=56.= (2) That the value of a pleasurable whole does not belong solely

to the pleasure which it contains, may, I think, be made still plainer

by consideration of another point in which Prof. Sidgwick’s argument

is defective. Prof. Sidgwick maintains, as we saw, the doubtful

proposition, that the _conduciveness_ to pleasure of a thing is in

rough proportion to its commendation by Common Sense. But he does

not maintain, what would be undoubtedly false, that the pleasantness

of every state is in proportion to the commendation of that state.

In other words, it is only when you take into account _the whole

consequences of any state_, that he is able to maintain the coincidence

of quantity of pleasure with the objects approved by Common Sense.

If we consider each state by itself, and ask what is the judgment of

Common Sense as to its goodness _as an end_, quite apart from its

goodness as a means, there can be no doubt that Common Sense holds many

much less pleasant states to be better than many far more pleasant:

that it holds, with Mill, that there are higher pleasures, which are

more valuable, though less pleasant, than those which are lower. Prof.

Sidgwick might, of course, maintain that in this Common Sense is merely

confusing means and ends: that what it holds to be better as an end,

is in reality only better as a means. But I think his argument is

defective in that he does not seem to see sufficiently plainly that,

as far as intuitions of goodness _as an end_ are concerned, he is

running grossly counter to Common Sense; that he does not emphasise

sufficiently the distinction between _immediate_ pleasantness and

_conduciveness_ to pleasure. In order to place fairly before us

the question what is good as an end we must take states that are

immediately pleasant and ask if the more pleasant are always also the

better; and whether, if some that are less pleasant appear to be so, it

is only because we think they are likely to increase the number of the

more pleasant. That Common Sense would deny both these suppositions,

and rightly so, appears to me indubitable. It is commonly held that

certain of what would be called the lowest forms of sexual enjoyment,

for instance, are positively bad, although it is by no means clear that

they are not the most pleasant states we ever experience. Common Sense

would certainly not think it a sufficient justification for the pursuit

of what Prof. Sidgwick calls the ‘refined pleasures’ here and now, that

they are the best means to the future attainment of a heaven, in which

there would be no more refined pleasures--no contemplation of beauty,

no personal affections--but in which the greatest possible pleasure

would be obtained by a perpetual indulgence in bestiality. Yet Prof.

Sidgwick would be bound to hold that, if the greatest possible pleasure

could be obtained in this way, and if it were attainable, such a state

of things would be a heaven indeed, and that all human endeavours

should be devoted to its realisation. I venture to think that this view

is as false as it is paradoxical.

=57.= It seems to me, then, that if we place fairly before us the

question: Is consciousness of pleasure the sole good? the answer must

be: No. And with this the last defence of Hedonism has been broken

down. In order to put the question fairly we must isolate consciousness

of pleasure. We must ask: Suppose we were conscious of pleasure only,

and of nothing else, not even that we _were_ conscious, would that

state of things, however great the quantity, be very desirable? No one,

I think, can suppose it so. On the other hand, it seems quite plain,

that we do regard as very desirable, many complicated states of mind

in which the consciousness of pleasure is combined with consciousness

of other things--states which we call ‘enjoyment of’ so and so. If

this is correct, then it follows that consciousness of pleasure is not

the sole good, and that many other states, in which it is included

as a part, are much better than it. Once we recognise the principle

of organic unities, any objection to this conclusion, founded on the

supposed fact that the other elements of such states have no value in

themselves, must disappear. And I do not know that I need say any more

in refutation of Hedonism.

=58.= It only remains to say something of the two forms in which a

hedonistic doctrine is commonly held--Egoism and Utilitarianism.

Egoism, as a form of Hedonism, is the doctrine which holds that we

ought each of us to pursue our own greatest happiness as our ultimate

end. The doctrine will, of course, admit that sometimes the best means

to this end will be to give pleasure to others; we shall, for instance,

by so doing, procure for ourselves the pleasures of sympathy, of

freedom from interference, and of self-esteem; and these pleasures,

which we may procure by sometimes aiming directly at the happiness of

other persons, may be greater than any we could otherwise get. Egoism

in this sense must therefore be carefully distinguished from Egoism

in another sense, the sense in which Altruism is its proper opposite.

Egoism, as commonly opposed to Altruism, is apt to denote merely

selfishness. In this sense, a man is an egoist, if all his actions

are actually directed towards gaining pleasure for himself; whether

he holds that he ought to act so, because he will thereby obtain for

himself the greatest possible happiness on the whole, or not. Egoism

may accordingly be used to denote the theory that we should always aim

at getting pleasure for ourselves, because that is the best _means_

to the ultimate end, whether the ultimate end be our own greatest

pleasure or not. Altruism, on the other hand, may denote the theory

that we ought always to aim at other people’s happiness, on the ground

that this is the best _means_ of securing our own as well as theirs.

Accordingly an Egoist, in the sense in which I am now going to talk of

Egoism, an Egoist, who holds that his own greatest happiness is the

ultimate end, may at the same time be an Altruist: he may hold that

he ought to ‘love his neighbour,’ as the best means to being happy

himself. And conversely an Egoist, in the other sense, may at the same

time be a Utilitarian. He may hold that he ought always to direct his

efforts towards getting pleasure for himself on the ground that he is

thereby most likely to increase the general sum of happiness.

=59.= I shall say more later about this second kind of Egoism, this

anti-altruistic Egoism, this Egoism as a doctrine of means. What I am

now concerned with is that utterly distinct kind of Egoism, which holds

that each man ought rationally to hold: My own greatest happiness is

the only good thing there is; my actions can only be good as means, in

so far as they help to win me this. This is a doctrine which is not

much held by writers now-a-days. It is a doctrine that was largely

held by English Hedonists in the 17th and 18th centuries: it is, for

example, at the bottom of Hobbes’ Ethics. But even the English school

appear to have made one step forward in the present century: they are

most of them now-a-days Utilitarians. They do recognise that if my own

happiness is good, it would be strange that other people’s happiness

should not be good too.

In order fully to expose the absurdity of this kind of Egoism, it is

necessary to examine certain confusions upon which its plausibility

depends.

The chief of these is the confusion involved in the conception of

‘my own good’ as distinguished from ‘the good of others.’ This is a

conception which we all use every day; it is one of the first to which

the plain man is apt to appeal in discussing any question of Ethics:

and Egoism is commonly advocated chiefly because its meaning is not

clearly perceived. It is plain, indeed, that the name ‘Egoism’ more

properly applies to the theory that ‘my own good’ is the sole good,

than that my own pleasure is so. A man may quite well be an Egoist,

even if he be not a Hedonist. The conception which is, perhaps, most

closely associated with Egoism is that denoted by the words ‘my own

interest.’ The Egoist is the man who holds that a tendency to promote

his own interest is the sole possible, and sufficient, justification

of all his actions. But this conception of ‘my own interest’ plainly

includes, in general, very much more than my own pleasure. It is,

indeed, only because and in so far as ‘my own interest’ has been

thought to consist solely in my own pleasure, that Egoists have been

led to hold that my own pleasure is the sole good. Their course of

reasoning is as follows: The only thing I ought to secure is my

own interest; but my own interest consists in my greatest possible

pleasure; and therefore the only thing I ought to pursue is my own

pleasure. That it is very natural, _on reflection_, thus to identify

my own pleasure with my own interest; and that it has been generally

done by modern _moralists_, may be admitted. But, when Prof. Sidgwick

points this out (III. XIV. § 5, Div. III.), he should have also pointed

out that this identification has by no means been made in ordinary

thought. When the plain man says ‘my own interest,’ he does _not_ mean

‘my own pleasure’--he does not commonly even include this--he means

my own advancement, my own reputation, the getting of a better income

etc., etc. That Prof. Sidgwick should not have noticed this, and that

he should give the reason he gives for the fact that the ancient

_moralists_ did not identify ‘my own interest’ with my own pleasure,

seems to be due to his having failed to notice that very confusion

in the conception of ‘my own good’ which I am now to point out. That

confusion has, perhaps, been more clearly perceived by Plato than

by any other moralist, and to point it out suffices to refute Prof.

Sidgwick’s own view that Egoism is rational.

What, then, is meant by ‘my own good’? In what sense can a thing be

good _for me_? It is obvious, if we reflect, that the only thing which

can belong to me, which can be _mine_, is something which is good, and

not the fact that it is good. When, therefore, I talk of anything I get

as ‘my own good,’ I must mean either that the thing I get is good, or

that my possessing it is good. In both cases it is only the thing or

the possession of it which is _mine_, and not _the goodness_ of that

thing or that possession. There is no longer any meaning in attaching

the ‘my’ to our predicate, and saying: The possession of this _by me_

is _my_ good. Even if we interpret this by ‘My possession of this is

what _I_ think good,’ the same still holds: for _what_ I think is that

my possession of it is good _simply_; and, if I think rightly, then

the truth is that my possession of it _is_ good simply--not, in any

sense, _my_ good; and, if I think wrongly, it is not good at all. In

short, when I talk of a thing as ‘my own good’ all that I can mean

is that something which will be exclusively mine, as my own pleasure

is mine (whatever be the various senses of this relation denoted by

‘possession’), is also _good absolutely_; or rather that my possession

of it is _good absolutely_. The _good_ of it can in no possible sense

be ‘private’ or belong to me; any more than a thing can _exist_

privately or _for_ one person only. The only reason I can have for

aiming at ‘my own good,’ is that it is _good absolutely_ that what I

so call should belong to me--_good absolutely_ that I should _have_

something, which, if I have it, others cannot have. But if it is _good

absolutely_ that I should have it, then everyone else has as much

reason for aiming at _my_ having it, as I have myself. If, therefore,

it is true of _any_ single man’s ‘interest’ or ‘happiness’ that it

ought to be his sole ultimate end, this can only mean that _that_ man’s

‘interest’ or ‘happiness’ is _the sole good, the_ Universal Good,

and the only thing that anybody ought to aim at. What Egoism holds,

therefore, is that _each_ man’s happiness is the sole good--that a

number of different things are _each_ of them the only good thing there

is--an absolute contradiction! No more complete and thorough refutation

of any theory could be desired.

=60.= Yet Prof. Sidgwick holds that Egoism is rational; and it will be

useful briefly to consider the reasons which he gives for this absurd

conclusion. ‘The Egoist,’ he says (last Chap. § 1), ‘may avoid the

proof of Utilitarianism by declining to affirm,’ either ‘implicitly or

explicitly, that his own greatest happiness is not merely the ultimate

rational end for himself, but a part of Universal Good.’ And in the

passage to which he here refers us, as having there ‘seen’ this,

he says: ‘It cannot be proved that the difference between his own

happiness and another’s happiness is not _for him_ all-important’ (IV.

ii. § 1). What does Prof. Sidgwick mean by these phrases ‘the ultimate

rational end for himself,’ and ‘_for him_ all-important’? He does not

attempt to define them; and it is largely the use of such undefined

phrases which causes absurdities to be committed in philosophy.

Is there any sense in which a thing can be an ultimate rational end for

one person and not for another? By ‘ultimate’ must be meant at least

that the end is good-in-itself--good in our undefinable sense; and

by ‘rational,’ at least, that it is truly good. That a thing should

be an ultimate rational end means, then, that it is truly good in

itself; and that it is truly good in itself means that it is a part of

Universal Good. Can we assign any meaning to that qualification ‘for

himself,’ which will make it cease to be a part of Universal Good?

The thing is impossible: for the Egoist’s happiness must _either_ be

good in itself, and so a part of Universal Good, _or else_ it cannot

be good in itself at all: there is no escaping this dilemma. And if

it is not good at all, what reason can he have for aiming at it? how

can it be a rational end for him? That qualification ‘for himself’ has

no meaning unless it implies ‘_not_ for others’; and if it implies

‘not for others,’ then it cannot be a rational end for him, since

it cannot be truly good in itself: the phrase ‘an ultimate rational

end for himself’ is a contradiction in terms. By saying that a thing

is an end for one particular person, or good for him, can only be

meant one of four things. Either (1) it may be meant that the end

in question is something which will belong exclusively to him; but

in that case, if it is to be rational for him to aim at it, that he

should exclusively possess it must be a part of Universal Good. Or

(2) it may be meant that it is the only thing at which he ought to

aim; but this can only be, because, by so doing, he will do the most

he can towards realising Universal Good: and this, in our case, will

only give Egoism as a doctrine of _means_. Or (3) it may be meant that

the thing is what he desires or thinks good; and then, if he thinks

wrongly, it is not a rational end at all, and, if he thinks rightly,

it is a part of Universal Good. Or (4) it may be meant that it is

peculiarly appropriate that a thing which will belong exclusively to

him should also by him be approved or aimed at; but, in this case,

both that it should belong to him and that he should aim at it must be

parts of Universal Good: by saying that a certain relation between two

things is fitting or appropriate, we can only mean that the existence

of that relation is absolutely good in itself (unless it be so as a

means, which gives case (2)). By no possible meaning, then, that can

be given to the phrase that his own happiness is the ultimate rational

end for himself can the Egoist escape the implication that his own

happiness is absolutely good; and by saying that it is _the_ ultimate

rational end, he must mean that it is the only good thing--the whole of

Universal Good: and, if he further maintains, that each man’s happiness

is the ultimate rational end for _him_, we have the fundamental

contradiction of Egoism--that an immense number of different things

are, _each_ of them, _the sole good_.--And it is easy to see that the

same considerations apply to the phrase that ‘the difference between

his own happiness and another’s is _for him_ all-important.’ This can

only mean either (1) that his own happiness is the only end which

will affect him, or (2) that the only important thing for him (as a

means) is to look to his own happiness, or (3) that it is only his

own happiness which he cares about, or (4) that it is good that each

man’s happiness should be the only concern of that man. And none of

these propositions, true as they may be, have the smallest tendency to

shew that if his own happiness is desirable at all, it is not a part

of Universal Good. Either his own happiness is a good thing or it is

not; and, in whatever sense it may be all-important for him, it must

be true that, if it is not good, he is not justified in pursuing it,

and that, if it is good, everyone else has an equal reason to pursue

it, so far as they are able and so far as it does not exclude their

attainment of other more valuable parts of Universal Good. In short

it is plain that the addition of ‘for him’ ‘for me’ to such words as

‘ultimate rational end,’ ‘good,’ ‘important’ can introduce nothing but

confusion. The only possible reason that can justify any action is that

by it the greatest possible amount of what is good absolutely should be

realised. And if anyone says that the attainment of his own happiness

justifies his actions, he must mean that this is the greatest possible

amount of Universal Good which he can realise. And this again can only

be true either because _he_ has no power to realise more, in which

case he only holds Egoism as a doctrine of means; or else because his

own happiness is the greatest amount of Universal Good which can be

realised at all, in which case we have Egoism proper, and the flagrant

contradiction that every person’s happiness is singly the greatest

amount of Universal Good which can be realised at all.

=61.= It should be observed that, since this is so, ‘the relation of

Rational Egoism to Rational Benevolence,’ which Prof. Sidgwick regards

‘as the profoundest problem of Ethics’ (III. XIII. § 5, _n._ 1),

appears in quite a different light to that in which he presents it.

‘Even if a man,’ he says, ‘admits the self-evidence of the principle

of Rational Benevolence, he may still hold that his own happiness is

an end which it is irrational for him to sacrifice to any other; and

that therefore a harmony between the maxim of Prudence and the maxim of

Rational Benevolence must be somehow demonstrated, if morality is to

be made completely rational. This latter view is that which I myself

hold’ (last Chap. § 1). Prof. Sidgwick then goes on to shew ‘that

the inseparable connection between Utilitarian Duty and the greatest

happiness of the individual who conforms to it cannot be satisfactorily

demonstrated on empirical grounds’ (Ib. § 3). And the final paragraph

of his book tells us that, since ‘the reconciliation of duty and

self-interest is to be regarded as a hypothesis logically necessary

to avoid a fundamental _contradiction_ in one chief department of

our thought, it remains to ask how far this necessity constitutes a

sufficient reason for accepting this hypothesis[20]’ (Ib. § 5). To

‘assume the existence of such a Being, as God, by the _consensus_ of

theologians, is conceived to be’ would, he has already argued, ensure

the required reconciliation; since the Divine Sanctions of such a God

‘would, of course, suffice to make it always every one’s interest to

promote universal happiness to the best of his knowledge’ (Ib. § 5).

[20] The italics are mine.

Now what is this ‘reconciliation of duty and self-interest,’ which

Divine Sanctions could ensure? It would consist in the mere fact that

the same conduct which produced the greatest possible happiness of

the greatest number would always also produce the greatest possible

happiness of the agent. If this were the case (and our empirical

knowledge shews that it is not the case in this world), ‘morality’

would, Prof. Sidgwick thinks, be ‘completely rational’: we should avoid

‘an ultimate and fundamental contradiction in our apparent intuitions

of what is Reasonable in conduct.’ That is to say, we should avoid

the necessity of thinking that it is as manifest an obligation to

secure our own greatest Happiness (maxim of Prudence), as to secure

the greatest Happiness on the whole (maxim of Benevolence). But it

is perfectly obvious we should not. Prof. Sidgwick here commits the

characteristic fallacy of Empiricism--the fallacy of thinking that

an alteration in _facts_ could make a contradiction cease to be a

contradiction. That a single man’s happiness should be _the sole

good_, and that also everybody’s happiness should be _the sole good_,

is a contradiction which cannot be solved by the assumption that the

same conduct will secure both: it would be equally contradictory,

however certain we were that that assumption was justified. Prof.

Sidgwick strains at a gnat and swallows a camel. He thinks the Divine

Omnipotence must be called into play to secure that what gives other

people pleasure should also give it to him--that only so can Ethics

be made rational; while he overlooks the fact that even this exercise

of Divine Omnipotence would leave in Ethics a contradiction, in

comparison with which his difficulty is a trifle--a contradiction,

which would reduce all Ethics to mere nonsense, and before which the

Divine Omnipotence must be powerless to all eternity. That _each_

man’s happiness should be the _sole good_, which we have seen to be

the principle of Egoism, is in itself a contradiction: and that it

should also be true that the Happiness of all is the _sole good_,

which is the principle of Universalistic Hedonism, would introduce

another contradiction. And that these propositions should all be true

might well be called ‘the profoundest problem in Ethics’: it would be

a problem necessarily insoluble. But they _cannot_ all be true, and

there is no reason, but confusion, for the supposition that they are.

Prof. Sidgwick confuses this contradiction with the mere fact (in which

there is no contradiction) that our own greatest happiness and that

of all do not seem always attainable by the same means. This fact, if

Happiness were the sole good, would indeed be of some importance; and,

on any view, similar facts are of importance. But they are nothing but

instances of the one important fact that in this world the quantity of

good which is attainable is ridiculously small compared to that which

is imaginable. That I cannot get the most possible pleasure for myself,

if I produce the most possible pleasure on the whole, is no more _the_

profoundest problem of Ethics, than that in any case I cannot get as

much pleasure altogether as would be desirable. It only states that,

if we get as much good as possible in one place, we may get less on

the whole, because the quantity of attainable good is limited. To say

that I have to choose between my own good and that of _all_ is a false

antithesis: the only rational question is how to choose between my own

and that of _others_, and the principle on which this must be answered

is exactly the same as that on which I must choose whether to give

pleasure to this other person or to that.

=62.= It is plain, then, that the doctrine of Egoism is

self-contradictory; and that one reason why this is not perceived,

is a confusion with regard to the meaning of the phrase ‘my own

good.’ And it may be observed that this confusion and the neglect

of this contradiction are necessarily involved in the transition

from Naturalistic Hedonism, as ordinarily held, to Utilitarianism.

Mill, for instance, as we saw, declares: ‘Each person, so far as he

believes it to be attainable, desires his own happiness’ (p. 53). And

he offers this as a reason why the general happiness is desirable. We

have seen that to regard it as such, involves, in the first place,

the naturalistic fallacy. But moreover, even if that fallacy were

not a fallacy, it could only be a reason for Egoism and not for

Utilitarianism. Mill’s argument is as follows: A man desires his own

happiness; therefore his own happiness is desirable. Further: A man

desires nothing but his own happiness; therefore his own happiness is

alone desirable. We have next to remember, that everybody, according

to Mill, so desires his own happiness: and then it will follow

that everybody’s happiness is alone desirable. And this is simply

a contradiction in terms. Just consider what it means. Each man’s

happiness is the only thing desirable: several different things are

_each_ of them the _only_ thing desirable. This is the fundamental

contradiction of Egoism. In order to think that what his arguments tend

to prove is not Egoism but Utilitarianism, Mill must think that he can

infer from the proposition ‘Each man’s happiness is his own good,’ the

proposition ‘The happiness of all is the good of all’; whereas in fact,

if we understand what ‘his own good’ means, it is plain that the latter

can only be inferred from ‘The happiness of all is the good of each.’

Naturalistic Hedonism, then, logically leads only to Egoism. Of course,

a Naturalist might hold that what we aimed at was simply ‘pleasure’

not our own pleasure; and _that_, always assuming the naturalistic

fallacy, would give an unobjectionable ground for Utilitarianism. But

more commonly he will hold that it is his own pleasure he desires, or

at least will confuse this with the other; and then he must logically

be led to adopt Egoism and not Utilitarianism.

=63.= The second cause I have to give why Egoism should be thought

reasonable, is simply its confusion with that other kind of

Egoism--Egoism as a doctrine of means. This second Egoism has a right

to say: You ought to pursue your own happiness, sometimes at all

events; it may even say: Always. And when we find it saying this we

are apt to forget its proviso: But only as a means to something else.

The fact is we are in an imperfect state; we cannot get the ideal all

at once. And hence it is often our bounden duty, we often _absolutely_

‘_ought_,’ to do things which are good only or chiefly as means: we

have to do the best we can, what is absolutely ‘right,’ but not what

is absolutely good. Of this I shall say more hereafter. I only mention

it here because I think it is much more plausible to say that we ought

to pursue our own pleasure as a means than as an end, and that this

doctrine, through confusion, lends some of its plausibility to the

utterly different doctrine of Egoism proper: My own greatest pleasure

is the only good thing.

=64.= So much for Egoism. Of Utilitarianism not much need be said; but

two points may seem deserving of notice.

The first is that this name, like that of Egoism, does not naturally

suggest that all our actions are to be judged according to the degree

in which they are a means to _pleasure_. Its natural meaning is that

the standard of right and wrong in conduct is its tendency to promote

the _interest_ of everybody. And by _interest_ is commonly meant a

variety of different goods, classed together only because they are

what a man commonly desires for himself, so far as his desires have

not that psychological quality which is meant by ‘moral.’ The ‘useful’

thus means, and was in ancient Ethics systematically used to mean,

what is a means to the attainment of goods other than moral goods. It

is quite an unjustifiable assumption that these goods are only good

as means to pleasure or that they are commonly so regarded. The chief

reason for adopting the name ‘Utilitarianism’ was, indeed, merely to

emphasize the fact that right and wrong conduct must be judged by its

results--as a means, in opposition to the strictly Intuitionistic view

that certain ways of acting were right and others wrong, whatever their

results might be. In thus insisting that what is right must mean what

produces the best possible results Utilitarianism is fully justified.

But with this correct contention there has been historically, and very

naturally, associated a double error. (1) The best possible results

were assumed to consist only in a limited class of goods, roughly

coinciding with those which were popularly distinguished as the

results of merely ‘useful’ or ‘interested’ actions; and these again

were hastily assumed to be good only as means to pleasure. (2) The

Utilitarians tend to regard everything as a mere means, neglecting the

fact that some things which are good as means are also good as ends.

Thus, for instance, assuming pleasure to be a good, there is a tendency

to value present pleasure only as a means to future pleasure, and

not, as is strictly necessary if pleasure is good as an end, also to

_weigh it against_ possible future pleasures. Much utilitarian argument

involves the logical absurdity that what is here and now, never has

any value in itself, but is only to be judged by its consequences;

which again, of course, when they are realised, would have no value in

themselves, but would be mere means to a still further future, and so

on _ad infinitum_.

The second point deserving notice with regard to Utilitarianism is

that, when the name is used for a form of Hedonism, it does not

commonly, even in its description of its _end_, accurately distinguish

between means and end. Its best-known formula is that the result by

which actions are to be judged is ‘the greatest happiness of the

greatest number.’ But it is plain that, if pleasure is the sole good,

provided the quantity be equally great, an equally desirable result

will have been obtained whether it be enjoyed by many or by few, or

even if it be enjoyed by nobody. It is plain that, if we ought to aim

at the greatest happiness of the greatest number, this can only, on the

hedonistic principle, be because the existence of pleasure in a great

number of persons seems to be the best _means_ available for attaining

the existence of the greatest quantity of pleasure. This may actually

be the case; but it is fair to suspect that Utilitarians have been

influenced, in their adoption of the hedonistic principle, by this

failure to distinguish clearly between pleasure or consciousness of

pleasure and its possession by a person. It is far easier to regard the

possession of pleasure by a number of persons as the sole good, than so

to regard the mere existence of an equally great quantity of pleasure.

If, indeed, we were to take the Utilitarian principle strictly, and to

assume them to mean that the possession of pleasure by many persons

was good in itself, the principle is not hedonistic: it includes as

a necessary part of the ultimate end, the existence of a number of

persons, and this will include very much more than mere pleasure.

Utilitarianism, however, as commonly held, must be understood to

maintain that either mere consciousness of pleasure, or consciousness

of pleasure together with the minimum adjunct which may be meant by

the existence of such consciousness in at least one _person_, is the

_sole good_. This is its significance as an ethical doctrine; and as

such it has already been refuted in my refutation of Hedonism. The

most that can be said for it is that it does not seriously mislead in

its practical conclusions, on the ground that, as an empirical fact,

the method of acting which brings most good on the whole does also

bring most pleasure. Utilitarians do indeed generally devote most of

their arguments to shewing that the course of action which will bring

most pleasure is in general such as common sense would approve. We

have seen that Prof. Sidgwick appeals to this fact as tending to shew

that pleasure is the sole good; and we have also seen that it does not

tend to shew this. We have seen how very flimsy the other arguments

advanced for this proposition are; and that, if it be fairly considered

by itself, it appears to be quite ridiculous. And, moreover, that the

actions which produce most good on the whole do also produce most

pleasure is extremely doubtful. The arguments tending to shew it are

all more or less vitiated by the assumption that what appear to be

necessary conditions for the attainment of most pleasure in the near

future, will always continue so to be. And, even with this vicious

assumption, they only succeed in making out a highly problematical

case. How, therefore, this fact is to be explained, if it be a fact,

need not concern us. It is sufficient to have shewn that many complex

states of mind are much more valuable than the pleasure they contain.

If this be so, _no form of Hedonism can be true_. And, since the

practical guidance afforded by pleasure as a _criterion_ is small in

proportion as the calculation attempts to be accurate, we can well

afford to await further investigation, before adopting a guide, whose

utility is very doubtful and whose trustworthiness we have grave reason

to suspect.

=65.= The most important points which I have endeavoured to establish

in this chapter are as follows. (1) Hedonism must be strictly

defined as the doctrine that ‘Pleasure is the only thing which is

good in itself’: this view seems to owe its prevalence mainly to the

naturalistic fallacy, and Mill’s arguments may be taken as a type of

those which are fallacious in this respect; Sidgwick alone has defended

it without committing this fallacy, and its final refutation must

therefore point out the errors in his arguments (36-38). (2) Mill’s

‘Utilitarianism’ is criticised: it being shewn (_a_) that he commits

the naturalistic fallacy in identifying ‘desirable’ with ‘desired’;

(_b_) that pleasure is not the only object of desire. The common

arguments for Hedonism seem to rest on these two errors (39-44). (3)

Hedonism is considered as an ‘Intuition,’ and it is pointed out (_a_)

that Mill’s allowance that some pleasures are inferior in quality to

others implies both that it is an Intuition and that it is a false

one (46-48); (_b_) that Sidgwick fails to distinguish ‘pleasure’

from ‘consciousness of pleasure,’ and that it is absurd to regard the

former, at all events, as the sole good (49-52); (_c_) that it seems

equally absurd to regard ‘consciousness of pleasure’ as the sole good,

since, if it were so, a world in which nothing else existed might be

absolutely perfect: Sidgwick fails to put to himself this question,

which is the only clear and decisive one (53-57). (4) What are commonly

considered to be the two main types of Hedonism, namely, Egoism and

Utilitarianism, are not only different from, but strictly contradictory

of, one another; since the former asserts ‘My own greatest pleasure

is the _sole_ good,’ the latter ‘The greatest pleasure of all is the

_sole_ good.’ Egoism seems to owe its plausibility partly to the

failure to observe this contradiction--a failure which is exemplified

by Sidgwick; partly to a confusion of Egoism as doctrine of end, with

the same as doctrine of means. If Hedonism is true, Egoism cannot

be so; still less can it be so, if Hedonism is false. The end of

Utilitarianism, on the other hand, would, if Hedonism were true, be,

not indeed the best conceivable, but the best possible for us to

promote; but it is refuted by the refutation of Hedonism (58-64).

CHAPTER IV.

METAPHYSICAL ETHICS.

=66.= In this chapter I propose to deal with a type of ethical theory

which is exemplified in the ethical views of the Stoics, of Spinoza,

of Kant, and especially of a number of modern writers, whose views in

this respect are mainly due to the influence of Hegel. These ethical

theories have this in common, that they use some _metaphysical_

proposition as a ground for inferring some fundamental proposition of

Ethics. They all imply, and many of them expressly hold, that ethical

truths follow logically from metaphysical truths--that Ethics should be

based on _Metaphysics_. And the result is that they all describe the

Supreme Good in _metaphysical_ terms.

What, then, is to be understood by ‘metaphysical’? I use the term,

as I explained in Chapter II., in opposition to ‘natural.’ I call

those philosophers preeminently ‘metaphysical’ who have recognised

most clearly that not everything which _is_ is a ‘natural object.’

‘Metaphysicians’ have, therefore, the great merit of insisting that

our knowledge is not confined to the things which we can touch and

see and feel. They have always been much occupied, not only with that

other class of natural objects which consists in mental facts, but also

with the class of objects or properties of objects, which certainly do

not exist in time, are not therefore parts of Nature, and which, in

fact, do not exist at all. To this class, as I have said, belongs what

we mean by the adjective ‘good.’ It is not _goodness_, but only the

things or qualities which are good, which can exist in time--can have

duration, and begin and cease to exist--can be objects of _perception_.

But the most prominent members of this class are perhaps numbers. It

is quite certain that two natural objects may exist; but it is equally

certain that _two_ itself does not exist and never can. Two and two

_are_ four. But that does not mean that either two or four exists.

Yet it certainly means _something_. Two _is_ somehow, although it

does not exist. And it is not only simple terms of propositions--the

objects _about_ which we know truths--that belong to this class. The

truths which we know about them form, perhaps, a still more important

subdivision. No truth does, in fact, _exist_; but this is peculiarly

obvious with regard to truths like ‘Two and two are four,’ in which

the objects, _about_ which they are truths, do not exist either. It

is with the recognition of such truths as these--truths which have

been called ‘universal’--and of their essential unlikeness to what

we can touch and see and feel, that metaphysics proper begins. Such

‘universal’ truths have always played a large part in the reasonings of

metaphysicians from Plato’s time till now; and that they have directed

attention to the difference between these truths and what I have

called ‘natural objects’ is the chief contribution to knowledge which

distinguishes them from that other class of philosophers--‘empirical’

philosophers--to which most Englishmen have belonged.

But though, if we are to define ‘metaphysics’ by the contribution

which it has actually made to knowledge, we should have to say that

it has emphasized the importance of objects which do not exist at

all, metaphysicians themselves have not recognised this. They have

indeed recognised and insisted that there are, or may be, objects

of knowledge which do not _exist in time_, or at least which we

cannot perceive; and in recognising the _possibility_ of these, as

an object of investigation, they have, it may be admitted, done a

service to mankind. But they have in general supposed that whatever

does not exist in time, must at least _exist_ elsewhere, if it is to

_be_ at all--that, whatever does not exist in Nature, must exist in

some supersensible reality, whether timeless or not. Consequently

they have held that the truths with which they have been occupied,

over and above the objects of perception, were in some way truths

about such supersensible reality. If, therefore, we are to define

‘metaphysics’ not by what it has attained, but by what it has

attempted, we should say that it consists in the attempt to obtain

knowledge, by processes of reasoning, of what exists but is _not_ a

part of Nature. Metaphysicians have actually held that they could give

us such knowledge of non-natural existence. They have held that their

science consists in giving us such knowledge as can be supported by

reasons, of that supersensible reality of which religion professes to

give us a fuller knowledge, without any reasons. When, therefore, I

spoke above of ‘metaphysical’ propositions, I meant propositions about

the existence of something supersensible--of something which is not

an object of perception, and which cannot be inferred from what is an

object of perception by the same rules of inference by which we infer

the past and future of what we call ‘Nature.’ And when I spoke of

‘metaphysical’ terms, I meant terms which refer to qualities of such

a supersensible reality, which do not belong to anything ‘natural.’

I admit that ‘metaphysics’ should investigate what reasons there may

be for belief in such a supersensible reality; since I hold that

its peculiar province is the truth about all objects which are not

natural objects. And I think that the most prominent characteristic of

metaphysics, in history, has been its profession to _prove_ the truth

about non-natural _existents_. I define ‘metaphysical,’ therefore, by

a reference to supersensible _reality_; although I think that the only

non-natural objects, about which it has _succeeded_ in obtaining truth,

are objects which do not exist at all.

So much, I hope, will suffice to explain what I mean by the term

‘metaphysical,’ and to shew that it refers to a clear and important

distinction. It was not necessary for my purpose to make the

definition exhaustive or to shew that it corresponds in essentials

with established usage. The distinction between ‘Nature’ and a

supersensible reality is very familiar and very important: and since

the metaphysician endeavours to _prove_ things with regard to a

supersensible reality, and since he deals largely in truths which are

_not_ mere natural facts, it is plain that his arguments, and errors

(if any), will be of a more subtle kind than those which I have dealt

with under the name of ‘Naturalism.’ For these two reasons it seemed

convenient to treat ‘Metaphysical Ethics’ by themselves.

=67.= I have said that those systems of Ethics, which I propose to

call ‘Metaphysical,’ are characterised by the fact that they describe

the Supreme Good in ‘metaphysical’ terms; and this has now been

explained as meaning that they describe it in terms of something

which (they hold) does exist, but does not exist in Nature--in terms

of a supersensible reality. A ‘Metaphysical Ethics’ is marked by the

fact that it makes the assertion: That which would be perfectly good

is something which exists, but is not natural; that which has some

characteristic possessed by a supersensible reality. Such an assertion

was made by the Stoics when they asserted that a life in accordance

with Nature was perfect. For they did not mean by ‘Nature,’ what I have

so defined, but something supersensible which they inferred to exist,

and which they held to be perfectly good. Such an assertion, again,

is made by Spinoza when he tells us that we are more or less perfect,

in proportion as we are more or less closely united with Absolute

Substance by the ‘intellectual love’ of God. Such an assertion is made

by Kant when he tells us that his ‘Kingdom of Ends’ is the ideal. And

such, finally, is made by modern writers who tell us that the final and

perfect end is to realise our _true_ selves--a self different both from

the whole and from any part of that which exists here and now in Nature.

Now it is plain that such ethical principles have a merit, not

possessed by Naturalism, in recognising that for perfect goodness

much more is required than any quantity of what exists here and now

or can be inferred as likely to exist in the future. And moreover it

is quite possible that their assertions should be true, if we only

understand them to assert that something which is real possesses all

the characteristics necessary for perfect goodness. But this is not

all that they assert. They also imply, as I said, that this ethical

proposition _follows_ from some proposition which is metaphysical: that

the question ‘What is real?’ has some logical bearing upon the question

‘What is good?’ It was for this reason that I described ‘Metaphysical

Ethics’ in Chapter II. as based upon the naturalistic fallacy. To

hold that from any proposition asserting ‘Reality is of this nature’

we can infer, or obtain confirmation for, any proposition asserting

‘This is good in itself’ is to commit the naturalistic fallacy. And

that a knowledge of what is real supplies reasons for holding certain

things to be good in themselves is either implied or expressly

asserted by all those who define the Supreme Good in metaphysical

terms. This contention is part of what is meant by saying that Ethics

should be ‘based’ on Metaphysics. It is meant that some knowledge

of supersensible reality is necessary _as a premise_ for correct

conclusions as to what ought to exist. This view is, for instance,

plainly expressed in the following statements: ‘The truth is that the

theory of Ethics which seems most satisfactory has a metaphysical

basis.... If we rest our view of Ethics on the idea of the development

of the ideal self or of the rational universe, the significance of

this cannot be made fully apparent without a metaphysical examination

of the nature of self; _nor can its validity be established except

by a discussion of the reality of the rational universe_[21].’ The

validity of an ethical conclusion about the nature of the ideal, it

is here asserted, cannot be established except by considering the

question whether that ideal is _real_. Such an assertion involves

the naturalistic fallacy. It rests upon the failure to perceive that

any truth which asserts ‘This is good in itself’ is quite unique in

kind--that it cannot be reduced to any assertion about reality, and

therefore must remain unaffected by any conclusions we may reach

about the nature of reality. This confusion as to the unique nature

of ethical truths is, I have said, involved in all those ethical

theories which I have called metaphysical. It is plain that, but for

some confusion of the sort, no-one would think it worth while even to

describe the Supreme Good in metaphysical terms. If, for instance,

we are told that the ideal consists in the realisation of the ‘true

self,’ the very words suggest that the fact that the self in question

is _true_ is supposed to have some bearing on the fact that it is

good. All the ethical truth which can possibly be conveyed by such

an assertion would be just as well conveyed by saying that the ideal

consisted in the realisation of a particular kind of self, which might

be either real or purely imaginary. ‘Metaphysical Ethics,’ then,

involve the supposition that Ethics can be _based_ on Metaphysics; and

our first concern with them is to make clear that this supposition must

be false.

[21] Prof. J. S. Mackenzie, _A Manual of Ethics_, 4th ed., p.

431. The italics are mine.

=68.= In what way can the nature of supersensible reality possibly have

a bearing upon Ethics?

I have distinguished two kinds of ethical questions, which are far too

commonly confused with one another. Ethics, as commonly understood, has

to answer both the question ‘What ought to be?’ and the question ‘What

ought we to do?’ The second of these questions can only be answered

by considering what effects our actions will have. A complete answer

to it would give us that department of Ethics which may be called the

doctrine of _means_ or practical Ethics. And upon this department of

ethical enquiry it is plain that the nature of a supersensible reality

may have a bearing. If, for instance, Metaphysics could tell us not

only that we are immortal, but also, in any degree, what effects our

actions in this life will have upon our condition in a future one,

such information would have an undoubted bearing upon the question

what we ought to do. The Christian doctrines of heaven and hell are

in this way highly relevant to practical Ethics. But it is worthy

of notice that the most characteristic doctrines of Metaphysics are

such as either have no such bearing upon practical Ethics or have

a purely negative bearing--involving the conclusion that there is

nothing which we ought to do at all. They profess to tell us the

nature not of a future reality, but of one that is eternal and which

therefore no actions of ours can have power to alter. Such information

_may_ indeed have relevance to practical Ethics, but it must be of a

purely negative kind. For, if it holds, not only that such an eternal

reality exists, but also, as is commonly the case, that nothing else

is real--that nothing either has been, is now, or will be real in

time--then truly it will follow that nothing we can do will ever bring

any good to pass. For it is certain that our actions can only affect

the future; and if nothing can be real in the future, we can certainly

not hope ever to make any good thing real. It would follow, then,

that there can be nothing which we ought to do. We cannot possibly do

any good; for neither our efforts, nor any result which they may seem

to effect, have any real existence. But this consequence, though it

follows strictly from many metaphysical doctrines, is rarely drawn.

Although a metaphysician may say that nothing is real but that which

is eternal, he will generally allow that there is some reality also in

the temporal: and his doctrine of an eternal reality need not interfere

with practical Ethics, if he allows that, however good the eternal

reality may be, yet some things will also exist in time, and that the

existence of some will be better than that of others. It is, however,

worth while to insist upon this point, because it is rarely fully

realised.

If it is maintained that there is any validity at all in practical

Ethics--that any proposition which asserts ‘We ought to do so and

so’ can have any truth--this contention can only be consistent with

the Metaphysics of an eternal reality, under two conditions. One of

these is, (1) that the true eternal reality, which is to be our guide,

cannot, as is implied by calling it true, be the _only_ true reality.

For a moral rule, bidding us realise a certain end, can only be

justified, if it is possible that that end should, at least partially,

be realised. Unless our efforts can effect the _real_ existence of some

good, however little, we certainly have no reason for making them.

And if the eternal reality is the sole reality, then nothing good

can possibly exist in time: we can only be told to try to bring into

existence something which we know beforehand cannot possibly exist. If

it is said that what exists in time can only be a manifestation of the

true reality, it must at least be allowed that that manifestation is

another true reality--a good which we really can cause to exist; for

the production of something quite unreal, even if it were possible,

cannot be a reasonable end of action. But if the manifestation of that

which eternally exists is real, then that which eternally exists is not

the sole reality.

And the second condition which follows from such a metaphysical

principle of Ethics, is (2) that the eternal reality cannot be

perfect--cannot be the sole good. For just as a reasonable rule of

conduct requires that what we are told to realise should be capable of

being truly real, so it requires that the realisation of this ideal

shall be truly good. It is just that which _can_ be realised by our

efforts--the appearance of the eternal in time, or whatsoever else is

allowed to be attainable--which must be truly good, if it is to be

worth our efforts. That the eternal reality is good, will by no means

justify us in aiming at its manifestation, unless that manifestation

itself be also good. For the manifestation is different from the

reality: its difference is allowed, when we are told that it can be

made to exist, whereas the reality itself exists unalterably. And the

existence of this manifestation is the only thing which we can hope to

effect: that also is admitted. If, therefore, the moral maxim is to be

justified, it is the existence of this manifestation, as distinguished

from the existence of its corresponding reality, which must be truly

good. The reality may be good too: but to justify the statement that we

ought to produce anything, it must be maintained, that just that thing

itself, and not something else which may be like it, is truly good.

If it is not true that the existence of the manifestation will add

something to the sum of good in the Universe, then we have no reason to

aim at making it exist; and if it is true that it will add something to

the sum of good, then the existence of that which is eternal cannot be

perfect by itself--it cannot include the whole of possible goods.

Metaphysics, then, will have a bearing upon practical Ethics--upon the

question what we ought to do--if it can tell us anything about the

future consequences of our actions beyond what can be established by

ordinary inductive reasoning. But the most characteristic metaphysical

doctrines, those which profess to tell us not about the future but

about the nature of an eternal reality, can either have no bearing upon

this practical question or else must have a purely destructive bearing.

For it is plain that what exists eternally cannot be affected by our

actions; and only what is affected by our actions can have a bearing

on their value as means. But the nature of an eternal reality either

admits no inference as to the results of our actions, except in so far

as it can _also_ give us information about the future (and how it can

do this is not plain), or else, if, as is usual, it is maintained to

be the sole reality and the sole good, it shews that no results of our

actions can have any value whatever.

=69.= But this bearing upon practical Ethics, such as it is, is not

what is commonly meant when it is maintained that Ethics must be based

on Metaphysics. It is not the assertion of this relation which I have

taken to be characteristic of Metaphysical Ethics. What metaphysical

writers commonly maintain is not merely that Metaphysics can help us to

decide what the effects of our actions will be, but that it can tell us

which among possible effects will be good and which will be bad. They

profess that Metaphysics is a necessary basis for an answer to that

other and primary ethical question: What ought to be? What is good in

itself? That no truth about what is real can have any logical bearing

upon the answer to this question has been proved in Chapter I. To

suppose that it has, implies the naturalistic fallacy. All that remains

for us to do is, therefore, to expose the main errors which seem to

have lent plausibility to this fallacy in its metaphysical form. If

we ask: What bearing can Metaphysics have upon the question, What is

good? the only possible answer is: Obviously and absolutely none. We

can only hope to enforce conviction that this answer is the only true

one by answering the question: Why has it been supposed to have such a

bearing? We shall find that metaphysical writers seem to have failed to

distinguish this primary ethical question: What is good? from various

other questions; and to point out these distinctions will serve to

confirm the view that their profession to base Ethics on Metaphysics is

solely due to confusion.

=70.= And, first of all, there is an ambiguity in the very question:

What is good? to which it seems some influence must be attributed.

The question may mean either: Which among existing things are good?

or else: What _sort of_ things are good, what are the things which,

whether they _are_ real or not, ought to be real? And of these two

questions it is plain that to answer the first, we must know both

the answer to the second and also the answer to the question: What

is real? It asks us for a catalogue of all the good things in the

Universe; and to answer it we must know both what things there are in

the Universe and also which of them are good. Upon this question then

our Metaphysics would have a bearing, if it can tell us what is real.

It would help us to complete the list of things which are both real

and good. But to make such a list is not the business of Ethics. So

far as it enquires What is good? its business is finished when it has

completed the list of things which ought to exist, whether they do

exist or not. And if our Metaphysics is to have any bearing upon this

part of the ethical problem, it must be because the fact that something

is real gives a reason for thinking that it or something else is good,

whether it be real or not. That any such fact can give any such reason

is impossible; but it may be suspected that the contrary supposition

has been encouraged by the failure to distinguish between the assertion

‘This is good,’ when it means ‘_This sort of thing_ is good,’ or ‘This

would be good, if it existed,’ and the assertion ‘This existing thing

is good.’ The latter proposition obviously cannot be true, unless

the thing exists; and hence the proof of the thing’s existence is a

necessary step to its proof. Both propositions, however, in spite

of this immense difference between them, are commonly expressed in

the same terms. We use the same words, when we assert an ethical

proposition about a subject that is actually real, and when we assert

it about a subject considered as merely possible.

In this ambiguity of language we have, then, a possible source of error

with regard to the bearing of truths that assert reality upon truths

that assert goodness. And that this ambiguity is actually neglected by

those metaphysical writers who profess that the Supreme Good consists

in an eternal reality may be shewn in the following way. We have seen,

in considering the possible bearing of Metaphysics upon Practical

Ethics, that, since what exists eternally cannot possibly be affected

by our actions, no practical maxim can possibly be true, if the sole

reality is eternal. This fact, as I said, is commonly neglected by

metaphysical writers: they assert both of the two contradictory

propositions that the sole reality is eternal and that its realisation

in the future is a good too. Prof. Mackenzie, we saw, asserts that we

ought to aim at the realisation of ‘the true self’ or ‘the rational

universe’: and yet Prof. Mackenzie holds, as the word ‘true’ plainly

implies, that both ‘the true self’ and ‘the rational universe’ are

eternally real. Here we have already a contradiction in the supposition

that what is eternally real can be realised in the future; and it is

comparatively unimportant whether or not we add to this the further

contradiction involved in the supposition that the eternal is the sole

reality. That such a contradiction should be supposed valid can only be

explained by a neglect of the distinction between a real subject and

the character which that real subject possesses. _What_ is eternally

real may, indeed, be realised in the future, if by this be only meant

the _sort of thing_ which is eternally real. But when we assert that

a thing is good, what we mean is that its existence or reality is

good; and the eternal existence of a thing cannot possibly be the

same good as the existence in time of what, in a necessary sense,

is nevertheless the _same_ thing. When, therefore, we are told that

the future realisation of the _true_ self is good, this can at most

only mean that the future realisation of a self _exactly like_ the

self, which is true and exists eternally, is good. If this fact were

clearly stated, instead of consistently ignored, by those who advocate

the view that the Supreme Good can be defined in these metaphysical

terms, it seems probable that the view that a knowledge of reality

is necessary to a knowledge of the Supreme Good would lose part of

its plausibility. That that at which we ought to aim cannot possibly

be that which is eternally real, even if it be exactly like it; and

that the eternal reality cannot possibly be the sole good--these two

propositions seem sensibly to diminish the probability that Ethics must

be based on Metaphysics. It is not very plausible to maintain that

because one thing is real, therefore something like it, which is not

real, would be good. It seems, therefore, that some of the plausibility

of Metaphysical Ethics may be reasonably attributed to the failure to

observe that verbal ambiguity, whereby ‘This is good’ may mean either

‘This real thing is good’ or ‘The existence of this thing (whether it

exists or not) would be good.’

=71.= By exposing this ambiguity, then, we are enabled to see more

clearly what must be meant by the question: Can Ethics be based on

Metaphysics? and we are, therefore, more likely to find the correct

answer. It is now plain that a metaphysical principle of Ethics

which says ‘This eternal reality is the Supreme Good’ can only mean

‘Something like this eternal reality would be the Supreme Good.’ We

are now to understand such principles as having the only meaning which

they can consistently have, namely, as describing the kind of thing

which ought to exist in the future, and which we ought to try to bring

about. And, when this is clearly recognised, it seems more evident

that the knowledge that such a kind of thing is also eternally real,

cannot help us at all towards deciding the properly ethical question:

Is the existence of that kind of good thing? If we can see that an

eternal reality is good, we can see, equally easily, once the idea

of such a thing has been suggested to us, that it _would_ be good.

The metaphysical construction of Reality would therefore be quite as

useful, for the purposes of Ethics, if it were a mere construction

of an imaginary Utopia: provided the kind of thing suggested is the

same, fiction is as useful as truth, for giving us matter, upon

which to exercise the judgment of value. Though, therefore, we admit

that Metaphysics may serve an ethical purpose, in suggesting things,

which would not otherwise have occurred to us, but which, when they

are suggested, we see to be good; yet, it is not as Metaphysics--as

professing to tell us what is real--that it has this use. And, in

fact, the pursuit of truth must limit the usefulness of Metaphysics

in this respect. Wild and extravagant as are the assertions which

metaphysicians have made about reality, it is not to be supposed but

that they have been partially deterred from making them wilder still,

by the idea that it was their business to tell nothing but the truth.

But the wilder they are, and the less useful for Metaphysics, the

more useful will they be for Ethics; since, in order to be sure that

we have neglected nothing in the description of our ideal, we should

have had before us as wide a field as possible of suggested goods. It

is probable that this utility of Metaphysics, in suggesting possible

ideals, may sometimes be what is meant by the assertion that Ethics

should be based on Metaphysics. It is not uncommon to find that which

suggests a truth confused with that on which it logically depends; and

I have already pointed out that Metaphysical have, in general, this

superiority over Naturalistic systems, that they conceive the Supreme

Good as something differing more widely from what exists here and now.

But, if it be recognised that, in this sense, Ethics should, far more

emphatically, be _based on_ fiction, metaphysicians will, I think,

admit that a connection of this kind between Metaphysics and Ethics

would by no means justify the importance which they attribute to the

bearing of the one study on the other.

=72.= We may, then, attribute the obstinate prejudice that a knowledge

of supersensible reality is a necessary step to a knowledge of what

is good in itself, partly to a failure to perceive that the subject

of the latter judgment is not anything _real_ as such, and partly to

a failure to distinguish the cause of our perception of a truth from

the reason why it is true. But these two causes will carry us only a

very little way in our explanation of why Metaphysics should have been

supposed to have a bearing upon Ethics. The first explanation which

I have given would only account for the supposition that a thing’s

reality is a _necessary condition_ for its goodness. This supposition

is, indeed, commonly made; we find it commonly presupposed that unless

a thing can be shewn to be involved in the constitution of reality, it

cannot be good. And it is, therefore, worth while to insist that this

is not the case; that Metaphysics is not even necessary to furnish

_part_ of the basis of Ethics. But when metaphysicians talk of basing

Ethics on Metaphysics they commonly mean much more than this. They

commonly mean that Metaphysics is the _sole_ basis of Ethics--that it

furnishes not only one necessary condition but _all_ the conditions

necessary to prove that certain things are good. And this view may,

at first sight, appear to be held in two different forms. It may be

asserted that merely to prove a thing supersensibly real is sufficient

to prove it good: that the truly real must, for that reason alone,

be truly good. But more commonly it appears to be held that the real

must be good because it possesses certain characters. And we may, I

think, reduce the first kind of assertion to no more than this. When

it is asserted that the real must be good, because it is real, it is

commonly also held that this is only because, in order to be real, it

must be of a certain kind. The reasoning by which it is thought that a

metaphysical enquiry can give an ethical conclusion is of the following

form. From a consideration of what it is to be real, we can infer that

what is real must have certain supersensible properties: but to have

these properties is identical with being good--it is the very meaning

of the word: it follows therefore that what has these properties is

good: and from a consideration of what it is to be real, we can again

infer what it is that has these properties. It is plain that, if such

reasoning were correct, any answer which could be given to the question

‘What is good in itself?’ could be arrived at by a purely metaphysical

discussion and by that alone. Just as, when Mill supposed that ‘to

be good’ _meant_ ‘to be desired,’ the question ‘What is good?’ could

be and must be answered solely by an empirical investigation of the

question what was desired; so here, if to be good means to have some

supersensible property, the ethical question can and must be answered

by a metaphysical enquiry into the question, What has this property?

What, then, remains to be done in order to destroy the plausibility of

Metaphysical Ethics, is to expose the chief errors which seem to have

led metaphysicians to suppose that to be good _means_ to possess some

supersensible property.

=73.= What, then, are the chief reasons which have made it seem

plausible to maintain that to be good must _mean_ to possess some

supersensible property or to be related to some supersensible reality?

We may, first of all, notice one, which seems to have had some

influence in causing the view that good must be defined by _some_

such property, although it does not suggest any _particular_ property

as the one required. This reason lies in the supposition that the

proposition ‘This is good’ or ‘This would be good, if it existed’ must,

in a certain respect, be of the same type as other propositions.

The fact is that there is one type of proposition so familiar to

everyone, and therefore having such a strong hold upon the imagination,

that philosophers have always supposed that all other types must be

reducible to it. This type is that of the objects of experience--of all

those truths which occupy our minds for the immensely greater part of

our waking lives: truths such as that somebody is in the room, that I

am writing or eating or talking. All these truths, however much they

may differ, have this in common that in them both the grammatical

subject and the grammatical predicate stand for something which exists.

Immensely the commonest type of truth, then, is one which asserts a

relation between two existing things. Ethical truths are immediately

felt not to conform to this type, and the naturalistic fallacy arises

from the attempt to make out that, in some roundabout way, they do

conform to it. It is immediately obvious that when we see a thing

to be good, its goodness is not a property which we can take up in

our hands, or separate from it even by the most delicate scientific

instruments, and transfer to something else. It is not, in fact, like

most of the predicates which we ascribe to things, a _part_ of the

thing to which we ascribe it. But philosophers suppose that the reason

why we cannot take goodness up and move it about, is not that it is

a different _kind_ of object from any which can be moved about, but

only that it _necessarily_ exists together with anything with which

it does exist. They explain the type of ethical truths by supposing

it identical with the type of scientific laws. And it is only when

they have done this that the naturalistic philosophers proper--those

who are empiricists--and those whom I have called ‘metaphysical’ part

company. These two classes of philosophers do, indeed, differ with

regard to the nature of scientific laws. The former class tend to

suppose that when they say ‘This always accompanies that’ they mean

only ‘This has accompanied, does now, and will accompany that in these

particular instances’: they reduce the scientific law quite simply

and directly to the familiar type of proposition which I have pointed

out. But this does not satisfy the metaphysicians. They see that when

you say ‘This would accompany that, _if_ that existed,’ you don’t mean

only that this and that have existed and will exist together so many

times. But it is beyond even their powers to believe that what you do

mean is merely what you say. They still think you must mean, somehow

or other, that something does exist, since that is what you generally

mean when you say anything. They are as unable as the empiricists to

imagine that you can ever mean that 2 + 2 = 4. The empiricists say this

means that so many couples of couples of things have in each case been

four things; and hence that 2 and 2 would not make 4, unless precisely

those things had existed. The metaphysicians feel that this is wrong;

but they themselves have no better account of its meaning to give

than either, with Leibniz, that God’s mind is in a certain state, or,

with Kant, that your mind is in a certain state, or finally, with Mr

Bradley, that something is in a certain state. Here, then, we have the

root of the naturalistic fallacy. The metaphysicians have the merit

of seeing that when you say ‘This would be good, if it existed,’ you

can’t mean merely ‘This has existed and was desired,’ however many

times that may have been the case. They will admit that some good

things have not existed in this world, and even that some may not have

been desired. But what you can mean, except that _something_ exists,

they really cannot see. Precisely the same error which leads them to

suppose that there must _exist_ a supersensible Reality, leads them to

commit the naturalistic fallacy with regard to the meaning of ‘good.’

Every truth, they think, must mean somehow that something exists; and

since, unlike the empiricists, they recognise some truths which do not

mean that anything exists here and now, these they think must mean

that something exists _not_ here and now. On the same principle, since

‘good’ is a predicate which neither does nor can exist, they are bound

to suppose either that ‘to be good’ means to be related to some other

particular thing which can exist and does exist ‘in reality’; or else

that it means merely ‘to belong to the real world’--that goodness is

transcended or absorbed in reality.

=74.= That such a reduction of _all_ propositions to the type of those

which assert either that something exists or that something which

exists has a certain attribute (which means, that both exist in a

certain relation to one another), is erroneous, may easily be seen by

reference to the particular class of ethical propositions. For whatever

we may have proved to exist, and whatever two existents we may have

proved to be necessarily connected with one another, it still remains

a distinct and different question whether what thus exists is good;

whether either or both of the two existents is so; and whether it is

good that they should exist together. To assert the one is plainly and

obviously _not_ the same thing as to assert the other. We understand

what we mean by asking: Is this, which exists, or necessarily exists,

after all, good? and we perceive that we are asking a question which

has _not_ been answered. In face of this direct perception that the

two questions are distinct, no proof that they _must_ be identical can

have the slightest value. That the proposition ‘This is good’ is thus

distinct from every other proposition was proved in Chapter I.; and I

may now illustrate this fact by pointing out how it is distinguished

from two particular propositions with which it has commonly been

identified. That so and so _ought to be done_ is commonly called a

moral _law_, and this phrase naturally suggests that this proposition

is in some way analogous either to a natural law, or to a law in the

legal sense, or to both. All three are, in fact, really analogous in

one respect, and in one respect only: that they include a proposition

which is _universal_. A moral law asserts ‘This is good _in all

cases_’; a natural law asserts ‘This happens _in all cases_’; and a

law, in the legal sense, ‘It is commanded that this be done, or be left

undone, _in all cases_.’ But since it is very natural to suppose that

the analogy extends further, and that the assertion ‘This is good in

all cases’ is equivalent to the assertion ‘This happens in all cases’

or to the assertion ‘It is commanded that this be done in all cases,’

it may be useful briefly to point out that they are _not_ equivalent.

=75.= The fallacy of supposing moral law to be analogous to natural

law in respect of asserting that some action is one which is always

necessarily done is contained in one of the most famous doctrines of

Kant. Kant identifies what ought to be with the law according to which

a Free or Pure Will _must_ act--with the only kind of action which is

possible for it. And by this identification he does not mean merely to

assert that the Free Will is _also_ under the necessity of doing what

it ought; he means that what it ought to do _means_ nothing but its own

law--the law according to which it must act. It differs from the human

will just in that, what _we_ ought to do, is what _it_ necessarily

does. It is ‘autonomous’; and by this is meant (among other things)

that there is no separate standard by which it can be judged: that the

question ‘Is the law by which this Will acts a good one?’ is, in its

case, meaningless. It follows that what is necessarily willed by this

Pure Will is good, not _because_ that Will is good, nor for any other

reason; but merely because it is what is necessarily willed by a Pure

Will.

Kant’s assertion of the ‘Autonomy of the Practical Reason’ thus has

the very opposite effect to that which he desired; it makes his

Ethics ultimately and hopelessly ‘heteronomous.’ His Moral Law is

‘independent’ of Metaphysics only in the sense that according to him

we can _know_ it independently; he holds that we can only infer that

there is Freedom, from the fact that the Moral Law is true. And so far

as he keeps strictly to this view, he does avoid the error, into which

most metaphysical writers fall, of allowing his opinions as to what is

real to influence his judgments of what is good. But he fails to see

that on his view the Moral Law is dependent upon Freedom in a far more

important sense than that in which Freedom depends on the Moral Law. He

admits that Freedom is the _ratio essendi_ of the Moral Law, whereas

the latter is only _ratio cognoscendi_ of Freedom. And this means that,

unless Reality be such as he says, no assertion that ‘This is good’ can

possibly be true: it can indeed have no meaning. He has, therefore,

furnished his opponents with a conclusive method of attacking the

validity of the Moral Law. If they can only shew by some other means

(which he denies to be possible but leaves theoretically open) that the

nature of Reality is not such as he says, he cannot deny that they will

have proved his ethical principle to be false. If that ‘This ought to

be done’ _means_ ‘This is willed by a Free Will,’ then, if it can be

shewn that there is no Free Will which wills anything, it will follow

that nothing ought to be done.

=76.= And Kant also commits the fallacy of supposing that ‘This ought

to be’ means ‘This is commanded.’ He conceives the Moral Law to be an

Imperative. And this is a very common mistake. ‘This ought to be,’ it

is assumed, must mean ‘This is commanded’; nothing, therefore, would

be good unless it were commanded; and since commands in this world

are liable to be erroneous, what ought to be in its ultimate sense

means ‘what is commanded by some real supersensible authority.’ With

regard to this authority it is, then, no longer possible to ask ‘Is it

righteous?’ Its commands cannot fail to be right, because to be right

means to be what it commands. Here, therefore, law, in the moral sense,

is supposed analogous to law, in the legal sense, rather than, as in

the last instance, to law in the natural sense. It is supposed that

moral obligation is analogous to legal obligation, with this difference

only that whereas the source of legal obligation is earthly, that of

moral obligation is heavenly. Yet it is obvious that if by a source of

obligation is meant only a power which binds you or compels you to do

a thing, it is not because it does do this that you ought to obey it.

It is only if it be itself so good, that it commands and enforces only

what is good, that it can be a source of moral obligation. And in that

case what it commands and enforces would be good, whether commanded and

enforced or not. Just that which makes an obligation legal, namely the

fact that it is commanded by a certain kind of authority, is entirely

irrelevant to a moral obligation. However an authority be defined, its

commands will be _morally_ binding only if they are--morally binding;

only if they tell us what ought to be or what is a means to that which

ought to be.

=77.= In this last error, in the supposition that when I say ‘You

ought to do this’ I must mean ‘You are commanded to do this,’ we

have one of the reasons which has led to the supposition that the

particular supersensible property by reference to which good must

be defined is Will. And that ethical conclusions may be obtained by

enquiring into the nature of a fundamentally real Will seems to be by

far the commonest assumption of Metaphysical Ethics at the present

day. But this assumption seems to owe its plausibility, not so much

to the supposition that ‘ought’ expresses a ‘command,’ as to a far

more fundamental error. This error consists in supposing that to

ascribe certain predicates to a thing is the same thing as to say

that that thing is the object of a certain kind of psychical state.

It is supposed that to say that a thing is real or true is the same

thing as to say that it is known in a certain way; and that the

difference between the assertion that it is good and the assertion

that it is real--between an ethical, therefore, and a metaphysical

proposition--_consists_ in the fact that whereas the latter asserts its

relation to Cognition the former asserts its relation to Will.

Now that this is an error has been already shewn in Chapter I. That

the assertion ‘This is good’ is _not_ identical with the assertion

‘This is willed,’ either by a supersensible will, or otherwise, nor

with any other proposition, has been proved; nor can I add anything

to that proof. But in face of this proof it may be anticipated that

two lines of defence may be taken up. (1) It may be maintained that,

nevertheless, they really are identical, and facts may be pointed out

which seem to prove that identity. Or else (2) it may be said that an

_absolute_ identity is not maintained: that it is only meant to assert

that there is some special connection between will and goodness, such

as makes an enquiry into the real nature of the former an essential

step in the proof of ethical conclusions. In order to meet these two

possible objections, I propose first to shew what possible connections

there are or may be between goodness and will; and that none of these

can justify us in asserting that ‘This is good’ is identical with ‘This

is willed.’ On the other hand it will appear that some of them may be

easily confused with this assertion of identity; and that therefore the

confusion is likely to have been made. This part of my argument will,

therefore, already go some way towards meeting the second objection.

But what must be conclusive against this is to shew that any possible

connection between will and goodness _except_ the _absolute_ identity

in question, would not be sufficient to give an enquiry into Will the

smallest relevance to the proof of any ethical conclusion.

=78.= It has been customary, since Kant’s time, to assert that

Cognition, Volition, and Feeling are three fundamentally distinct

attitudes of the mind towards reality. They are three distinct ways

of experiencing, and each of them informs us of a distinct aspect

under which reality may be considered. The ‘Epistemological’ method of

approaching Metaphysics rests on the assumption that by considering

what is ‘implied in’ Cognition--what is its ‘ideal’--we may discover

what properties the world must have, if it is to be _true_. And

similarly it is held that by considering what is ‘implied in’ the fact

of Willing or Feeling--what is the ‘ideal’ which they presuppose--we

may discover what properties the world must have, if it is to be good

or beautiful. The orthodox Idealistic Epistemologist differs from the

Sensationalist or Empiricist in holding that what we directly cognise

is neither all true nor yet the whole truth: in order to reject the

false and to discover further truths we must, he says, not take

cognition merely as it presents itself, but discover what is _implied_

in it. And similarly the orthodox Metaphysical Ethicist differs from

the mere Naturalist, in holding that not everything which we actually

will is good, nor, if good, completely good: what is really good is

that which is implied in the essential nature of will. Others again

think that Feeling, and not Will, is the fundamental _datum_ for

Ethics. But, in either case, it is agreed that Ethics has some relation

to Will or Feeling which it has not to Cognition, and which other

objects of study have to Cognition. Will or Feeling, on the one hand,

and Cognition, on the other, are regarded as in some sense coordinate

sources of philosophical knowledge--the one of Practical, the other of

Theoretical philosophy.

What, that is true, can possibly be meant by this view?

=79.= First of all, it may be meant that, just as, by reflection on our

perceptual and sensory experience, we become aware of the distinction

between truth and falsehood, so it is by reflection on our experiences

of feeling and willing that we become aware of ethical distinctions.

We should not know what was meant by thinking one thing better than

another unless the attitude of our will or feeling towards one thing

was different from its attitude towards another. All this may be

admitted. But so far we have only the psychological fact that it is

only _because_ we will or feel things in a certain way, that we ever

come to think them good; just as it is only because we have certain

perceptual experiences, that we ever come to think things true. Here,

then, is a special connection between willing and goodness; but it is

only a _causal_ connection--that willing is a necessary condition for

the cognition of goodness.

But it may be said further that willing and feeling are not only the

origin of cognitions of goodness; but that to will a thing, or to have

a certain feeling towards a thing, is the _same thing_ as to think it

good. And it may be admitted that even this is _generally_ true in a

sense. It does seem to be true that we hardly ever think a thing good,

and never very decidedly, without at the same time having a special

attitude of feeling or will towards it; though it is certainly not the

case that this is true universally. And the converse may possibly be

true universally: it may be the case that a perception of goodness is

included in the complex facts which we mean by willing and by having

certain kinds of feeling. Let us admit then, that to think a thing good

and to will it are _the same thing_ in this sense, that, wherever the

latter occurs, the former also occurs as a _part_ of it; and even that

they are _generally the same thing_ in the converse sense, that when

the former occurs it is generally a part of the latter.

=80.= These facts may seem to give countenance to the general assertion

that to think a thing good is to prefer it or approve it, in the

sense in which preference and approval denote certain kinds of will

or feeling. It seems to be always true that when we thus prefer or

approve, there is included in that fact the fact that we think good;

and it is certainly true, in an immense majority of instances, that

when we think good, we also prefer or approve. It is natural enough,

then, to say that to think good is to prefer. And what more natural

than to add: When I say a thing is good, I _mean_ that I prefer it?

And yet this natural addition involves a gross confusion. Even if it

be true that to think good is the same thing as to prefer (which, as

we have seen, is _never_ true in the sense that they are absolutely

identical; and not _always_ true, even in the sense that they occur

together), yet it is not true that _what_ you think, when you think a

thing good, is _that_ you prefer it. Even if your thinking the thing

good is the same thing as your preference of it, yet the goodness

of the thing--that _of_ which you think--is, for that very reason,

obviously _not_ the same thing as your preference of it. Whether you

have a certain thought or not is one question; and whether what you

think is true is quite a different one, upon which the answer to the

first has not the least bearing. The fact that you prefer a thing does

not tend to shew that the thing is good; even if it does shew that you

think it so.

It seems to be owing to this confusion, that the question ‘What

is good?’ is thought to be identical with the question ‘What is

preferred?’ It is said, with sufficient truth, that you would never

know a thing was good unless you preferred it, just as you would never

know a thing existed unless you perceived it. But it is added, and this

is false, that you would never know a thing was good unless you _knew_

that you preferred it, or that it existed unless you _knew_ that you

perceived it. And it is finally added, and this is utterly false, that

you cannot distinguish the fact that a thing is good from the fact

that you prefer it, or the fact that it exists from the fact that you

perceive it. It is often pointed out that I cannot at any given moment

distinguish what is true from what I think so: and this is true. But

though I cannot distinguish _what_ is true from _what_ I think so, I

always can distinguish what I mean by saying _that_ it is true from

what I mean by saying _that_ I think so. For I understand the meaning

of the supposition that what I think true may nevertheless be false.

When, therefore, I assert that it is true I mean to assert something

different from the fact that I think so. _What_ I think, namely _that_

something is true, is always quite distinct from the fact that I think

it. The assertion that it is true does not even _include_ the assertion

that I think it so; although, of course, whenever I do think a thing

true, it is, as a matter of fact, also true that I do think it. This

tautologous proposition that for a thing to be thought true it is

necessary that it should be thought, is, however, commonly identified

with the proposition that for a thing to _be_ true it is necessary

that it should be thought. A very little reflection should suffice to

convince anyone that this identification is erroneous; and a very

little more will shew that, if so, we must mean by ‘true’ something

which includes no reference to thinking or to any other psychical fact.

It may be difficult to discover precisely _what_ we mean--to hold the

object in question before us, so as to compare it with other objects:

but that we do mean something distinct and unique can no longer be

matter of doubt. That ‘to be true’ _means_ to be thought in a certain

way is, therefore, certainly false. Yet this assertion plays the most

essential part in Kant’s ‘Copernican revolution’ of philosophy, and

renders worthless the whole mass of modern literature, to which that

revolution has given rise, and which is called Epistemology. Kant held

that what was unified in a certain manner by the synthetic activity of

thought was _ipso facto_ true: that this was the very meaning of the

word. Whereas it is plain that the only connection which can possibly

hold between being true and being thought in a certain way, is that

the latter should be a _criterion_ or test of the former. In order,

however, to establish that it is so, it would be necessary to establish

by the methods of induction that what was true was always thought in a

certain way. Modern Epistemology dispenses with this long and difficult

investigation at the cost of the self-contradictory assumption that

‘truth’ and the criterion of truth are one and the same thing.

=81.= It is, then, a very natural, though an utterly false supposition

that for a thing to _be_ true is the same thing as for it to be

perceived or thought of in a certain way. And since, for the reasons

given above, the fact of preference seems roughly to stand in the same

relation to thinking things good, in which the fact of perception

stands to thinking that they are true or exist, it is very natural that

for a thing to _be_ good should be supposed identical with its being

preferred in a certain way. But once this coordination of Volition and

Cognition has been accepted, it is again very natural that every fact

which seems to support the conclusion that being true is identical with

being cognised should confirm the corresponding conclusion that being

good is identical with being willed. It will, therefore, be in place to

point out another confusion, which seems to have had great influence

in causing acceptance of the view that to be true is the same thing as

to be cognised.

This confusion is due to a failure to observe that when we say we have

a _sensation_ or _perception_ or that we _know_ a thing, we mean to

assert not only that our mind is cognitive, but _also_ that that which

it cognises is true. It is not observed that the usage of these words

is such that, if a thing be untrue, that fact alone is sufficient to

justify us in saying that the person who says he perceives or knows it,

does not _perceive_ or _know_ it, without our either enquiring whether,

or assuming that, his state of mind differs in any respect from what

it would have been had he perceived or known. By this denial we do not

accuse him of an error in introspection, even if there was such an

error: we do not deny that he was aware of a certain object, nor even

that his state of mind was exactly such as he took it to be: we merely

deny that the object, of which he was aware, had a certain property.

It is, however, commonly supposed that when we assert a thing to be

perceived or known, we are asserting one fact only; and since of the

two facts which we really assert, the existence of a psychical state is

by far the easier to distinguish, it is supposed that this is the only

one which we do assert. Thus perception and sensation have come to be

regarded as if they denoted certain states of mind and nothing more; a

mistake which was the easier to make since the commonest state of mind,

to which we give a name which does not imply that its object is true,

namely imagination, may, with some plausibility, be supposed to differ

from sensation and perception not only in the property possessed by

its object, but also in its character as a state of mind. It has thus

come to be supposed that the only difference between perception and

imagination, by which they can be defined, must be a merely psychical

difference: and, if this were the case, it would follow at once that

to _be_ true was identical with being cognised in a certain way; since

the assertion that a thing is perceived does certainly _include_ the

assertion that it is true, and if, nevertheless, that it is perceived

means _only_ that the mind has a certain attitude towards it, then

its truth must be identical with the fact that it is regarded in this

way. We may, then, attribute the view that to be true _means_ to

be cognised in a certain way partly to the failure to perceive that

certain words, which are commonly supposed to stand for nothing more

than a certain kind of cognitive state, do, in fact, _also_ include a

reference to the truth of the object of such states.

=82.= I will now sum up my account of the apparent connections between

will and ethical propositions, which seem to support the vague

conviction that ‘This is good’ is somehow identical with ‘This is

willed in a certain way.’ (1) It may be maintained, with sufficient

show of truth, that it is only because certain things were originally

willed, that we ever came to have ethical convictions at all. And it

has been too commonly assumed that to shew what was the cause of a

thing is the same thing as to shew what the thing itself is. It is,

however, hardly necessary to point out that this is not the case. (2)

It may be further maintained, with some plausibility, that to think a

thing good and to will it in a certain way are _now_ as a matter of

fact identical. We must, however, distinguish certain possible meanings

of this assertion. It may be admitted that when we think a thing good,

we _generally_ have a special attitude of will or feeling towards it;

and that, perhaps, when we will it in a certain way, we do always think

it good. But the very fact that we can thus distinguish the question

whether, though the one is always accompanied by the other, yet this

other may not always be accompanied by the first, shews that the two

things are not, in the strict sense, identical. The fact is that,

whatever we mean by will, or by any form of will, the fact we mean by

it certainly always includes something else _beside_ the thinking a

thing good: and hence that, when willing and thinking good are asserted

to be identical, the most that can be meant is that this other element

in will always both accompanies and is accompanied by the thinking

good; and this, as has been said, is of very doubtful truth. Even,

however, if it were strictly true, the fact that the two things can be

distinguished is fatal to the assumed coordination between will and

cognition, in one of the senses in which that assumption is commonly

made. For it is only in respect of the _other_ element in will, that

volition differs from cognition; whereas it is only in respect of the

fact that volition, or some form of volition, _includes_ a _cognition_

of goodness, that will can have the same relation to ethical, which

cognition has to metaphysical, propositions. Accordingly the fact of

volition, _as a whole_, that is, if we include in it the element which

makes it volition and distinguishes it from cognition, has _not_ the

same relation to ethical propositions which cognition has to those

which are metaphysical. Volition and cognition are _not_ coordinate

ways of experiencing, since it is only in so far as volition denotes

a _complex_ fact, which includes in it the one identical simple fact,

which is meant by _cognition_, that volition is a way of experiencing

at all.

But, (3) if we allow the terms ‘volition’ or ‘will’ to stand for

‘thinking good,’ although they certainly do not commonly stand for

this, there still remains the question: What connection would this fact

establish between volition and Ethics? Could the enquiry into what was

willed be identical with the ethical enquiry into what was good? It

is plain enough that they could not be identical; though it is also

plain why they should be thought so. The question ‘What is good?’ is

confused with the question ‘What is thought good?’ and the question

‘What is true?’ with the question ‘What is thought true?’ for two main

reasons. (1) One of these is the general difficulty that is found

in distinguishing what is cognised from the cognition of it. It is

observed that I certainly cannot cognise anything that is true without

cognising it. Since, therefore, whenever I know a thing that is true,

the thing is certainly cognised, it is assumed that for a thing to _be_

true at all is the same thing as for it to be cognised. And (2) it is

not observed that certain words, which are supposed to denote only

peculiar species of cognition, do as a matter of fact _also_ denote

that the object cognised is true. Thus if ‘perception’ be taken to

denote only a certain kind of mental fact, then, since the object of it

is always true, it becomes easy to suppose that to be true means only

to be object to a mental state of that kind. And similarly it is easy

to suppose that to be truly good differs from being falsely thought

so, solely in respect of the fact that to be the former is to be the

object of a volition differing from that of which an apparent good is

the object, in the same way in which a perception (on this supposition)

differs from an illusion.

=83.= Being good, then, is not identical with being willed or felt

in any kind of way, any more than being true is identical with being

thought in any kind of way. But let us suppose this to be admitted: Is

it still possible that an enquiry into the nature of will or feeling

should be a necessary step to the proof of ethical conclusions? If

being good and being willed are _not_ identical, then the most that can

be maintained with regard to the connection of goodness with will is

that what is good is always _also_ willed in a certain way, and that

what is willed in a certain way is always _also_ good. And it may be

said that this is all that is meant by those metaphysical writers who

profess to base Ethics upon the Metaphysics of Will. What would follow

from this supposition?

It is plain that if what is willed in a certain way were always _also_

good, then the fact that a thing was so willed would be a _criterion_

of its goodness. But in order to establish that will is a criterion

of goodness, we must be able to shew first and separately that in a

great number of the instances in which we find a certain kind of will

we also find that the objects of that will are good. We might, then,

perhaps, be entitled to infer that in a few instances, where it was not

obvious whether a thing was good or not but was obvious that it was

willed in the way required, the thing was really good, since it had the

property which in all other instances we had found to be accompanied by

goodness. A reference to will might thus, just conceivably, become of

use towards the end of our ethical investigations, when we had already

been able to shew, independently, of a vast number of different objects

that they were really good and in what degree they were so. And against

even this conceivable utility it may be urged (1) That it is impossible

to see why it should not be as easy (and it would certainly be the more

secure way) to prove that the thing in question was good, by the same

methods which we had used in proving that other things were good, as by

reference to our criterion; and (2) That, if we set ourselves seriously

to find out what things are good, we shall see reason to think (as

will appear in Chapter VI.) that they have _no_ other property, both

common and peculiar to them, beside their goodness--that, in fact,

there is no criterion of goodness.

=84.= But to consider whether any form of will is or is not a

criterion of goodness is quite unnecessary for our purpose here;

since none of those writers who profess to base their Ethics on

an investigation of will have ever recognised the need of proving

directly and independently that all the things which are willed in

a certain way are good. They make no attempt to shew that will is a

_criterion_ of goodness; and no stronger evidence could be given that

they do not recognise that this, at most, is all it can be. As has

been just pointed out, if we are to maintain that whatever is willed

in a certain way is also good, we must in the first place be able to

shew that certain things have one property ‘goodness,’ and that the

same things _also_ have the other property that they are willed in a

certain way. And secondly we must be able to shew this in a very large

number of instances, if we are to be entitled to claim any assent

for the proposition that these two properties _always_ accompany one

another: even when this was shewn it would still be doubtful whether

the inference from ‘generally’ to ‘always’ would be valid, and almost

certain that this doubtful principle would be useless. But the very

question which it is the business of Ethics to answer is this question

what things are good; and, so long as Hedonism retains its present

popularity, it must be admitted that it is a question upon which there

is scarcely any agreement and which therefore requires the most careful

examination. The greatest and most difficult part of the business

of Ethics would therefore require to have been already accomplished

before we could be entitled to claim that anything was a _criterion_

of goodness. If, on the other hand, to be willed in a certain way

was _identical_ with being good, then indeed we should be entitled

to start our ethical investigations by enquiring what was willed in

the way required. That this is the way in which metaphysical writers

start their investigations seems to shew conclusively that they are

influenced by the idea that ‘goodness’ is _identical_ with ‘being

willed.’ They do not recognise that the question ‘What is good?’ is a

_different_ one from the question ‘What is willed in a certain way?’

Thus we find Green explicitly stating that ‘_the_ common characteristic

of the good is that it satisfies some desire[22].’ If we are to take

this statement strictly, it obviously asserts that good things have no

characteristic in common, except that they satisfy some desire--not

even, therefore, that they are good. And this can only be the case,

if being good is _identical_ with satisfying desire: if ‘good’ is

merely another name for ‘desire-satisfying.’ There could be no plainer

instance of the naturalistic fallacy. And we cannot take the statement

as a mere verbal slip, which does not affect the validity of Green’s

main argument. For he nowhere either gives or pretends to give any

reason for believing anything to be good in any sense, except that

it is what would satisfy a particular kind of desire--the kind of

desire which he tries to shew to be that of a moral agent. An unhappy

alternative is before us. Such reasoning would give valid reasons for

his conclusions, if, and only if, being good and being desired in a

particular way were identical: and in this case, as we have seen in

Chapter I., his conclusions would not be ethical. On the other hand,

if the two are not identical, his conclusions may be ethical and may

even be right, but he has not given us a single reason for believing

them. The thing which a scientific Ethics is required to shew, namely

that certain things are really good, he has assumed to begin with, in

assuming that things which are willed in a certain way are always good.

We may, therefore, have as much respect for Green’s conclusions as for

those of any other man who details to us his ethical convictions: but

that any of his arguments are such as to give us any reason for holding

that Green’s convictions are more likely to be true than those of any

other man, must be clearly denied. The _Prolegomena to Ethics_ is quite

as far as Mr Spencer’s _Data of Ethics_, from making the smallest

contribution to the solution of ethical problems.

[22] _Prolegomena to Ethics_, p. 178.

=85.= The main object of this chapter has been to shew that

Metaphysics, understood as the investigation of a supposed

supersensible reality, can have no logical bearing whatever upon the

answer to the fundamental ethical question ‘What is good in itself?’

That this is so, follows at once from the conclusion of Chapter I.,

that ‘good’ denotes an ultimate, unanalysable predicate; but this truth

has been so systematically ignored, that it seemed worth while to

discuss and distinguish, in detail, the principal relations, which do

hold, or have been supposed to hold, between Metaphysics and Ethics.

With this view I pointed out:--(1) That Metaphysics may have a bearing

on _practical_ Ethics--on the question ‘What ought we to do?’--so far

as it may be able to tell us what the future effects of our action

will be: what it can _not_ tell us is whether those effects are good

or bad in themselves. One particular type of metaphysical doctrine,

which is very frequently held, undoubtedly has such a bearing on

_practical_ Ethics: for, if it is true that the sole reality is an

eternal, immutable Absolute, then it follows that no actions of ours

can have any real effect, and hence that no _practical_ proposition

can be true. The same conclusion follows from the ethical proposition,

commonly combined with this metaphysical one--namely that this eternal

Reality is also the sole good (68). (2) That metaphysical writers,

as where they fail to notice the contradiction just noticed between

any _practical_ proposition and the assertion that an eternal reality

is the sole good, seem frequently to confuse the proposition that

one particular existing thing is good, with the proposition that the

existence of that kind of thing _would_ be good, wherever it might

occur. To the proof of the former proposition Metaphysics might be

relevant, by shewing that the thing existed; to the proof of the latter

it is wholly irrelevant: it can only serve the _psychological_ function

of suggesting things which may be valuable--a function which would be

still better performed by pure fiction (69-71).

But the most important source of the supposition that Metaphysics is

relevant to Ethics, seems to be the assumption that ‘good’ _must_

denote some _real_ property of things--an assumption which is mainly

due to two erroneous doctrines, the first _logical_, the second

_epistemological_. Hence (3) I discussed the _logical_ doctrine that

all propositions assert a relation between existents; and pointed

out that the assimilation of ethical propositions either to natural

laws or to commands are instances of this _logical_ fallacy (72-76).

And finally (4) I discussed the _epistemological_ doctrine that to be

good is equivalent to being willed or felt in some particular way; a

doctrine which derives support from the analogous error, which Kant

regarded as the cardinal point of his system and which has received

immensely wide acceptance--the erroneous view that to be ‘true’ or

‘real’ is equivalent to being thought in a particular way. In this

discussion the main points to which I desire to direct attention

are these: (_a_) That Volition and Feeling are _not_ analogous to

Cognition in the manner assumed; since in so far as these words denote

an attitude of the mind towards an object, they are themselves merely

instances of Cognition: they differ only in respect of the kind of

object of which they take cognisance, and in respect of the other

mental accompaniments of such cognitions: (_b_) That universally the

_object_ of a cognition must be distinguished from the cognition of

which it is the object; and hence that in no case can the question

whether the object is _true_ be identical with the question how it is

cognised or whether it is cognised at all: it follows that even if the

proposition ‘This is good’ were always the object of certain kinds of

will or feeling, the _truth_ of that proposition could in no case be

established by proving that it was their object; far less can that

proposition itself be identical with the proposition that its subject

is the object of a volition or a feeling (77-84).

CHAPTER V.

ETHICS IN RELATION TO CONDUCT.

=86.= In the present chapter we have again to take a great step in

ethical method. My discussion hitherto has fallen under two main

heads. Under the first, I tried to shew what ‘good’--the adjective

‘good’--_means_. This appeared to be the first point to be settled in

any treatment of Ethics, that should aim at being systematic. It is

necessary we should know this, should know what good means, before we

can go on to consider what is good--what things or qualities are good.

It is necessary we should know it for two reasons. The first reason

is that ‘good’ is the notion upon which all Ethics depends. We cannot

hope to understand what we mean, when we say that this is good or that

is good, until we understand quite clearly, not only what ‘this’ is or

‘that’ is (which the natural sciences and philosophy can tell us) but

also what is meant by calling them good, a matter which is reserved

for Ethics only. Unless we are quite clear on this point, our ethical

reasoning will be always apt to be fallacious. We shall think that we

are proving that a thing is ‘good,’ when we are really only proving

that it is something else; since unless we know what ‘good’ means,

unless we know what is meant by that notion in itself, as distinct from

what is meant by any other notion, we shall not be able to tell when

we are dealing with it and when we are dealing with something else,

which is perhaps like it, but yet not the same. And the second reason

why we should settle first of all this question ‘What good means?’

is a reason of method. It is this, that we can never know on what

_evidence_ an ethical proposition rests, until we know the nature of

the notion which makes the proposition ethical. We cannot tell what

is possible, by way of proof, in favour of one judgment that ‘This or

that is good,’ or against another judgment ‘That this or that is bad,’

until we have recognised what the nature of such propositions must

always be. In fact, it follows from the meaning of good and bad, that

such propositions are all of them, in Kant’s phrase, ‘synthetic’: they

all must rest in the end upon some proposition which must be simply

accepted or rejected, which cannot be logically deduced from any other

proposition. This result, which follows from our first investigation,

may be otherwise expressed by saying that the fundamental principles

of Ethics must be self-evident. But I am anxious that this expression

should not be misunderstood. The expression ‘self-evident’ means

properly that the proposition so called is evident or true, _by itself_

alone; that it is not an inference from some proposition other than

_itself_. The expression does _not_ mean that the proposition is

true, because it is evident to you or me or all mankind, because in

other words it appears to us to be true. That a proposition appears

to be true can never be a valid argument that true it really is. By

saying that a proposition is self-evident, we mean emphatically that

its appearing so to us, is _not_ the reason why it is true: for we

mean that it has absolutely no reason. It would not be a self-evident

proposition, if we could say of it: I cannot think otherwise and

therefore it is true. For then its evidence or proof would not lie in

itself, but in something else, namely our conviction of it. That it

appears true to us may indeed be the _cause_ of our asserting it, or

the reason why we think and say that it is true: but a reason in this

sense is something utterly different from a logical reason, or reason

why something is true. Moreover, it is obviously not a reason of the

same thing. The _evidence_ of a proposition to us is only a reason

for _our holding it_ to be true: whereas a logical reason, or reason

in the sense in which self-evident propositions have no reason, is a

reason why _the proposition itself_ must be true, not why we hold it

so to be. Again that a proposition is evident to us may not only be

the reason why we do think or affirm it, it may even be a _reason_

why we ought to think it or affirm it. But a reason, in this sense

too, is not a logical reason for the truth of the proposition, though

it is a logical reason for the rightness of holding the proposition.

In our common language, however, these three meanings of ‘reason’ are

constantly confused, whenever we say ‘I have a reason for thinking that

true.’ But it is absolutely essential, if we are to get clear notions

about Ethics or, indeed, about any other, especially any philosophical,

study, that we should distinguish them. When, therefore, I talk of

Intuitionistic Hedonism, I must not be understood to imply that my

denial that ‘Pleasure is the only good’ is _based_ on my Intuition of

its falsehood. My Intuition of its falsehood is indeed _my_ reason for

_holding_ and declaring it untrue; it is indeed the only valid reason

for so doing. But that is just because there is _no_ logical reason

for it; because there is no proper evidence or reason of its falsehood

except itself alone. It is untrue, because it is untrue, and there

is no other reason: but I _declare_ it untrue, because its untruth

is evident to me, and I hold that that is a sufficient reason for my

assertion. We must not therefore look on Intuition, as if it were

an alternative to reasoning. Nothing whatever can take the place of

_reasons_ for the truth of any proposition: intuition can only furnish

a reason for _holding_ any proposition to be true: this however it must

do when any proposition is self-evident, when, in fact, there are no

reasons which prove its truth.