prof. Sidgwick says,

an ‘unanalysable notion.’ It is an instance to which Prof. Sidgwick

himself refers in a note on the passage, in which he argues that

‘ought’ is unanalysable[2].

[2] _Methods of Ethics_, Bk. I, Chap. iii, § 1 (6th edition).

‘Bentham,’ says Sidgwick, ‘explains that his fundamental principle

“states the greatest happiness of all those whose interest is in

question as being the right and proper end of human action”’; and yet

‘his language in other passages of the same chapter would seem to

imply’ that he _means_ by the word “right” “conducive to the general

happiness.” Prof. Sidgwick sees that, if you take these two statements

together, you get the absurd result that ‘greatest happiness is the

end of human action, which is conducive to the general happiness’; and

so absurd does it seem to him to call this result, as Bentham calls

it, ‘the fundamental principle of a moral system,’ that he suggests

that Bentham cannot have meant it. Yet Prof. Sidgwick himself states

elsewhere[3] that Psychological Hedonism is ‘not seldom confounded with

Egoistic Hedonism’; and that confusion, as we shall see, rests chiefly

on that same fallacy, the naturalistic fallacy, which is implied in

Bentham’s statements. Prof. Sidgwick admits therefore that this fallacy

is sometimes committed, absurd as it is; and I am inclined to think

that Bentham may really have been one of those who committed it. Mill,

as we shall see, certainly did commit it. In any case, whether Bentham

committed it or not, his doctrine, as above quoted, will serve as a

very good illustration of this fallacy, and of the importance of the

contrary proposition that good is indefinable.

[3] _Methods of Ethics_, Bk. I, Chap. iv, § 1.

Let us consider this doctrine. Bentham seems to imply, so Prof.

Sidgwick says, that the word ‘right’ _means_ ‘conducive to general

happiness.’ Now this, by itself, need not necessarily involve

the naturalistic fallacy. For the word ‘right’ is very commonly

appropriated to actions which lead to the attainment of what

is good; which are regarded as _means_ to the ideal and not as

ends-in-themselves. This use of ‘right,’ as denoting what is good as

a means, whether or not it be also good as an end, is indeed the use

to which I shall confine the word. Had Bentham been using ‘right’ in

this sense, it might be perfectly consistent for him to _define_ right

as ‘conducive to the general happiness,’ _provided only_ (and notice

this proviso) he had already proved, or laid down as an axiom, that

general happiness was _the_ good, or (what is equivalent to this)

that general happiness alone was good. For in that case he would have

already defined _the_ good as general happiness (a position perfectly

consistent, as we have seen, with the contention that ‘good’ is

indefinable), and, since right was to be defined as ‘conducive to _the_

good,’ it would actually _mean_ ‘conducive to general happiness.’

But this method of escape from the charge of having committed the

naturalistic fallacy has been closed by Bentham himself. For his

fundamental principle is, we see, that the greatest happiness of all

concerned is the _right_ and proper _end_ of human action. He applies

the word ‘right,’ therefore, to the end, as such, not only to the means

which are conducive to it; and, that being so, right can no longer be

defined as ‘conducive to the general happiness,’ without involving the

fallacy in question. For now it is obvious that the definition of right

as conducive to general happiness can be used by him in support of the

fundamental principle that general happiness is the right end; instead

of being itself derived from that principle. If right, by definition,

means conducive to general happiness, then it is obvious that general

happiness is the right end. It is not necessary now first to prove or

assert that general happiness is the right end, before right is defined

as conducive to general happiness--a perfectly valid procedure; but on

the contrary the definition of right as conducive to general happiness

proves general happiness to be the right end--a perfectly invalid

procedure, since in this case the statement that ‘general happiness is

the right end of human action’ is not an ethical principle at all, but

either, as we have seen, a proposition about the meaning of words, or

else a proposition about the _nature_ of general happiness, not about

its rightness or goodness.

Now, I do not wish the importance I assign to this fallacy to be

misunderstood. The discovery of it does not at all refute Bentham’s

contention that greatest happiness is the proper end of human action,

if that be understood as an ethical proposition, as he undoubtedly

intended it. That principle may be true all the same; we shall consider

whether it is so in succeeding chapters. Bentham might have maintained

it, as Professor Sidgwick does, even if the fallacy had been pointed

out to him. What I am maintaining is that the _reasons_ which he

actually gives for his ethical proposition are fallacious ones so

far as they consist in a definition of right. What I suggest is that

he did not perceive them to be fallacious; that, if he had done so,

he would have been led to seek for other reasons in support of his

Utilitarianism; and that, had he sought for other reasons, he _might_

have found none which he thought to be sufficient. In that case he

would have changed his whole system--a most important consequence. It

is undoubtedly also possible that he would have thought other reasons

to be sufficient, and in that case his ethical system, in its main

results, would still have stood. But, even in this latter case, his

use of the fallacy would be a serious objection to him as an ethical

philosopher. For it is the business of Ethics, I must insist, not only

to obtain true results, but also to find valid reasons for them. The

direct object of Ethics is knowledge and not practice; and any one who

uses the naturalistic fallacy has certainly not fulfilled this first

object, however correct his practical principles may be.

My objections to Naturalism are then, in the first place, that it

offers no reason at all, far less any valid reason, for any ethical

principle whatever; and in this it already fails to satisfy the

requirements of Ethics, as a scientific study. But in the second place

I contend that, though it gives a reason for no ethical principle, it

is a _cause_ of the acceptance of false principles--it deludes the mind

into accepting ethical principles, which are false; and in this it is

contrary to every aim of Ethics. It is easy to see that if we start

with a definition of right conduct as conduct conducive to general

happiness; then, knowing that right conduct is universally conduct

conducive to the good, we very easily arrive at the result that the

good is general happiness. If, on the other hand, we once recognise

that we must start our Ethics without a definition, we shall be much

more apt to look about us, before we adopt any ethical principle

whatever; and the more we look about us, the less likely are we to

adopt a false one. It may be replied to this: Yes, but we shall look

about us just as much, before we settle on our definition, and are

therefore just as likely to be right. But I will try to shew that this

is not the case. If we start with the conviction that a definition of

good can be found, we start with the conviction that good _can mean_

nothing else than some one property of things; and our only business

will then be to discover what that property is. But if we recognise

that, so far as the meaning of good goes, anything whatever may be

good, we start with a much more open mind. Moreover, apart from the

fact that, when we think we have a definition, we cannot logically

defend our ethical principles in any way whatever, we shall also be

much less apt to defend them well, even if illogically. For we shall

start with the conviction that good must mean so and so, and shall

therefore be inclined either to misunderstand our opponent’s arguments

or to cut them short with the reply, ‘This is not an open question: the

very meaning of the word decides it; no one can think otherwise except

through confusion.’

=15.= Our first conclusion as to the subject-matter of Ethics is, then,

that there is a simple, indefinable, unanalysable object of thought by

reference to which it must be defined. By what name we call this unique

object is a matter of indifference, so long as we clearly recognise

what it is and that it does differ from other objects. The words which

are commonly taken as the signs of ethical judgments all do refer to

it; and they are expressions of ethical judgments solely because they

do so refer. But they may refer to it in two different ways, which

it is very important to distinguish, if we are to have a complete

definition of the range of ethical judgments. Before I proceeded to

argue that there was such an indefinable notion involved in ethical

notions, I stated (§ 4) that it was necessary for Ethics to enumerate

all true universal judgments, asserting that such and such a thing was

good, whenever it occurred. But, although all such judgments do refer

to that unique notion which I have called ‘good,’ they do not all refer

to it in the same way. They may either assert that this unique property

does always attach to the thing in question, or else they may assert

only that the thing in question is _a cause or necessary condition_

for the existence of other things to which this unique property does

attach. The nature of these two species of universal ethical judgments

is extremely different; and a great part of the difficulties, which

are met with in ordinary ethical speculation, are due to the failure

to distinguish them clearly. Their difference has, indeed, received

expression in ordinary language by the contrast between the terms ‘good

as means’ and ‘good in itself,’ ‘value as a means’ and ‘intrinsic

value.’ But these terms are apt to be applied correctly only in the

more obvious instances; and this seems to be due to the fact that the

distinction between the conceptions which they denote has not been made

a separate object of investigation. This distinction may be briefly

pointed out as follows.

=16.= Whenever we judge that a thing is ‘good as a means,’ we are

making a judgment with regard to its causal relations: we judge

_both_ that it will have a particular kind of effect, _and_ that that

effect will be good in itself. But to find causal judgments that

are universally true is notoriously a matter of extreme difficulty.

The late date at which most of the physical sciences became exact,

and the comparative fewness of the laws which they have succeeded

in establishing even now, are sufficient proofs of this difficulty.

With regard, then, to what are the most frequent objects of ethical

judgments, namely actions, it is obvious that we cannot be satisfied

that any of our universal causal judgments are true, even in the

sense in which scientific laws are so. We cannot even discover

hypothetical laws of the form ‘Exactly this action will always, under

these conditions, produce exactly that effect.’ But for a correct

ethical judgment with regard to the effects of certain actions we

require more than this in two respects. (1) We require to know

that a given action will produce a certain effect, _under whatever

circumstances it occurs_. But this is certainly impossible. It is

certain that in different circumstances the same action may produce

effects which are utterly different in all respects upon which the

value of the effects depends. Hence we can never be entitled to more

than a _generalisation_--to a proposition of the form ‘This result

_generally_ follows this kind of action’; and even this generalisation

will only be true, if the circumstances under which the action occurs

are generally the same. This is in fact the case, to a great extent,

within any one particular age and state of society. But, when we take

other ages into account, in many most important cases the normal

circumstances of a given kind of action will be so different, that the

generalisation which is true for one will not be true for another.

With regard then to ethical judgments which assert that a certain

kind of action is good as a means to a certain kind of effect, none

will be _universally_ true; and many, though _generally_ true at one

period, will be generally false at others. But (2) we require to know

not only that _one_ good effect will be produced, but that, among all

subsequent events affected by the action in question, the balance

of good will be greater than if any other possible action had been

performed. In other words, to judge that an action is generally a means

to good is to judge not only that it generally does _some_ good, but

that it generally does the greatest good of which the circumstances

admit. In this respect ethical judgments about the effects of action

involve a difficulty and a complication far greater than that involved

in the establishment of scientific laws. For the latter we need only

consider a single effect; for the former it is essential to consider

not only this, but the effects of that effect, and so on as far as our

view into the future can reach. It is, indeed, obvious that our view

can never reach far enough for us to be certain that any action will

produce the best possible effects. We must be content, if the greatest

possible balance of good seems to be produced within a limited period.

But it is important to notice that the whole series of effects within

a period of considerable length is actually taken account of in our

common judgments that an action is good as a means; and that hence

this additional complication, which makes ethical generalisations so

far more difficult to establish than scientific laws, is one which is

involved in actual ethical discussions, and is of practical importance.

The commonest rules of conduct involve such considerations as the

balancing of future bad health against immediate gains; and even if we

can never settle with any certainty how we shall secure the greatest

possible total of good, we try at least to assure ourselves that

probable future evils will not be greater than the immediate good.

=17.= There are, then, judgments which state that certain kinds of

things have good effects; and such judgments, for the reasons just

given, have the important characteristics (1) that they are unlikely to

be true, if they state that the kind of thing in question _always_ has

good effects, and (2) that, even if they only state that it _generally_

has good effects, many of them will only be true of certain periods

in the world’s history. On the other hand there are judgments which

state that certain kinds of things are themselves good; and these

differ from the last in that, if true at all, they are all of them

universally true. It is, therefore, extremely important to distinguish

these two kinds of possible judgments. Both may be expressed in the

same language: in both cases we commonly say ‘Such and such a thing is

good.’ But in the one case ‘good’ will mean ‘good as means,’ _i.e._

merely that the thing is a means to good--will have good effects:

in the other case it will mean ‘good as end’--we shall be judging

that the thing itself has the property which, in the first case, we

asserted only to belong to its effects. It is plain that these are very

different assertions to make about a thing; it is plain that either or

both of them may be made, both truly and falsely, about all manner of

things; and it is certain that unless we are clear as to which of the

two we mean to assert, we shall have a very poor chance of deciding

rightly whether our assertion is true or false. It is precisely this

clearness as to the meaning of the question asked which has hitherto

been almost entirely lacking in ethical speculation. Ethics has always

been predominantly concerned with the investigation of a limited

class of actions. With regard to these we may ask _both_ how far they

are good in themselves _and_ how far they have a general tendency to

produce good results. And the arguments brought forward in ethical

discussion have always been of both classes--both such as would prove

the conduct in question to be good in itself and such as would prove

it to be good as a means. But that these are the only questions which

any ethical discussion can have to settle, and that to settle the one

is _not_ the same thing as to settle the other--these two fundamental

facts have in general escaped the notice of ethical philosophers.

Ethical questions are commonly asked in an ambiguous form. It is asked

‘What is a man’s duty under these circumstances?’ or ‘Is it right to

act in this way?’ or ‘What ought we to aim at securing?’ But all these

questions are capable of further analysis; a correct answer to any

of them involves both judgments of what is good in itself and causal

judgments. This is implied even by those who maintain that we have a

direct and immediate judgment of absolute rights and duties. Such a

judgment can only mean that the course of action in question is _the_

best thing to do; that, by acting so, every good that _can_ be secured

will have been secured. Now we are not concerned with the question

whether such a judgment will ever be true. The question is: What

does it imply, if it is true? And the only possible answer is that,

whether true or false, it implies both a proposition as to the degree

of goodness of the action in question, as compared with other things,

and a number of causal propositions. For it cannot be denied that the

action will have consequences: and to deny that the consequences matter

is to make a judgment of their intrinsic value, as compared with the

action itself. In asserting that the action is _the_ best thing to do,

we assert that it together with its consequences presents a greater sum

of intrinsic value than any possible alternative. And this condition

may be realised by any of the three cases:--(_a_) If the action itself

has greater intrinsic value than any alternative, whereas both its

consequences and those of the alternatives are absolutely devoid

either of intrinsic merit or intrinsic demerit; or (_b_) if, though

its consequences are intrinsically bad, the balance of intrinsic value

is greater than would be produced by any alternative; or (_c_) if, its

consequences being intrinsically good, the degree of value belonging

to them and it conjointly is greater than that of any alternative

series. In short, to assert that a certain line of conduct is, at a

given time, absolutely right or obligatory, is obviously to assert

that more good or less evil will exist in the world, if it be adopted,

than if anything else be done instead. But this implies a judgment as

to the value both of its own consequences and of those of any possible

alternative. And that an action will have such and such consequences

involves a number of causal judgments.

Similarly, in answering the question ‘What ought we to aim at

securing?’ causal judgments are again involved, but in a somewhat

different way. We are liable to forget, because it is so obvious,

that this question can never be answered correctly except by naming

something which _can_ be secured. Not everything can be secured; and,

even if we judge that nothing which cannot be obtained would be of

equal value with that which can, the possibility of the latter, as

well as its value, is essential to its being a proper end of action.

Accordingly neither our judgments as to what actions we ought to

perform, nor even our judgments as to the ends which they ought to

produce, are pure judgments of intrinsic value. With regard to

the former, an action which is absolutely obligatory _may_ have no

intrinsic value whatsoever; that it is perfectly virtuous may mean

merely that it causes the best possible effects. And with regard to the

latter, these best possible results which justify our action can, in

any case, have only so much of intrinsic value as the laws of nature

allow us to secure; and they in their turn _may_ have no intrinsic

value whatsoever, but may merely be a means to the attainment (in a

still further future) of something that has such value. Whenever,

therefore, we ask ‘What ought we to do?’ or ‘What ought we to try to

get?’ we are asking questions which involve a correct answer to two

others, completely different in kind from one another. We must know

_both_ what degree of intrinsic value different things have, _and_

how these different things may be obtained. But the vast majority of

questions which have actually been discussed in Ethics--_all_ practical

questions, indeed--involve this double knowledge; and they have been

discussed without any clear separation of the two distinct questions

involved. A great part of the vast disagreements prevalent in Ethics is

to be attributed to this failure in analysis. By the use of conceptions

which involve both that of intrinsic value and that of causal relation,

as if they involved intrinsic value only, two different errors have

been rendered almost universal. Either it is assumed that nothing has

intrinsic value which is not possible, or else it is assumed that what

is necessary must have intrinsic value. Hence the primary and peculiar

business of Ethics, the determination what things have intrinsic

value and in what degrees, has received no adequate treatment at all.

And on the other hand a _thorough_ discussion of means has been also

largely neglected, owing to an obscure perception of the truth that

it is perfectly irrelevant to the question of intrinsic values. But

however this may be, and however strongly any particular reader may be

convinced that some one of the mutually contradictory systems which

hold the field has given a correct answer either to the question what

has intrinsic value, or to the question what we ought to do, or to

both, it must at least be admitted that the questions what is best

in itself and what will bring about the best possible, are utterly

distinct; that both belong to the actual subject-matter of Ethics; and

that the more clearly distinct questions are distinguished, the better

is our chance of answering both correctly.

=18.= There remains one point which must not be omitted in a complete

description of the kind of questions which Ethics has to answer. The

main division of those questions is, as I have said, into two; the

question what things are good in themselves, and the question to what

other things these are related as effects. The first of these, which is

the primary ethical question and is presupposed by the other, includes

a correct comparison of the various things which have intrinsic value

(if there are many such) in respect of the degree of value which they

have; and such comparison involves a difficulty of principle which has

greatly aided the confusion of intrinsic value with mere ‘goodness

as a means.’ It has been pointed out that one difference between a

judgment which asserts that a thing is good in itself, and a judgment

which asserts that it is a means to good, consists in the fact that

the first, if true of one instance of the thing in question, is

necessarily true of all; whereas a thing which has good effects under

some circumstances may have bad ones under others. Now it is certainly

true that all judgments of intrinsic value are in this sense universal;

but the principle which I have now to enunciate may easily make it

appear as if they were not so but resembled the judgment of means in

being merely general. There is, as will presently be maintained, a

vast number of different things, each of which has intrinsic value;

there are also very many which are positively bad; and there is a still

larger class of things, which appear to be indifferent. But a thing

belonging to any of these three classes may occur as part of a whole,

which includes among its other parts other things belonging both to

the same and to the other two classes; and these wholes, as such, may

also have intrinsic value. The paradox, to which it is necessary to

call attention, is that _the value of such a whole bears no regular

proportion to the sum of the values of its parts_. It is certain that

a good thing may exist in such a relation to another good thing that

the value of the whole thus formed is immensely greater than the sum

of the values of the two good things. It is certain that a whole formed

of a good thing and an indifferent thing may have immensely greater

value than that good thing itself possesses. It is certain that two

bad things or a bad thing and an indifferent thing may form a whole

much worse than the sum of badness of its parts. And it seems as if

indifferent things may also be the sole constituents of a whole which

has great value, either positive or negative. Whether the addition of

a bad thing to a good whole may increase the positive value of the

whole, or the addition of a bad thing to a bad may produce a whole

having positive value, may seem more doubtful; but it is, at least,

possible, and this possibility must be taken into account in our

ethical investigations. However we may decide particular questions, the

principle is clear. _The value of a whole must not be assumed to be the

same as the sum of the values of its parts._

A single instance will suffice to illustrate the kind of relation in

question. It seems to be true that to be conscious of a beautiful

object is a thing of great intrinsic value; whereas the same object, if

no one be conscious of it, has certainly comparatively little value,

and is commonly held to have none at all. But the consciousness of a

beautiful object is certainly a whole of some sort in which we can

distinguish as parts the object on the one hand and the being conscious

on the other. Now this latter factor occurs as part of a different

whole, whenever we are conscious of anything; and it would seem that

some of these wholes have at all events very little value, and may

even be indifferent or positively bad. Yet we cannot always attribute

the slightness of their value to any positive demerit in the object

which differentiates them from the consciousness of beauty; the object

itself may approach as near as possible to absolute neutrality. Since,

therefore, mere consciousness does not always confer great value upon

the whole of which it forms a part, even though its object may have

no great demerit, we cannot attribute the great superiority of the

consciousness of a beautiful thing over the beautiful thing itself

to the mere addition of the value of consciousness to that of the

beautiful thing. Whatever the intrinsic value of consciousness may

be, it does not give to the whole of which it forms a part a value

proportioned to the sum of its value and that of its object. If this

be so, we have here an instance of a whole possessing a different

intrinsic value from the sum of that of its parts; and whether it be so

or not, what is meant by such a difference is illustrated by this case.

=19.= There are, then, wholes which possess the property that their

value is different from the sum of the values of their parts; and the

relations which subsist between such parts and the whole of which they

form a part have not hitherto been distinctly recognised or received

a separate name. Two points are especially worthy of notice. (1) It

is plain that the existence of any such part is a necessary condition

for the existence of that good which is constituted by the whole. And

exactly the same language will also express the relation between a

means and the good thing which is its effect. But yet there is a most

important difference between the two cases, constituted by the fact

that the part is, whereas the means is not, a part of the good thing

for the existence of which its existence is a necessary condition. The

necessity by which, if the good in question is to exist, the means to

it must exist is merely a natural or causal necessity. If the laws of

nature were different, exactly the same good might exist, although

what is now a necessary condition of its existence did not exist.

The existence of the means has no intrinsic value; and its utter

annihilation would leave the value of that which it is now necessary

to secure entirely unchanged. But in the case of a part of such a

whole as we are now considering, it is otherwise. In this case the

good in question cannot conceivably exist, unless the part exist also.

The necessity which connects the two is quite independent of natural

law. What is asserted to have intrinsic value is the existence of the

whole; and the existence of the whole includes the existence of its

part. Suppose the part removed, and what remains is _not_ what was

asserted to have intrinsic value; but if we suppose a means removed,

what remains is just what _was_ asserted to have intrinsic value. And

yet (2) the existence of the part may _itself_ have no more intrinsic

value than that of the means. It is this fact which constitutes the

paradox of the relation which we are discussing. It has just been

said that what has intrinsic value is the existence of the whole, and

that this includes the existence of the part; and from this it would

seem a natural inference that the existence of the part has intrinsic

value. But the inference would be as false as if we were to conclude

that, because the number of two stones was two, each of the stones was

also two. The part of a valuable whole retains exactly the same value

when it is, as when it is not, a part of that whole. If it had value

under other circumstances, its value is not any greater, when it is

part of a far more valuable whole; and if it had no value by itself,

it has none still, however great be that of the whole of which it now

forms a part. We are not then justified in asserting that one and the

same thing is under some circumstances intrinsically good, and under

others not so; as we are justified in asserting of a means that it

sometimes does and sometimes does not produce good results. And yet we

are justified in asserting that it is far more desirable that a certain

thing should exist under some circumstances than under others; namely

when other things will exist in such relations to it as to form a more

valuable whole. _It_ will not have more intrinsic value under these

circumstances than under others; _it_ will not necessarily even be a

means to the existence of things having more intrinsic value: but it

will, like a means, be a necessary condition for the existence of that

which _has_ greater intrinsic value, although, unlike a means, it will

itself form a part of this more valuable existent.

=20.= I have said that the peculiar relation between part and whole

which I have just been trying to define is one which has received no

separate name. It would, however, be useful that it should have one;

and there is a name, which might well be appropriated to it, if only

it could be divorced from its present unfortunate usage. Philosophers,

especially those who profess to have derived great benefit from the

writings of Hegel, have latterly made much use of the terms ‘organic

whole,’ ‘organic unity,’ ‘organic relation.’ The reason why these terms

might well be appropriated to the use suggested is that the peculiar

relation of parts to whole, just defined, is one of the properties

which distinguishes the wholes to which they are actually applied with

the greatest frequency. And the reason why it is desirable that they

should be divorced from their present usage is that, as at present

used, they have no distinct sense and, on the contrary, both imply and

propagate errors of confusion.

To say that a thing is an ‘organic whole’ is generally understood

to imply that its parts are related to one another and to itself

as means to end; it is also understood to imply that they have a

property described in some such phrase as that they have ‘no meaning

or significance apart from the whole’; and finally such a whole is

also treated as if it had the property to which I am proposing that

the name should be confined. But those who use the term give us, in

general, no hint as to how they suppose these three properties to be

related to one another. It seems generally to be assumed that they are

identical; and always, at least, that they are necessarily connected

with one another. That they are not identical I have already tried to

shew; to suppose them so is to neglect the very distinctions pointed

out in the last paragraph; and the usage might well be discontinued

merely because it encourages such neglect. But a still more cogent

reason for its discontinuance is that, so far from being necessarily

connected, the second is a property which can attach to nothing, being

a self-contradictory conception; whereas the first, if we insist on its

most important sense, applies to many cases, to which we have no reason

to think that the third applies also, and the third certainly applies

to many to which the first does not apply.

=21.= These relations between the three properties just distinguished

may be illustrated by reference to a whole of the kind from which

the name ‘organic’ was derived--a whole which is an organism in the

scientific sense--namely the human body.

(1) There exists between many parts of our body (though not between

all) a relation which has been familiarised by the fable, attributed

to Menenius Agrippa, concerning the belly and its members. We can

find in it parts such that the continued existence of the one is a

necessary condition for the continued existence of the other; while the

continued existence of this latter is also a necessary condition for

the continued existence of the former. This amounts to no more than

saying that in the body we have instances of two things, both enduring

for some time, which have a relation of mutual causal dependence on one

another--a relation of ‘reciprocity.’ Frequently no more than this is

meant by saying that the parts of the body form an ‘organic unity,’ or

that they are mutually means and ends to one another. And we certainly

have here a striking characteristic of living things. But it would be

extremely rash to assert that this relation of mutual causal dependence

was only exhibited by living things and hence was sufficient to define

their peculiarity. And it is obvious that of two things which have this

relation of mutual dependence, neither may have intrinsic value, or

one may have it and the other lack it. They are not necessarily ‘ends’

to one another in any sense except that in which ‘end’ means ‘effect.’

And moreover it is plain that in this sense the whole cannot be an end

to any of its parts. We are apt to talk of ‘the whole’ in contrast to

one of its parts, when in fact we mean only _the rest_ of the parts.

But strictly the whole must include all its parts and no part can

be a cause of the whole, because it cannot be a cause of itself. It

is plain, therefore, that this relation of mutual causal dependence

implies nothing with regard to the value of either of the objects which

have it; and that, even if both of them happen also to have value, this

relation between them is one which cannot hold between part and whole.

But (2) it may also be the case that our body as a whole has a value

greater than the sum of values of its parts; and this may be what is

meant when it is said that the parts are means to the whole. It is

obvious that if we ask the question ‘Why _should_ the parts be such as

they are?’ a proper answer may be ‘Because the whole they form has so

much value.’ But it is equally obvious that the relation which we thus

assert to exist between part and whole is quite different from that

which we assert to exist between part and part when we say ‘This part

exists, because that one could not exist without it.’ In the latter

case we assert the two parts to be causally connected; but, in the

former, part and whole cannot be causally connected, and the relation

which we assert to exist between them may exist even though the parts

are not causally connected either. All the parts of a picture do not

have that relation of mutual causal dependence, which certain parts of

the body have, and yet the existence of those which do not have it may

be absolutely essential to the value of the whole. The two relations

are quite distinct in kind, and we cannot infer the existence of the

one from that of the other. It can, therefore, serve no useful purpose

to include them both under the same name; and if we are to say that

a whole is organic because its parts are (in this sense) ‘means’ to

the whole, we must _not_ say that it is organic because its parts are

causally dependent on one another.

=22.= But finally (3) the sense which has been most prominent in

recent uses of the term ‘organic whole’ is one whereby it asserts the

parts of such a whole to have a property which the parts of no whole

can possibly have. It is supposed that just as the whole would not

be what it is but for the existence of the parts, so the parts would

not be what they are but for the existence of the whole; and this is

understood to mean not merely that any particular part could not exist

unless the others existed too (which is the case where relation (1)

exists between the parts), but actually that the part is no distinct

object of thought--that the whole, of which it is a part, is in its

turn a part of it. That this supposition is self-contradictory a very

little reflection should be sufficient to shew. We may admit, indeed,

that when a particular thing is a part of a whole, it does possess a

predicate which it would not otherwise possess--namely that it is a

part of that whole. But what cannot be admitted is that this predicate

alters the nature or enters into the definition of the thing which has

it. When we think of the part _itself_, we mean just _that which_ we

assert, in this case, to _have_ the predicate that it is part of the

whole; and the mere assertion that _it_ is a part of the whole involves

that it should itself be distinct from that which we assert of it.

Otherwise we contradict ourselves since we assert that, not _it_, but

something else--namely it together with that which we assert of it--has

the predicate which we assert of it. In short, it is obvious that no

part contains analytically the whole to which it belongs, or any other

parts of that whole. The relation of part to whole is _not_ the same

as that of whole to part; and the very definition of the latter is

that it does contain analytically that which is said to be its part.

And yet this very self-contradictory doctrine is the chief mark which

shews the influence of Hegel upon modern philosophy--an influence which

pervades almost the whole of orthodox philosophy. This is what is

generally implied by the cry against falsification by abstraction: that

a whole is always a part of its part! ‘If you want to know the truth

about a part,’ we are told, ‘you must consider _not_ that part, but

something else--namely the whole: _nothing_ is true of the part, but

only of the whole.’ Yet plainly it must be true of the part at least

that it is a part of the whole; and it is obvious that when we say it

is, we do _not_ mean merely that the whole is a part of itself. This

doctrine, therefore, that a part can have ‘no meaning or significance

apart from its whole’ must be utterly rejected. It implies itself that

the statement ‘This is a part of that whole’ has a meaning; and in

order that this may have one, both subject and predicate must have a

distinct meaning. And it is easy to see how this false doctrine has

arisen by confusion with the two relations (1) and (2) which may really

be properties of wholes.

(_a_) The _existence_ of a part may be connected by a natural or

causal necessity with the existence of the other parts of its whole;

and further what is a part of a whole and what has ceased to be such a

part, although differing intrinsically from one another, may be called

by one and the same name. Thus, to take a typical example, if an arm

be cut off from the human body, we still call it an arm. Yet an arm,

when it is a part of the body, undoubtedly differs from a dead arm:

and hence we may easily be led to say ‘The arm which is a part of the

body would not be what it is, if it were not such a part,’ and to think

that the contradiction thus expressed is in reality a characteristic

of things. But, in fact, the dead arm never was a part of the body;

it is only _partially_ identical with the living arm. Those parts of

it which are identical with parts of the living arm are exactly the

same, whether they belong to the body or not; and in them we have an

undeniable instance of one and the same thing at one time forming

a part, and at another not forming a part of the presumed ‘organic

whole.’ On the other hand those properties which _are_ possessed by

the living, and _not_ by the dead, arm, do not exist in a changed form

in the latter: they simply do not exist there _at all_. By a causal

necessity their existence depends on their having that relation to the

other parts of the body which we express by saying that they form part

of it. Yet, most certainly, _if_ they ever did not form part of the

body, they _would_ be exactly what they are when they do. That they

differ intrinsically from the properties of the dead arm and that they

form part of the body are propositions not analytically related to one

another. There is no contradiction in supposing them to retain such

intrinsic differences and yet not to form part of the body.

But (_b_) when we are told that a living arm has no _meaning_ or

_significance_ apart from the body to which it belongs, a different

fallacy is also suggested. ‘To have meaning or significance’ is

commonly used in the sense of ‘to have importance’; and this again

means ‘to have value either as a means or as an end.’ Now it is quite

possible that even a living arm, apart from its body, would have no

intrinsic value whatever; although the whole of which it is a part

has great intrinsic value owing to its presence. Thus we may easily

come to say that, _as_ a part of the body, it has great value, whereas

_by itself_ it would have none; and thus that its whole ‘meaning’

lies in its relation to the body. But in fact the value in question

obviously does not belong to _it_ at all. To have value merely as a

part is equivalent to having no value at all, but merely being a part

of that which has it. Owing, however, to neglect of this distinction,

the assertion that a part has value, _as a part_, which it would

not otherwise have, easily leads to the assumption that it is also

different, as a part, from what it would otherwise be; for it is, in

fact, true that two things which have a different value must also

differ in other respects. Hence the assumption that one and the same

thing, because it is a part of a more valuable whole at one time than

at another, therefore has more intrinsic value at one time than at

another, has encouraged the self-contradictory belief that one and the

same thing may be two different things, and that only in one of its

forms is it truly what it is.

For these reasons, I shall, where it seems convenient, take the

liberty to use the term ‘organic’ with a special sense. I shall use

it to denote the fact that a whole has an intrinsic value different

in amount from the sum of the values of its parts. I shall use it to

denote this and only this. The term will not imply any causal relation

whatever between the parts of the whole in question. And it will not

imply either, that the parts are inconceivable except as parts of that

whole, or that, when they form parts of such a whole, they have a value

different from that which they would have if they did not. Understood

in this special and perfectly definite sense the relation of an organic

whole to its parts is one of the most important which Ethics has to

recognise. A chief part of that science should be occupied in comparing

the relative values of various goods; and the grossest errors will be

committed in such comparison if it be assumed that wherever two things

form a whole, the value of that whole is merely the sum of the values

of those two things. With this question of ‘organic wholes,’ then, we

complete the enumeration of the kind of problems, with which it is the

business of Ethics to deal.

=23.= In this chapter I have endeavoured to enforce the following

conclusions. (1) The peculiarity of Ethics is not that it investigates

assertions about human conduct, but that it investigates assertions

about that property of things which is denoted by the term ‘good,’ and

the converse property denoted by the term ‘bad.’ It must, in order

to establish its conclusions, investigate the truth of _all_ such

assertions, _except_ those which assert the relation of this property

only to a single existent (1-4). (2) This property, by reference to

which the subject-matter of Ethics must be defined, is itself simple

and indefinable (5-14). And (3) all assertions about its relation to

other things are of two, and only two, kinds: they either assert in

what degree things themselves possess this property, or else they

assert causal relations between other things and those which possess

it (15-17). Finally, (4) in considering the different degrees in which

things themselves possess this property, we have to take account of

the fact that a whole may possess it in a degree different from that

which is obtained by summing the degrees in which its parts possess it

(18-22).

CHAPTER II.

NATURALISTIC ETHICS.

=24.= It results from the conclusions of Chapter I, that all ethical

questions fall under one or other of three classes. The first class

contains but one question--the question What is the nature of that

peculiar predicate, the relation of which to other things constitutes

the object of all other ethical investigations? or, in other words,

What is _meant_ by good? This first question I have already attempted

to answer. The peculiar predicate, by reference to which the sphere of

Ethics must be defined, is simple, unanalysable, indefinable. There

remain two classes of questions with regard to the relation of this

predicate to other things. We may ask either (1) To what things and

in what degree does this predicate directly attach? What things are

good in themselves? or (2) By what means shall we be able to make what

exists in the world as good as possible? What causal relations hold

between what is best in itself and other things?

In this and the two following chapters, I propose to discuss certain

theories, which offer us an answer to the question What is good in

itself? I say advisedly--_an_ answer: for these theories are all

characterised by the fact that, if true, they would simplify the study

of Ethics very much. They all hold that there is only _one_ kind of

fact, of which the existence has any value at all. But they all also

possess another characteristic, which is my reason for grouping them

together and treating them first: namely that the main reason why the

single kind of fact they name has been held to define the sole good,

is that it has been held to define what is meant by ‘good’ itself. In

other words they are all theories of the end or ideal, the adoption of

which has been chiefly caused by the commission of what I have called

the naturalistic fallacy: they all confuse the first and second of the

three possible questions which Ethics can ask. It is, indeed, this fact

which explains their contention that only a single kind of thing is

good. That a thing should be good, it has been thought, _means_ that

it possesses this single property: and hence (it is thought) only what

possesses this property is good. The inference seems very natural; and

yet what is meant by it is self-contradictory. For those who make it

fail to perceive that their conclusion ‘what possesses this property is

good’ is a significant proposition: that it does not mean either ‘what

possesses this property, possesses this property’ or ‘the word “good”

denotes that a thing possesses this property.’ And yet, if it does

_not_ mean one or other of these two things, the inference contradicts

its own premise.

I propose, therefore, to discuss certain theories of what is good in

itself, which are _based_ on the naturalistic fallacy, in the sense

that the commission of this fallacy has been the main cause of their

wide acceptance. The discussion will be designed both (1) further to

illustrate the fact that the naturalistic fallacy is a fallacy, or, in

other words, that we are all aware of a certain simple quality, which

(and not anything else) is what we mainly mean by the term ‘good’;

and (2) to shew that not one, but many different things, possess this

property. For I cannot hope to recommend the doctrine that things which

are good do not owe their goodness to their common possession of any

other property, without a criticism of the main doctrines, opposed

to this, whose power to recommend themselves is proved by their wide

prevalence.

=25.= The theories I propose to discuss may be conveniently divided

into two groups. The naturalistic fallacy always implies that when

we think ‘This is good,’ what we are thinking is that the thing in

question bears a definite relation to some one other thing. But this

one thing, by reference to which good is defined, may be either

what I may call a natural object--something of which the existence

is admittedly an object of experience--or else it may be an object

which is only inferred to exist in a supersensible real world. These

two types of ethical theory I propose to treat separately. Theories

of the second type may conveniently be called ‘metaphysical,’ and I

shall postpone consideration of them till Chapter IV. In this and

the following chapter, on the other hand, I shall deal with theories

which owe their prevalence to the supposition that good can be defined

by reference to a _natural object_; and these are what I mean by the

name, which gives the title to this chapter, ‘Naturalistic Ethics.’ It

should be observed that the fallacy, by reference to which I define

‘Metaphysical Ethics,’ is the same in kind; and I give it but one name,

the naturalistic fallacy. But when we regard the ethical theories

recommended by this fallacy, it seems convenient to distinguish those

which consider goodness to consist in a relation to something which

exists here and now, from those which do not. According to the former,

Ethics is an empirical or positive science: its conclusions could be

all established by means of empirical observation and induction. But

this is not the case with Metaphysical Ethics. There is, therefore,

a marked distinction between these two groups of ethical theories

based on the same fallacy. And within Naturalistic theories, too, a

convenient division may also be made. There is one natural object,

namely pleasure, which has perhaps been as frequently held to be the

sole good as all the rest put together. And there is, moreover, a

further reason for treating Hedonism separately. That doctrine has, I

think, as plainly as any other, owed its prevalence to the naturalistic

fallacy; but it has had a singular fate in that the writer, who first

clearly exposed the fallacy of the naturalistic arguments by which

it had been attempted to _prove_ that pleasure was the sole good,

has maintained that nevertheless it _is_ the sole good. I propose,

therefore, to divide my discussion of Hedonism from that of other

Naturalistic theories; treating of Naturalistic Ethics in general in

this chapter, and of Hedonism, in particular, in the next.

=26.= The subject of the present chapter is, then, ethical theories

which declare that no intrinsic value is to be found except in the

possession of some one _natural_ property, other than pleasure; and

which declare this because it is supposed that to be ‘good’ _means_ to

possess the property in question. Such theories I call ‘Naturalistic.’

I have thus appropriated the name Naturalism to a particular method

of approaching Ethics--a method which, strictly understood, is

inconsistent with the possibility of any Ethics whatsoever. This

method consists in substituting for ‘good’ some one property of a

natural object or of a collection of natural objects; and in thus

replacing Ethics by some one of the natural sciences. In general, the

science thus substituted is one of the sciences specially concerned

with man, owing to the general mistake (for such I hold it to be)

of regarding the matter of Ethics as confined to human conduct. In

general, Psychology has been the science substituted, as by J. S. Mill;

or Sociology, as by Professor Clifford, and other modern writers.

But any other science might equally well be substituted. It is the

same fallacy which is implied, when Professor Tyndall recommends us

to ‘conform to the laws of matter’: and here the science which it is

proposed to substitute for Ethics is simply Physics. The name then is

perfectly general; for, no matter what the something is that good is

held to mean, the theory is still Naturalism. Whether good be defined

as yellow or green or blue, as loud or soft, as round or square, as

sweet or bitter, as productive of life or productive of pleasure, as

willed or desired or felt: whichever of these or of any other object in

the world, good may be held to _mean_, the theory, which holds it to

_mean_ them, will be a naturalistic theory. I have called such theories

naturalistic because all of these terms denote properties, simple

or complex, of some simple or complex natural object; and, before I

proceed to consider them, it will be well to define what is meant by

‘nature’ and by ‘natural objects.’

By ‘nature,’ then, I do mean and have meant that which is the

subject-matter of the natural sciences and also of psychology. It may

be said to include all that has existed, does exist, or will exist in

time. If we consider whether any object is of such a nature that it may

be said to exist now, to have existed, or to be about to exist, then

we may know that that object is a natural object, and that nothing, of

which this is not true, is a natural object. Thus for instance, of our

minds we should say that they did exist yesterday, that they do exist

to-day, and probably will exist in a minute or two. We shall say that

we had thoughts yesterday, which have ceased to exist now, although

their effects may remain: and in so far as those thoughts did exist,

they too are natural objects.

There is, indeed, no difficulty about the ‘objects’ themselves, in

the sense in which I have just used the term. It is easy to say which

of them are natural, and which (if any) are not natural. But when we

begin to consider the properties of objects, then I fear the problem

is more difficult. Which among the properties of natural objects are

natural properties and which are not? For I do not deny that good is a

property of certain natural objects: certain of them, I think, _are_

good; and yet I have said that ‘good’ itself is not a natural property.

Well, my test for these too also concerns their existence in time.

Can we imagine ‘good’ as existing _by itself_ in time, and not merely

as a property of some natural object? For myself, I cannot so imagine

it, whereas with the greater number of properties of objects--those

which I call the natural properties--their existence does seem to me to

be independent of the existence of those objects. They are, in fact,

rather parts of which the object is made up than mere predicates which

attach to it. If they were all taken away, no object would be left, not

even a bare substance: for they are in themselves substantial and give

to the object all the substance that it has. But this is not so with

good. If indeed good were a feeling, as some would have us believe,

then it would exist in time. But that is why to call it so is to commit

the naturalistic fallacy. It will always remain pertinent to ask,

whether the feeling itself is good; and if so, then good cannot itself

be identical with any feeling.

=27.= Those theories of Ethics, then, are ‘naturalistic’ which declare

the sole good to consist in some one property of things, which exists

in time; and which do so because they suppose that ‘good’ itself can

be defined by reference to such a property. And we may now proceed to

consider such theories.

And, first of all, one of the most famous of ethical maxims is that

which recommends a ‘life according to nature.’ That was the principle

of the Stoic Ethics; but, since their Ethics has some claim to be

called metaphysical, I shall not attempt to deal with it here. But

the same phrase reappears in Rousseau; and it is not unfrequently

maintained even now that what we ought to do is to live naturally. Now

let us examine this contention in its general form. It is obvious, in

the first place, that we cannot say that everything natural is good,

except perhaps in virtue of some metaphysical theory, such as I shall

deal with later. If everything natural is equally good, then certainly

Ethics, as it is ordinarily understood, disappears: for nothing is

more certain, from an ethical point of view, than that some things

are bad and others good; the object of Ethics is, indeed, in chief

part, to give you general rules whereby you may avoid the one and

secure the other. What, then, does ‘natural’ mean, in this advice to

live naturally, since it obviously cannot apply to everything that is

natural?

The phrase seems to point to a vague notion that there is some such

thing as natural good; to a belief that Nature may be said to fix and

decide what shall be good, just as she fixes and decides what shall

exist. For instance, it may be supposed that ‘health’ is susceptible

of a natural definition, that Nature has fixed what health shall be:

and health, it may be said, is obviously good; hence in this case

Nature has decided the matter; we have only to go to her and ask her

what health is, and we shall know what is good: we shall have based an

ethics upon science. But what is this natural definition of health? I

can only conceive that health should be defined in natural terms as

the _normal_ state of an organism for undoubtedly disease is also a

natural product. To say that health is what is preserved by evolution,

and what itself tends to preserve, in the struggle for existence, the

organism which possesses it, comes to the same thing: for the point

of evolution is that it pretends to give a causal explanation of why

some forms of life are normal and others are abnormal; it explains the

origin of species. When therefore we are told that health is natural,

we may presume that what is meant is that it is normal; and that when

we are told to pursue health as a natural end, what is implied is that

the normal must be good. But is it so obvious that the normal must

be good? Is it really obvious that health, for instance, is good?

Was the excellence of Socrates or of Shakespeare normal? Was it not

rather abnormal, extraordinary? It is, I think, obvious in the first

place, that not all that is good is normal; that, on the contrary, the

abnormal is often better than the normal: peculiar excellence, as well

as peculiar viciousness, must obviously be not normal but abnormal.

Yet it may be said that nevertheless the normal is good; and I myself

am not prepared to dispute that health is good. What I contend is

that this must not be taken to be obvious; that it must be regarded

as an open question. To declare it to be obvious is to suggest the

naturalistic fallacy: just as, in some recent books, a proof that

genius is diseased, abnormal, has been used in order to suggest that

genius ought not to be encouraged. Such reasoning is fallacious, and

dangerously fallacious. The fact is that in the very words ‘health’

and ‘disease’ we do commonly include the notion that the one is good

and the other bad. But, when a so-called scientific definition of them

is attempted, a definition in natural terms, the only one possible is

that by way of ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal.’ Now, it is easy to prove that

some things commonly thought excellent are abnormal; and it follows

that they are diseased. But it does not follow, except by virtue of the

naturalistic fallacy, that those things, commonly thought good, are

therefore bad. All that has really been shewn is that in some cases

there is a conflict between the common judgment that genius is good,

and the common judgment that health is good. It is not sufficiently

recognised that the latter judgment has not a whit more warrant for

its truth than the former; that both are perfectly open questions. It

may be true, indeed, that by ‘healthy’ we do commonly imply ‘good’;

but that only shews that when we so use the word, we do not mean the

same thing by it as the thing which is meant in medical science.

That health, _when_ the word is used to denote something good, is

good, goes no way at all to shew that health, when the word is used

to denote something normal, is also good. We might as well say that,

because ‘bull’ denotes an Irish joke and also a certain animal, the

joke and the animal must be the same thing. We must not, therefore, be

frightened by the assertion that a thing is natural into the admission

that it is good; good does not, by definition, mean anything that is

natural; and it is therefore always an open question whether anything

that is natural is good.

=28.= But there is another slightly different sense in which the

word ‘natural’ is used with an implication that it denotes something

good. This is when we speak of natural affections, or unnatural

crimes and vices. Here the meaning seems to be, not so much that the

action or feeling in question is normal or abnormal, as that it is

necessary. It is in this connection that we are advised to imitate

savages and beasts. Curious advice certainly; but, of course, there

may be something in it. I am not here concerned to enquire under what

circumstances some of us might with advantage take a lesson from the

cow. I have really no doubt that such exist. What I am concerned with

is a certain kind of reason, which I think is sometimes used to support

this doctrine--a naturalistic reason. The notion sometimes lying at

the bottom of the minds of preachers of this gospel is that we cannot

improve on nature. This notion is certainly true, in the sense that

anything we can do, that may be better than the present state of

things, will be a natural product. But that is not what is meant by

this phrase; nature is again used to mean a mere part of nature; only

this time the part meant is not so much the normal as an arbitrary

minimum of what is necessary for life. And when this minimum is

recommended as ‘natural’--as the way of life to which Nature points her

finger--then the naturalistic fallacy is used. Against this position

I wish only to point out that though the performance of certain acts,

not in themselves desirable, may be _excused_ as necessary means to

the preservation of life, that is no reason for _praising_ them, or

advising us to limit ourselves to those simple actions which are

necessary, if it is possible for us to improve our condition even at

the expense of doing what is in this sense unnecessary. Nature does

indeed set limits to what is possible; she does control the means we

have at our disposal for obtaining what is good; and of this fact,

practical Ethics, as we shall see later, must certainly take account:

but when she is supposed to have a preference for what is necessary,

what is necessary means only what is necessary to obtain a certain end,

presupposed as the highest good; and what the highest good is Nature

cannot determine. Why should we suppose that what is merely necessary

to life is _ipso facto_ better than what is necessary to the study of

metaphysics, useless as that study may appear? It may be that life

is only worth living, because it enables us to study metaphysics--is

a necessary means thereto. The fallacy of this argument from nature

has been discovered as long ago as Lucian. ‘I was almost inclined to

laugh,’ says Callicratidas, in one of the dialogues imputed to him[4],

‘just now, when Charicles was praising irrational brutes and the

savagery of the Scythians: in the heat of his argument he was almost

repenting that he was born a Greek. What wonder if lions and bears and

pigs do not act as I was proposing? That which reasoning would fairly

lead a man to choose, cannot be had by creatures that do not reason,

simply because they are so stupid. If Prometheus or some other god had

given each of them the intelligence of a man, then they would not have

lived in deserts and mountains nor fed on one another. They would have

built temples just as we do, each would have lived in the centre of

his family, and they would have formed a nation bound by mutual laws.

Is it anything surprising that brutes, who have had the misfortune

to be unable to obtain by forethought any of the goods, with which

reasoning provides us, should have missed love too? Lions do not love;

but neither do they philosophise; bears do not love; but the reason

is they do not know the sweets of friendship. It is only men, who, by

their wisdom and their knowledge, after many trials, have chosen what

is best.’

[4] Ἔρωτες, 436-7.