=87.= So much, then, for the first step in our ethical method, the

step which established that good is good and nothing else whatever,

and that Naturalism was a fallacy. A second step was taken when we

began to consider proposed self-evident principles of Ethics. In this

second division, resting on our result that good means good, we began

the discussion of propositions asserting that such and such a thing

or quality or concept was good. Of such a kind was the principle of

Intuitionistic or Ethical Hedonism--the principle that ‘Pleasure alone

is good.’ Following the method established by our first discussion,

I claimed that the untruth of this proposition was self-evident. I

could do nothing to _prove_ that it was untrue; I could only point

out as clearly as possible what it means, and how it contradicts other

propositions which appear to be equally true. My only object in all

this was, necessarily, to convince. But even if I did convince, that

does not prove that we are right. It justifies us in _holding_ that

we are so; but nevertheless we may be wrong. On one thing, however,

we may justly pride ourselves. It is that we have had a better chance

of answering our question rightly, than Bentham or Mill or Sidgwick

or others who have contradicted us. For we have _proved_ that these

have never even asked themselves the question which they professed to

answer. They have confused it with another question: small wonder,

therefore, if their answer is different from ours. We must be quite

sure that the same question has been put, before we trouble ourselves

at the different answers that are given to it. For all we know, the

whole world would agree with us, if they could once clearly understand

the question upon which we want their votes. Certain it is, that in

all those cases where we found a difference of opinion, we found also

that the question had _not_ been clearly understood. Though, therefore,

we cannot prove that we are right, yet we have reason to believe that

everybody, unless he is mistaken as to what he thinks, will think the

same as we. It is as with a sum in mathematics. If we find a gross and

palpable error in the calculations, we are not surprised or troubled

that the person who made this mistake has reached a different result

from ours. We think he will admit that his result is wrong, if his

mistake is pointed out to him. For instance if a man has to add up 5

+ 7 + 9, we should not wonder that he made the result to be 34, if he

started by making 5 + 7 = 25. And so in Ethics, if we find, as we did,

that ‘desirable’ is confused with ‘desired,’ or that ‘end’ is confused

with ‘means,’ we need not be disconcerted that those who have committed

these mistakes do not agree with us. The only difference is that in

Ethics, owing to the intricacy of its subject-matter, it is far more

difficult to persuade anyone either that he has made a mistake or that

that mistake affects his result.

In this second division of my subject--the division which is occupied

with the question, ‘What is good in itself?’--I have hitherto only

tried to establish one definite result, and that a negative one: namely

that pleasure is _not_ the sole good. This result, if true, refutes

half, or more than half, of the ethical theories which have ever been

held, and is, therefore, not without importance. It will, however, be

necessary presently to deal positively with the question: What things

are good and in what degrees?

=88.= But before proceeding to this discussion I propose, first, to

deal with the _third_ kind of ethical question--the question: What

ought we to do?

The answering of this question constitutes the third great division

of ethical enquiry; and its nature was briefly explained in Chap. I.

(§§ 15-17). It introduces into Ethics, as was there pointed out, an

entirely new question--the question what things are related as _causes_

to that which is good in itself; and this question can only be answered

by an entirely new method--the method of empirical investigation; by

means of which causes are discovered in the other sciences. To ask what

kind of actions we ought to perform, or what kind of conduct is right,

is to ask what kind of effects such action and conduct will produce.

Not a single question in practical Ethics can be answered except by a

causal generalisation. All such questions do, indeed, _also_ involve

an ethical judgment proper--the judgment that certain effects are

better, in themselves, than others. But they _do_ assert that these

better things are effects--are causally connected with the actions in

question. Every judgment in practical Ethics may be reduced to the

form: This is a cause of that good thing.

=89.= That this is the case, that the questions, What is right? what is

my duty? what ought I to do? belong exclusively to this third branch of

ethical enquiry, is the first point to which I wish to call attention.

All moral laws, I wish to shew, are merely statements that certain

kinds of actions will have good effects. The very opposite of this view

has been generally prevalent in Ethics. ‘The right’ and ‘the useful’

have been supposed to be at least _capable_ of conflicting with one

another, and, at all events, to be essentially distinct. It has been

characteristic of a certain school of moralists, as of moral common

sense, to declare that the end will never justify the means. What I

wish first to point out is that ‘right’ does and can mean nothing but

‘cause of a good result,’ and is thus identical with ‘useful’; whence

it follows that the end always will justify the means, and that no

action which is not justified by its results can be right. That there

may be a true proposition, meant to be conveyed by the assertion ‘The

end will not justify the means,’ I fully admit: but that, in another

sense, and a sense far more fundamental for ethical theory, it is

utterly false, must first be shewn.

That the assertion ‘I am morally bound to perform this action’ is

identical with the assertion ‘This action will produce the greatest

possible amount of good in the Universe’ has already been briefly shewn

in Chap. I. (§ 17); but it is important to insist that this fundamental

point is demonstrably certain. This may, perhaps, be best made evident

in the following way. It is plain that when we assert that a certain

action is our absolute duty, we are asserting that the performance of

that action at that time is unique in respect of value. But no dutiful

action can possibly have unique value in the sense that it is the sole

thing of value in the world; since, in that case, _every_ such action

would be the _sole_ good thing, which is a manifest contradiction.

And for the same reason its value cannot be unique in the sense that

it has more intrinsic value than anything else in the world; since

_every_ act of duty would then be the _best_ thing in the world, which

is also a contradiction. It can, therefore, be unique only in the sense

that the whole world will be better, if it be performed, than if any

possible alternative were taken. And the question whether this is so

cannot possibly depend solely on the question of its own intrinsic

value. For any action will also have effects different from those of

any other action; and if any of these have intrinsic value, their value

is exactly as relevant to the total goodness of the Universe as that of

their cause. It is, in fact, evident that, however valuable an action

may be in itself, yet, owing to its existence, the sum of good in the

Universe may conceivably be made less than if some other action, less

valuable in itself, had been performed. But to say that this is the

case is to say that it would have been better that the action should

not have been done; and this again is obviously equivalent to the

statement that it ought not to have been done--that it was not what

duty required. ‘Fiat iustitia, ruat caelum’ can only be justified on

the ground that by the doing of justice the Universe gains more than it

loses by the falling of the heavens. It is, of course, possible that

this is the case: but, at all events, to assert that justice _is_ a

duty, in spite of such consequences, is to assert that it is the case.

Our ‘duty,’ therefore, can only be defined as that action, which will

cause more good to exist in the Universe than any possible alternative.

And what is ‘right’ or ‘morally permissible’ only differs from this, as

what will _not_ cause _less_ good than any possible alternative. When,

therefore, Ethics presumes to assert that certain ways of acting are

‘duties’ it presumes to assert that to act in those ways will always

produce the greatest possible sum of good. If we are told that to ‘do

no murder’ is a duty, we are told that the action, whatever it may be,

which is called murder, will under no circumstances cause so much good

to exist in the Universe as its avoidance.

=90.= But, if this be recognised, several most important consequences

follow, with regard to the relation of Ethics to conduct.

(1) It is plain that no moral law is self-evident, as has commonly been

held by the Intuitional school of moralists. The Intuitional view of

Ethics consists in the supposition that certain rules, stating that

certain actions are always to be done or to be omitted, may be taken as

self-evident premisses. I have shewn with regard to judgments of what

is _good in itself_, that this is the case; no reason can be given for

them. But it is the essence of Intuitionism to suppose that rules of

action--statements not of what ought to _be_, but of what we ought to

do--are in the same sense intuitively certain. Plausibility has been

lent to this view by the fact that we do undoubtedly make immediate

judgments that certain actions are obligatory or wrong: we are thus

often intuitively certain of our duty, _in a psychological sense_. But,

nevertheless, these judgments are not self-evident and cannot be taken

as ethical premisses, since, as has now been shewn, they are capable of

being confirmed or refuted by an investigation of causes and effects.

It is, indeed, possible that some of our immediate intuitions are true;

but since _what_ we intuit, _what_ conscience tells us, is that certain

actions will always produce the greatest sum of good possible under the

circumstances, it is plain that reasons can be given, which will shew

the deliverances of conscience to be true or false.

=91.= (2) In order to shew that any action is a duty, it is necessary

to know both what are the other conditions, which will, conjointly with

it, determine its effects; to know exactly what will be the effects of

these conditions; and to know all the events which will be in any way

affected by our action throughout an infinite future. We must have all

this causal knowledge, and further we must know accurately the degree

of value both of the action itself and of all these effects; and must

be able to determine how, in conjunction with the other things in the

Universe, they will affect its value as an organic whole. And not

only this: we must also possess all this knowledge with regard to the

effects of every possible alternative; and must then be able to see by

comparison that the total value due to the existence of the action in

question will be greater than that which would be produced by any of

these alternatives. But it is obvious that our causal knowledge alone

is far too incomplete for us ever to assure ourselves of this result.

Accordingly it follows that we never have any reason to suppose that an

action is our duty: we can never be sure that any action will produce

the greatest value possible.

Ethics, therefore, is quite unable to give us a list of duties:

but there still remains a humbler task which may be possible for

Practical Ethics. Although we cannot hope to discover which, in a given

situation, is the best of all possible alternative actions, there may

be some possibility of shewing which among the alternatives, _likely to

occur to any one_, will produce the greatest sum of good. This second

task is certainly all that Ethics can ever have accomplished: and it is

certainly all that it has ever collected materials for proving; since

no one has ever attempted to exhaust the possible alternative actions

in any particular case. Ethical philosophers have in fact confined

their attention to a very limited class of actions, which have been

selected because they are those which most commonly occur to mankind

as possible alternatives. With regard to these they may possibly have

shewn that one alternative is better, _i.e._ produces a greater total

of value, than others. But it seems desirable to insist, that though

they have represented this result as a determination of _duties_, it

can never really have been so. For the term duty is certainly so used

that, if we are subsequently persuaded that any possible action would

have produced more good than the one we adopted, we admit that we

failed to do our duty. It will, however, be a useful task if Ethics can

determine which among alternatives _likely to occur_ will produce the

greatest total value. For, though this alternative cannot be proved to

be the best possible, yet it may be better than any course of action

which we should otherwise adopt.

=92.= A difficulty in distinguishing this task, which Ethics may

perhaps undertake with some hope of success, from the hopeless task

of finding duties, arises from an ambiguity in the use of the term

‘possible.’ An action may, in one perfectly legitimate sense, be said

to be ‘impossible’ solely because the idea of doing it does not occur

to us. In this sense, then, the alternatives which do actually occur

to a man would be the only _possible_ alternatives; and the best of

these would be the best possible action under the circumstances, and

hence would conform to our definition of ‘duty.’ But when we talk of

the best _possible_ action as our duty, we mean by the term any action

which no _other_ known circumstance would prevent, _provided_ the idea

of it occurred to us. And this use of the term is in accordance with

popular usage. For we admit that a man may fail to do his duty, through

neglecting to think of what he _might_ have done. Since, therefore,

we say that he _might_ have done, what nevertheless did not occur to

him, it is plain that we do not limit his _possible_ actions to those

of which he thinks. It might be urged, with more plausibility, that we

mean by a man’s duty only the best of those actions of which he _might_

have thought. And it is true that we do not blame any man very severely

for omitting an action of which, as we say, ‘he could not be expected

to think.’ But even here it is plain that we recognise a distinction

between what he might have done and what he might have thought of

doing: we regard it as a pity that he did not do otherwise. And ‘duty’

is certainly used in such a sense, that it would be a contradiction in

terms to say it was a pity that a man did his duty.

We must, therefore, distinguish a possible action from an action of

which it is possible to think. By the former we mean an action which

no known cause would prevent, _provided_ the idea of it occurred to

us: and that one among such actions, which will produce the greatest

total good, is what we mean by duty. Ethics certainly cannot hope to

discover what kind of action is always our duty in this sense. It may,

however, hope to decide which among one or two such possible actions is

the best: and those which it has chosen to consider are, as a matter of

fact, the most important of those with regard to which men deliberate

whether they shall or shall not do them. A decision with regard to

these may therefore be easily confounded with a decision with regard

to which is the best possible action. But it is to be noted that even

though we limit ourselves to considering which is the better among

alternatives likely to be thought of, the fact that these alternatives

might be thought of is not included is what we mean by calling them

possible alternatives. Even if in any particular case it was impossible

that the idea of them should have occurred to a man, the question we

are concerned with is, which, if it had occurred, would have been the

best alternative? If we say that murder is always a worse alternative,

we mean to assert that it is so, even where it was impossible for the

murderer to think of doing anything else.

The utmost, then, that Practical Ethics can hope to discover is which,

among a few alternatives possible under certain circumstances, will, on

the whole, produce the best result. It may tell us which is the best,

in this sense, of certain alternatives about which we are likely to

deliberate; and since we may also know that, even if we choose none of

these, what we shall, in that case, do is unlikely to be as good as one

of them, it may thus tell us which of the alternatives, among which

we _can_ choose, it is best to choose. If it could do this it would be

sufficient for practical guidance.

=93.= But (3) it is plain that even this is a task of immense

difficulty. It is difficult to see how we can establish even a

probability that by doing one thing we shall obtain a better total

result than by doing another. I shall merely endeavour to point out how

much is assumed, when we assume that there is such a probability, and

on what lines it seems possible that this assumption may be justified.

It will be apparent that it has never yet been justified--that no

sufficient reason has ever yet been found for considering one action

more right or more wrong than another.

(_a_) The first difficulty in the way of establishing a probability

that one course of action will give a better total result than another,

lies in the fact that we have to take account of the effects of both

throughout an infinite future. We have no certainty but that, if we

do one action now, the Universe will, throughout all time, differ in

some way from what it would have been, if we had done another; and,

if there is such a permanent difference, it is certainly relevant to

our calculation. But it is quite certain that our causal knowledge is

utterly insufficient to tell us what different effects will probably

result from two different actions, except within a comparatively short

space of time; we can certainly only pretend to calculate the effects

of actions within what may be called an ‘immediate’ future. No one,

when he proceeds upon what he considers a rational consideration of

effects, would guide his choice by any forecast that went beyond a few

centuries at most; and, in general, we consider that we have acted

rationally, if we think we have secured a balance of good within a few

years or months or days. Yet, if a choice guided by such considerations

is to be rational, we must certainly have some reason to believe that

no consequences of our action in a further future will generally be

such as to reverse the balance of good that is probable in the future

which we can foresee. This large postulate must be made, if we are

ever to assert that the results of one action will be even probably

better than those of another. Our utter ignorance of the far future

gives us no justification for saying that it is even probably right

to choose the greater good within the region over which a probable

forecast may extend. We do, then, assume that it is improbable that

effects, after a certain time, will, in general, be such as to reverse

the comparative value of the alternative results within that time. And

that this assumption is justified must be shewn before we can claim

to have given any reason whatever for acting in one way rather than

in another. It may, perhaps, be justified by some such considerations

as the following. As we proceed further and further from the time at

which alternative actions are open to us, the events of which either

action would be part cause become increasingly dependent on those

other circumstances, which are the same, whichever action we adopt.

The effects of any individual action seem, after a sufficient space of

time, to be found only in trifling modifications spread over a very

wide area, whereas its immediate effects consist in some prominent

modification of a comparatively narrow area. Since, however, most

of the things which have any great importance for good or evil are

things of this prominent kind, there may be a probability that after

a certain time all the effects of any particular action become so

nearly indifferent, that any difference between their value and that

of the effects of another action, is very unlikely to outweigh an

obvious difference in the value of the immediate effects. It does in

fact appear to be the case that, in most cases, whatever action we now

adopt, ‘it will be all the same a hundred years hence,’ so far as the

existence at that time of anything greatly good or bad is concerned:

and this might, perhaps, be _shewn_ to be true, by an investigation

of the manner in which the effects of any particular event become

neutralised by lapse of time. Failing such a proof, we can certainly

have no rational ground for asserting that one of two alternatives is

even probably right and another wrong. If any of our judgments of right

and wrong are to pretend to probability, we must have reason to think

that the effects of our actions in the far future will not have value

sufficient to outweigh any superiority of one set of effects over

another in the immediate future.

=94.= (_b_) We must assume, then, that if the effects of one action are

generally better than those of another, so far forward in the future as

we are able to foresee any probable difference in their effects at all,

then the total effect upon the Universe of the former action is also

generally better. We certainly cannot hope directly to compare their

effects except within a limited future; and all the arguments, which

have ever been used in Ethics, and upon which we commonly act in common

life, directed to shewing that one course is superior to another, are

(apart from theological dogmas) confined to pointing out such probable

immediate advantages. The question remains, then: Can we lay down any

general rules to the effect that one among a few alternative actions

will generally produce a greater total of good in the immediate future?

It is important to insist that this question, limited as it is, is the

utmost, to which, with any knowledge we have at present or are likely

to have for a long time to come, Practical Ethics can hope to give an

answer. I have already pointed out that we cannot hope to discover

which is the _best_ possible alternative in any given circumstances,

but only which, among a few, is better than the others. And I have also

pointed out that there is certainly no more than a probability, even

if we are entitled to assert so much, that what is better in regard to

its immediate effects will also be better on the whole. It now remains

to insist that, even with regard to these immediate effects, we can

only hope to discover which, among a few alternatives, will _generally_

produce the greatest balance of good in the immediate future. We can

secure no title to assert that obedience to such commands as ‘Thou

shalt not lie,’ or even ‘Thou shalt do no murder,’ is _universally_

better than the alternatives of lying and murder. Reasons why no more

than a _general_ knowledge is possible have been already given in Chap.

I. (§ 16); but they may be recapitulated here. In the first place,

of the effects, which principally concern us in ethical discussions,

as having intrinsic value, we know the causes so little, that we can

scarcely claim, with regard to any single one, to have obtained even

a _hypothetical_ universal law, such as has been obtained in the exact

sciences. We cannot even say: If this action is performed, under

exactly these circumstances, and if no others interfere, this important

effect, at least, will _always_ be produced. But, in the second

place, an ethical law is not merely hypothetical. If we are to know

that it will always be better to act in a certain way, under certain

circumstances, we must know not merely what effects such actions will

produce, _provided_ no other circumstances interfere, but also that no

other circumstances will interfere. And this it is obviously impossible

to know with more than probability. An ethical law has the nature not

of a scientific law but of a scientific _prediction_: and the latter is

always merely probable, although the probability may be very great. An

engineer is entitled to assert that, if a bridge be built in a certain

way, it will probably bear certain loads for a certain time; but he can

never be absolutely certain that it has been built in the way required,

nor that, even if it has, some accident will not intervene to falsify

his prediction. With any ethical law, the same must be the case; it can

be no more than a generalisation: and here, owing to the comparative

absence of accurate hypothetical knowledge, on which the prediction

should be based, the probability is comparatively small. But finally,

for an ethical generalisation, we require to know not only what effects

will be produced, but also what are the comparative values of those

effects; and on this question too, it must be admitted, considering

what a prevalent opinion Hedonism has been, that we are very liable to

be mistaken. It is plain, then, that we are not soon likely to know

more than that one kind of action will _generally_ produce better

effects than another; and that more than this has certainly never been

proved. In no two cases will _all_ the effects of any kind of action be

precisely the same, because in each case some of the circumstances will

differ; and although the effects, that are important for good or evil,

may be generally the same, it is extremely unlikely that they will

always be so.

=95.= (_c_) If, now, we confine ourselves to a search for actions which

are _generally_ better as means than any probable alternative, it

seems possible to establish as much as this in defence of most of the

rules most universally recognised by Common Sense. I do not propose to

enter upon this defence in detail, but merely to point out what seem to

be the chief distinct principles by the use of which it can be made.

In the first place, then, we can only shew that one action is

generally better than another as a means, provided that certain other

circumstances are given. We do, as a matter of fact, only observe its

good effects under certain circumstances; and it may be easily seen

that a sufficient change in these would render doubtful what seem the

most universally certain of general rules. Thus, the general disutility

of murder can only be proved, provided the majority of the human race

will certainly persist in existing. In order to prove that murder, if

it were so universally adopted as to cause the speedy extermination of

the race, would not be good as a means, we should have to disprove the

main contention of pessimism--namely that the existence of human life

is on the whole an evil. And the view of pessimism, however strongly we

may be convinced of its truth or falsehood, is one which never has been

either proved or refuted conclusively. That universal murder would not

be a good thing at this moment can therefore not be proved. But, as a

matter of fact, we can and do assume with certainty that, even if a few

people are willing to murder, most people will not be willing. When,

therefore, we say that murder is in general to be avoided, we only

mean that it is so, so long as the majority of mankind will certainly

not agree to it, but will persist in living. And that, under these

circumstances, it is generally wrong for any single person to commit

murder seems capable of proof. For, since there is in any case no hope

of exterminating the race, the only effects which we have to consider

are those which the action will have upon the increase of the goods

and the diminution of the evils of human life. Where the best is not

attainable (assuming extermination to be the best) one alternative may

still be better than another. And, apart from the immediate evils which

murder generally produces, the fact that, if it were a common practice,

the feeling of insecurity, thus caused, would absorb much time, which

might be spent to better purpose, is perhaps conclusive against it. So

long as men desire to live as strongly as they do, and so long as it is

certain that they will continue to do so, anything which hinders them

from devoting their energy to the attainment of positive goods, seems

plainly bad as a means. And the general practice of murder, falling so

far short of universality as it certainly must in all known conditions

of society, seems certainly to be a hindrance of this kind.

A similar defence seems possible for most of the rules, most

universally enforced by legal sanctions, such as respect of property;

and for some of those most commonly recognised by Common Sense, such

as industry, temperance and the keeping of promises. In any state of

society in which men have that intense desire for property of some

sort, which seems to be universal, the common legal rules for the

protection of property must serve greatly to facilitate the best

possible expenditure of energy. And similarly: Industry is a means

to the attainment of those necessaries, without which the further

attainment of any great positive goods is impossible; temperance merely

enjoins the avoidance of those excesses, which, by injuring health,

would prevent a man from contributing as much as possible to the

acquirement of these necessaries; and the keeping of promises greatly

facilitates cooperation in such acquirement.

Now all these rules seem to have two characteristics to which it is

desirable to call attention. (1) They seem all to be such that, in any

known state of society, a _general_ observance of them _would_ be good

as a means. The conditions upon which their utility depends, namely the

tendency to preserve and propagate life and the desire of property,

seem to be so universal and so strong, that it would be impossible to

remove them; and, this being so, we can say that, under any conditions

which could actually be given, the general observance of these rules

would be good as a means. For, while there seems no reason to think

that their observance ever makes a society worse than one in which they

are not observed, it is certainly necessary as a means for any state of

things in which the greatest possible goods can be attained. And (2)

these rules, since they can be recommended as a means to that which is

itself only a necessary condition for the existence of any great good,

can be defended independently of correct views upon the primary ethical

question of what is good in itself. On any view commonly taken, it

seems certain that the preservation of civilised society, which these

rules are necessary to effect, is necessary for the existence, in any

great degree, of anything which may be held to be good in itself.

=96.= But not by any means all the rules commonly recognised combine

these two characteristics. The arguments offered in defence of Common

Sense morality very often presuppose the existence of conditions,

which cannot be fairly assumed to be so universally necessary as the

tendency to continue life and to desire property. Such arguments,

accordingly, only prove the utility of the rule, so long as certain

conditions, which may alter, remain the same: it cannot be claimed of

the rules thus defended, that they would be generally good as means in

every state of society: in order to establish this _universal_ general

utility, it would be necessary to arrive at a correct view of what is

good or evil in itself. This, for instance, seems to be the case with

most of the rules comprehended under the name of Chastity. These rules

are commonly defended, by Utilitarian writers or writers who assume as

their end the conservation of society, with arguments which presuppose

the necessary existence of such sentiments as conjugal jealousy and

paternal affection. These sentiments are no doubt sufficiently strong

and general to make the defence valid for many conditions of society.

But it is not difficult to imagine a civilised society existing without

them; and, in such a case, if chastity were still to be defended,

it would be necessary to establish that its violation produced evil

effects, other than those due to the assumed tendency of such violation

to disintegrate society. Such a defence may, no doubt, be made; but it

would require an examination into the primary ethical question of what

is good and bad in itself, far more thorough than any ethical writer

has ever offered to us. Whether this be so in this particular case or

not, it is certain that a distinction, not commonly recognised, should

be made between those rules, of which the social utility depends upon

the existence of circumstances, more or less likely to alter, and those

of which the utility seems certain under all possible conditions.

=97.= It is obvious that all the rules, which were enumerated above as

likely to be useful in _almost any_ state of society, can _also_ be

defended owing to results which they produce under conditions which

exist only in particular states of society. And it should be noticed

that we are entitled to reckon among these conditions the sanctions of

legal penalties, of social disapproval, and of private remorse, where

these exist. These sanctions are, indeed, commonly treated by Ethics

only as motives for the doing of actions of which the utility can be

proved independently of the existence of these sanctions. And it may

be admitted that sanctions _ought_ not to be attached to actions which

would not be right independently. Nevertheless it is plain that, where

they do exist, they are not only motives but also justifications for

the actions in question. One of the chief reasons why an action should

not be done in any particular state of society is that it will be

punished; since the punishment is in general itself a greater evil than

would have been caused by the omission of the action punished. Thus

the existence of a punishment may be an adequate reason for regarding

an action as generally wrong, even though it has no other bad effects

but even slightly good ones. The fact that an action will be punished

is a condition of exactly the same kind as others of more or less

permanence, which must be taken into account in discussing the general

utility or disutility of an action in a particular state of society.

=98.= It is plain, then, that the rules commonly recognised by Common

Sense, in the society in which we live, and commonly advocated as if

they were all equally and universally right and good, are of very

different orders. Even those which seem to be most universally good

as means, can only be shewn to be so, because of the existence of

conditions, which, though perhaps evils, may be taken to be necessary;

and even these owe their more obvious utilities to the existence of

other conditions, which cannot be taken to be necessary except over

longer or shorter periods of history, and many of which are evils.

Others seem to be justifiable _solely_ by the existence of such more or

less temporary conditions, unless we abandon the attempt to shew that

they are means to that preservation of society, which is itself a mere

means, and are able to establish that they are directly means to things

good or evil in themselves, but which are not commonly recognised to be

such.

If, then, we ask what rules are or would be useful to be observed in

the society in which we live, it seems possible to prove a definite

utility in most of those which are in general both recognised and

practised. But a great part of ordinary moral exhortation and social

discussion consists in the advocating of rules, which are _not_

generally practised; and with regard to these it seems very doubtful

whether a case for their general utility can ever be conclusively made

out. Such proposed rules commonly suffer from three main defects. In

the first place, (1) the actions which they advocate are very commonly

such as it is impossible for most individuals to perform by any

volition. It is far too usual to find classed together with actions,

which can be performed, if only they be willed, others, of which the

possibility depends upon the possession of a peculiar disposition,

which is given to few and cannot even be acquired. It may, no doubt,

be useful to point out that those who have the necessary disposition

should obey these rules; and it would, in many cases, be desirable that

everybody should have this disposition. But it should be recognised

that, when we regard a thing as a moral rule or law, we mean that it

is one which _almost everybody can_ observe by an effort of volition,

in that state of society to which the rule is supposed to apply. (2)

Actions are often advocated, of which, though they themselves are

possible, yet the proposed good effects are not possible, because the

conditions necessary for their existence are not sufficiently general.

A rule, of which the observance would produce good effects, if human

nature were in other respects different from what it is, is advocated

as if its general observance would produce the same effects now and

at once. In fact, however, by the time that the conditions necessary

to make its observance useful have arisen, it is quite as likely that

other conditions, rendering its observance unnecessary or positively

harmful, may also have arisen; and yet this state of things may be a

better one than that in which the rule in question would have been

useful. (3) There also occurs the case in which the usefulness of a

rule depends upon conditions likely to change, or of which the change

would be as easy and more desirable than the observance of the proposed

rule. It may even happen that the general observance of the proposed

rule would itself destroy the conditions upon which its utility depends.

One or other of these objections seems generally to apply to proposed

changes in social custom, advocated as being better rules to follow

than those now actually followed; and, for this reason, it seems

doubtful whether Ethics can establish the utility of any rules

other than those generally practised. But its inability to do so is

fortunately of little practical moment. The question whether the

general observance of a rule not generally observed, would or would not

be desirable, cannot much affect the question how any individual ought

to act; since, on the one hand, there is a large probability that he

will not, by any means, be able to bring about its general observance,

and, on the other hand, the fact that its general observance would

be useful could, in any case, give him no reason to conclude that he

himself ought to observe it, in the absence of such general observance.

With regard, then, to the actions commonly classed in Ethics, as

duties, crimes, or sins, the following points seem deserving of notice.

(1) By so classing them we mean that they are actions which it is

possible for an individual to perform or avoid, if he only _wills_ to

do so; and that they are actions which _everybody_ ought to perform

or avoid, when occasion arises. (2) We can certainly not prove of

any such action that it ought to be done or avoided under _all_

circumstances; we can only prove that its performance or avoidance will

_generally_ produce better results than the alternative. (3) If further

we ask of what actions as much as this can be proved, it seems only

possible to prove it with regard to those which are actually generally

practised among us. And of these some only are such that their general

performance would be useful in any state of society that seems

possible; of others the utility depends upon conditions which exist

now, but which seem to be more or less alterable.

=99.= (_d_) So much, then, for moral rules or laws, in the ordinary

sense--rules which assert that it is generally useful, under more or

less common circumstances, for _everybody_ to perform or omit some

definite kind of action. It remains to say something with regard to the

principles by which _the individual_ should decide what he ought to

do, (α) with regard to those actions as to which some general rule is

certainly true, and (β) with regard to those where such a certain rule

is wanting.

(α) Since, as I have tried to shew, it is impossible to establish

that any kind of action will produce a better total result than

its alternative _in all cases_, it follows that in some cases the

neglect of an established rule will probably be the best course of

action possible. The question then arises: Can the individual ever be

justified in assuming that his is one of these exceptional cases? And

it seems that this question may be definitely answered in the negative.

For, if it is certain that in a large majority of cases the observance

of a certain rule is useful, it follows that there is a large

probability that it would be wrong to break the rule in any particular

case; and the uncertainty of our knowledge both of effects and of their

value, in particular cases, is so great, that it seems doubtful whether

the individual’s judgment that the effects will probably be good in

his case can ever be set against the general probability that that

kind of action is wrong. Added to this general ignorance is the fact

that, if the question arises at all, our judgment will generally be

biassed by the fact that we strongly desire one of the results which we

hope to obtain by breaking the rule. It seems, then, that with regard

to any rule which is _generally_ useful, we may assert that it ought

_always_ to be observed, not on the ground that in _every_ particular

case it will be useful, but on the ground that in _any_ particular

case the probability of its being so is greater than that of our being

likely to decide rightly that we have before us an instance of its

disutility. In short, though we may be sure that there are cases where

the rule should be broken, we can never know which those cases are,

and ought, therefore, never to break it. It is this fact which seems

to justify the stringency with which moral rules are usually enforced

and sanctioned, and to give a sense in which we may accept as true the

maxims that ‘The end never justifies the means’ and ‘That we should

never do evil that good may come.’ The ‘means’ and the ‘evil,’ intended

by these maxims, are, in fact, the breaking of moral rules generally

recognised and practised, and which, therefore, we may assume to be

generally useful. Thus understood, these maxims merely point out that,

in any particular case, although we cannot clearly perceive any balance

of good produced by keeping the rule and do seem to see one that would

follow from breaking it, nevertheless the rule should be observed. It

is hardly necessary to point out that this is so only because it is

certain that, in general, the end does justify the means in question,

and that therefore there is a _probability_ that in this case it will

do so also, although we cannot see that it will.

But moreover the universal observance of a rule which is generally

useful has, in many cases, a special utility, which seems deserving of

notice. This arises from the fact that, even if we can clearly discern

that our case is one where to break the rule is advantageous, yet, so

far as our example has any effect at all in encouraging similar action,

it will certainly tend to encourage breaches of the rule which are not

advantageous. We may confidently assume that what will impress the

imagination of others will not be the circumstances in which our case

differs from ordinary cases and which justify our exceptional action,

but the points in which it resembles other actions that are really

criminal. In cases, then, where example has any influence at all, the

effect of an exceptional right action will generally be to encourage

wrong ones. And this effect will probably be exercised not only on

other persons but on the agent himself. For it is impossible for any

one to keep his intellect and sentiments so clear, but that, if he has

once approved of a generally wrong action, he will be more likely to

approve of it also under other circumstances than those which justified

it in the first instance. This inability to discriminate exceptional

cases offers, of course, a still stronger reason for the universal

enforcement, by legal or social sanctions, of actions generally useful.

It is undoubtedly well to punish a man, who has done an action, right

in his case but generally wrong, even if his example would not be

likely to have a dangerous effect. For sanctions have, in general,

much more influence upon conduct than example; so that the effect

of relaxing them in an exceptional case will almost certainly be an

encouragement of similar action in cases which are not exceptional.

The individual can therefore be confidently recommended _always_

to conform to rules which are both generally useful and generally

practised. In the case of rules of which the general observance _would_

be useful but does not exist, or of rules which are generally practised

but which are not useful, no such universal recommendations can be

made. In many cases the sanctions attached may be decisive in favour

of conformity to the existing custom. But it seems worth pointing out

that, even apart from these, the general utility of an action most

commonly depends upon the fact that it is generally practised: in a

society where certain kinds of theft are the common rule, the utility

of abstinence from such theft on the part of a single individual

becomes exceedingly doubtful, even though the common rule is a bad one.

There is, therefore, a strong probability in favour of adherence to an

existing custom, even if it be a bad one. But we cannot, in this case,

assert with any confidence that this probability is always greater

than that of the individual’s power to judge that an exception will be

useful; since we are here supposing certain one relevant fact--namely,

that the rule, which he proposes to follow, _would_ be better than

that which he proposes to break, _if_ it were generally observed.

Consequently the effect of his example, so far as it tends to break

down the existing custom, will here be for the good. The cases, where

another rule would certainly be better than that generally observed,

are, however, according to what was said above, very rare; and cases of

doubt, which are those which arise most frequently, carry us into the

next division of our subject.

=100.= (β) This next division consists in the discussion of the

method by which an individual should decide what to do with regard to

possible actions of which the general utility cannot be proved. And

it should be observed, that, according to our previous conclusions,

this discussion will cover almost all actions, except those which,

in our present state of society, are generally practised. For it has

been urged that a proof of general utility is so difficult, that it

can hardly be conclusive except in a very few cases. It is certainly

not possible with regard to all actions which _are_ generally

practised; though here, if the sanctions are sufficiently strong,

they are sufficient by themselves to prove the general utility of the

individual’s conformity to custom. And if it is possible to prove a

general utility in the case of some actions, _not_ generally practised,

it is certainly not possible to do so by the ordinary method, which

tries to shew in them a tendency to that preservation of society, which

is itself a mere means, but only by the method, by which in any case,

as will be urged, the individual ought to guide his judgment--namely,

by shewing their direct tendency to produce what is good in itself or

to prevent what is bad.

The extreme improbability that any general rule with regard to the

utility of an action will be correct seems, in fact, to be the chief

principle which should be taken into account in discussing how the

individual should guide his choice. If we except those rules which are

both generally practised and strongly sanctioned among us, there seem

to be hardly any of such a kind that equally good arguments cannot be

found both for and against them. The most that can be said for the

contradictory principles which are urged by moralists of different

schools as universal duties, is, in general, that they point out

actions which, for persons of a particular character and in particular

circumstances, would and do lead to a balance of good. It is, no

doubt, possible that the particular dispositions and circumstances

which generally render certain kinds of action advisable, might to

some degree be formulated. But it is certain that this has never

yet been done; and it is important to notice that, even if it were

done, it would not give us, what moral laws are usually supposed to

be--rules which it would be desirable for every one, or even for most

people, to follow. Moralists commonly assume that, in the matter of

actions or habits of action, usually recognised as duties or virtues,

it is desirable that every one should be alike. Whereas it is certain

that, under actual circumstances, and possible that, even in a much

more ideal condition of things, the principle of division of labour,

according to special capacity, which is recognised in respect of

employments, would also give a better result in respect of virtues.

It seems, therefore, that, in cases of doubt, instead of following

rules, of which he is unable to see the good effects in his particular

case, the individual should rather guide his choice by a direct

consideration of the intrinsic value or vileness of the effects

which his action may produce. Judgments of intrinsic value have this

superiority over judgments of means that, if once true, they are always

true; whereas what is a means to a good effect in one case, will not

be so in another. For this reason the department of Ethics, which it

would be most useful to elaborate for practical guidance, is that

which discusses what things have intrinsic value and in what degrees;

and this is precisely that department which has been most uniformly

neglected, in favour of attempts to formulate rules of conduct.

We have, however, not only to consider the relative goodness of

different effects, but also the relative probability of their being

attained. A less good, that is more likely to be attained, is to be

preferred to a greater, that is less probable, if the difference in

probability is great enough to outweigh the difference in goodness.

And this fact seems to entitle us to assert the general truth of three

principles, which ordinary moral rules are apt to neglect. (1) That

a lesser good, for which any individual has a strong preference (if

only it be a good, and not an evil), is more likely to be a proper

object for him to aim at, than a greater one, which he is unable to

appreciate. For natural inclination renders it immensely more easy to

attain that for which such inclination is felt. (2) Since almost every

one has a much stronger preference for things which closely concern

himself, it will in general be right for a man to aim rather at goods

affecting himself and those in whom he has a strong personal interest,

than to attempt a more extended beneficence. Egoism is undoubtedly

superior to Altruism as a doctrine of means: in the immense majority of

cases the best thing we can do is to aim at securing some good in which

we are concerned, since for that very reason we are far more likely to

secure it. (3) Goods, which can be secured in a future so near as to be

called ‘the present,’ are in general to be preferred to those which,

being in a further future, are, for that reason, far less certain of

attainment. If we regard all that we do from the point of view of

its rightness, that is to say as a mere means to good, we are apt to

neglect one fact, at least, which is certain; namely, that a thing that

is really good in itself, if it exist now, has precisely the same value

as a thing of the same kind which may be caused to exist in the future.

Moreover moral rules, as has been said, are, in general, not directly

means to positive goods but to what is necessary for the existence of

positive goods; and so much of our labour must in any case be devoted

to securing the continuance of what is thus a mere means--the claims of

industry and attention to health determine the employment of so large

a part of our time, that, in cases where choice is open, the certain

attainment of a present good will in general have the strongest claims

upon us. If it were not so, the whole of life would be spent in merely

assuring its continuance; and, so far as the same rule were continued

in the future, that for the sake of which it is worth having, would

never exist at all.

=101.= (4) A fourth conclusion, which follows from the fact that what

is ‘right’ or what is our ‘duty’ must in any case be defined as what is

a means to good, is, as was pointed out above (§ 89), that the common

distinction between these and the ‘expedient’ or ‘useful,’ disappears.

Our ‘duty’ is merely that which will be a means to the best possible,

and the expedient, if it is really expedient, must be just the same. We

cannot distinguish them by saying that the former is something which

we ought to do, whereas of the latter we cannot say we ‘_ought_.’ In

short the two concepts are not, as is commonly assumed by all except

Utilitarian moralists, simple concepts ultimately distinct. There is

no such distinction in Ethics. The only fundamental distinction is

between what is good in itself and what is good as a means, the latter

of which implies the former. But it has been shewn that the distinction

between ‘duty’ and ‘expediency’ does not correspond to this: both

must be defined as means to good, though both _may also_ be ends in

themselves. The question remains, then: What is the distinction between

duty and expediency?

One distinction to which these distinct words refer is plain

enough. Certain classes of action commonly excite the specifically

moral sentiments, whereas other classes do not. And the word

‘duty’ is commonly applied only to the class of actions which

excite moral approval, or of which the omission excites moral

disapproval--especially to the latter. Why this moral sentiment should

have become attached to some kinds of actions and not to others is

a question which can certainly not yet be answered; but it may be

observed that we have no reason to think that the actions to which

it was attached were or are, in all cases, such as aided or aid the

survival of a race: it was probably originally attached to many

religious rites and ceremonies which had not the smallest utility in

this respect. It appears, however, that, among us, the classes of

action to which it is attached also have two other characteristics in

enough cases to have influenced the meaning of the words ‘duty’ and

‘expediency.’ One of these is that ‘duties’ are, in general, actions

which a considerable number of individuals are strongly tempted to

omit. The second is that the omission of a ‘duty’ generally entails

consequences markedly disagreeable to _some one else_. The first of

these is a more universal characteristic than the second: since the

disagreeable effects on other people of the ‘self-regarding duties,’

prudence and temperance, are not so marked as those on the future

of the agent himself; whereas the temptations to imprudence and

intemperance are very strong. Still, on the whole, the class of actions

called duties exhibit both characteristics: they are not only actions,

against the performance of which there are strong natural inclinations,

but also actions of which the most obvious effects, commonly considered

goods, are effects on other people. Expedient actions, on the other

hand, are actions to which strong natural inclinations prompt us

almost universally, and of which all the most obvious effects, commonly

considered good, are effects upon the agent. We may then roughly

distinguish ‘duties’ from expedient actions, as actions with regard to

which there is a moral sentiment, which we are often tempted to omit,

and of which the most obvious effects are effects upon others than the

agent.

But it is to be noticed that none of these characteristics, by which

a ‘duty’ is distinguished from an expedient action, gives us any

reason to infer that the former class of actions are more useful than

the latter--that they tend to produce a greater balance of good.

Nor, when we ask the question, ‘Is this my duty?’ do we mean to ask

whether the action in question has these characteristics: we are asking

simply whether it will produce the best possible result on the whole.

And if we asked this question with regard to expedient actions, we

should quite as often have to answer it in the affirmative as when we

ask it with regard to actions which have the three characteristics

of ‘duties.’ It is true that when we ask the question, ‘Is this

expedient?’ we are asking a different question--namely, whether it will

have certain kinds of effect, with regard to which we do not enquire

whether they are good or not. Nevertheless, if it should be doubted

in any particular case whether these effects were good, this doubt is

understood as throwing doubt upon the action’s expediency: if we are

required to _prove_ an action’s expediency, we can only do so by asking

precisely the same question by which we should prove it a duty--namely,

‘Has it the best possible effects on the whole?’

Accordingly the question whether an action is a duty or merely

expedient, is one which has no bearing on the ethical question whether

we ought to do it. In the sense in which either duty or expediency

are taken as ultimate _reasons_ for doing an action, they are taken

in exactly the same sense: if I ask whether an action is _really_ my

duty or _really_ expedient, the predicate of which I question the

applicability to the action in question is precisely the same. In both

cases I am asking, ‘Is this event the best on the whole that I can

effect?’; and whether the event in question be some effect upon what

is _mine_ (as it usually is, where we talk of expediency) or some other

event (as is usual, where we talk of duty), this distinction has no

more relevance to my answer than the distinction between two different

effects on me or two different effects on others. The true distinction

between duties and expedient actions is not that the former are actions

which it is in any sense more useful or obligatory or better to

perform, but that they are actions which it is more useful to praise

and to enforce by sanctions, since they are actions which there is a

temptation to omit.

=102.= With regard to ‘interested’ actions, the case is somewhat

different. When we ask the question, ‘Is this really to my interest?’

we appear to be asking exclusively whether its _effects upon me_ are

the best possible; and it may well happen that what will effect me in

the manner, which is really the best possible, will not produce the

best possible results on the whole. Accordingly _my true interest_ may

be different from the course which is really expedient and dutiful. To

assert that an action is ‘to my interest,’ is, indeed, as was pointed

out in Chap. III. (§§ 59-61), to assert that its effects are really

good. ‘My own good’ only denotes some event affecting me, which is good

absolutely and objectively; it is the thing, and not its goodness,

which is _mine_; everything must be either ‘a part of universal good’

or else not good at all; there is no third alternative conception

‘good for me.’ But ‘my interest,’ though it must be something truly

good, is only one among possible good effects; and hence, by effecting

it, though we shall be doing _some_ good, we may be doing less good

on the whole, than if we had acted otherwise. Self-sacrifice may be a

real duty; just as the sacrifice of any single good, whether affecting

ourselves or others, may be necessary in order to obtain a better

total result. Hence the fact that an action is really to my interest,

can never be a sufficient reason for doing it: by shewing that it is

not a means to the best possible, we do not shew that it is not to my

interest, as we do shew that it is not expedient. Nevertheless there is

no necessary conflict between duty and interest: what is to my interest

may also be a means to the best possible. And the chief distinction

conveyed by the distinct words ‘duty’ and ‘interest’ seems to be not

this source of possible conflict, but the same which is conveyed by

the contrast between ‘duty’ and ‘expediency.’ By ‘interested’ actions

are _mainly_ meant those which, whether a means to the best possible

or not, are such as have their most obvious effects on the agent;

which he generally has no temptation to omit; and with regard to which

we feel no moral sentiment. That is to say, the distinction is not

primarily ethical. Here too ‘duties’ are not, in general, more useful

or obligatory than interested actions; they are only actions which it

is more useful to praise.

=103.= (5) A fifth conclusion, of some importance, in relation to

Practical Ethics concerns the manner in which ‘virtues’ are to be

judged. What is meant by calling a thing a ‘virtue’?

There can be no doubt that Aristotle’s definition is right, in the

main, so far as he says that it is an ‘habitual disposition’ to

perform certain actions: this is one of the marks by which we should

distinguish a virtue from other things. But ‘virtue’ and ‘vice’ are

also ethical terms: that is to say, when we use them seriously, we mean

to convey praise by the one and dispraise by the other. And to praise

a thing is to assert either that it is good in itself or else that it

is a means to good. Are we then to include in our definition of virtue

that it must be a thing good in itself?

Now it is certain that virtues are commonly regarded as good in

themselves. The feeling of moral approbation with which we generally

regard them partly consists in an attribution to them of intrinsic

value. Even a Hedonist, when he feels a moral sentiment towards

them, is regarding them as good-in-themselves; and Virtue has been

the chief competitor with Pleasure for the position of _sole_ good.

Nevertheless I do not think we can regard it as part of the definition

of virtue that it should be good in itself. For the name has so far

an independent meaning, that if in any particular case a disposition

commonly considered virtuous were proved not to be good in itself, we

should not think that a sufficient reason for saying that it _was_ not

a virtue but was only _thought_ to be so. The test for the ethical

connotation of virtue is the same as that for duty: What should we

require to be proved about a particular instance, in order to say

that the name was wrongly applied to it? And the test which is thus

applied both to virtues and duties, and considered to be final, is the

question: Is it a means to good? If it could be shewn of any particular

disposition, commonly considered virtuous, that it was generally

harmful, we should at once say: Then it is not really virtuous.

Accordingly a virtue may be defined as an habitual disposition to

perform certain actions, which generally produce the best possible

results. Nor is there any doubt as to the kind of actions which it is

‘virtuous’ habitually to perform. They are, in general, those which

are duties, with this modification that we also include those which

_would_ be duties, if only it were possible for people in general to

perform them. Accordingly with regard to virtues, the same conclusion

holds as with regard to duties. If they are really virtues they must be

generally good as means; nor do I wish to dispute that most virtues,

commonly considered as such, as well as most duties, really are means

to good. But it does not follow that they are a bit more useful than

those dispositions and inclinations which lead us to perform interested

actions. As duties from expedient actions, so virtues are distinguished

from other useful dispositions, not by any superior utility, but by the

fact that they are dispositions, which it is particularly useful to

praise and to sanction, because there are strong and common temptations

to neglect the actions to which they lead.

Virtues, therefore, are habitual dispositions to perform actions which

are duties, or which would be duties if a volition were sufficient on

the part of most men to ensure their performance. And duties are a

particular class of those actions, of which the performance has, at

least generally, better total results than the omission. They are, that

is to say, actions generally good as means: but not all such actions

are duties; the name is confined to that particular class which it is

often difficult to perform, because there are strong temptations to the

contrary. It follows that in order to decide whether any particular

disposition or action is a virtue or a duty, we must face all the

difficulties enumerated in section (3) of this chapter. We shall

not be entitled to assert that any disposition or action is a virtue

or duty except as a result of an investigation, such as was there

described. We must be able to prove that the disposition or action in

question is generally better as a means than any alternatives possible

and likely to occur; and this we shall only be able to prove for

particular states of society: what is a virtue or a duty in one state

of society may not be so in another.

=104.= But there is another question with regard to virtues and duties

which must be settled by intuition alone--by the properly guarded

method which was explained in discussing Hedonism. This is the question

whether the dispositions and actions, commonly regarded (rightly or

not) as virtues or duties, are good in themselves; whether they have

intrinsic value. Virtue or the exercise of virtue has very commonly

been asserted by moralists to be either the sole good, or, at least,

the best of goods. Indeed, so far as moralists have discussed the

question what is good in itself at all, they have generally assumed

that it must be either virtue or pleasure. It would hardly have been

possible that such a gross difference of opinion should exist, or that

it should have been assumed the discussion _must_ be limited to two

such alternatives, if the meaning of the question had been clearly

apprehended. And we have already seen that the meaning of the question

has hardly ever been clearly apprehended. Almost all ethical writers

have committed the naturalistic fallacy--they have failed to perceive

that the notion of intrinsic value is simple and unique; and almost all

have failed, in consequence, to distinguish clearly between means and

end--they have discussed, as if it were simple and unambiguous, the

question, ‘What ought we to do?’ or ‘What ought to exist now?’ without

distinguishing whether the reason why a thing ought to be done or to

exist now, is that it is itself possessed of intrinsic value, or that

it is a means to what has intrinsic value. We shall, therefore, be

prepared to find that virtue has as little claim to be considered the

sole or chief good as pleasure; more especially after seeing that, so

far as definition goes, to call a thing a virtue is merely to declare

that it is a means to good. The advocates of virtue have, we shall see,

this superiority over the Hedonists, that inasmuch as virtues are very

complex mental facts, there are included in them many things which are

good in themselves and good in a much higher degree than pleasure.

The advocates of Hedonism, on the other hand, have the superiority

that their method emphasizes the distinction between means and ends;

although they have not apprehended the distinction clearly enough to

perceive that the special ethical predicate, which they assign to

pleasure as _not_ being a mere means, must also apply to many other

things.

=105.= With regard, then, to the intrinsic value of virtue, it may be

stated broadly: (1) that the majority of dispositions, which we call

by that name, and which really do conform to the definition, so far as

that they are dispositions generally valuable as means, at least in our

society, have no intrinsic value whatever; and (2) that no one element

which is contained in the minority, nor even all the different elements

put together, can without gross absurdity be regarded as the sole good.

As to the second point it may be observed that even those who hold the

view that the sole good is to be found in virtue, almost invariably

hold other views contradictory of this, owing chiefly to a failure to

analyse the meaning of ethical concepts. The most marked instance of

this inconsistency is to be found in the common Christian conception

that virtue, though the sole good, can yet be rewarded by something

other than virtue. Heaven is commonly considered as the reward of

virtue; and yet it is also commonly considered, that, in order to be

such a reward, it must contain some element, called happiness, which

is certainly not completely identical with the mere exercise of those

virtues which it rewards. But if so, then something which is not virtue

must be either good in itself or an element in what has most intrinsic

value. It is not commonly observed that if a thing is really to be a

reward, it must be something good in itself: it is absurd to talk of

rewarding a person by giving him something, which is less valuable than

what he already has or which has no value at all. Thus Kant’s view that

virtue renders us _worthy_ of happiness is in flagrant contradiction

with the view, which he implies and which is associated with his name,

that a Good Will is the only thing having intrinsic value. It does

not, indeed, entitle us to make the charge sometimes made, that Kant

is, inconsistently, an Eudaemonist or Hedonist: for it does not imply

that happiness is the sole good. But it does imply that the Good Will

is _not_ the sole good: that a state of things in which we are both

virtuous and happy is better in itself than one in which the happiness

is absent.

=106.= In order, however, justly to consider the claims of virtue to

intrinsic value, it is necessary to distinguish several very different

mental states, all of which fall under the general definition that they

are habitual dispositions to perform duties. We may thus distinguish

three very different states, all of which are liable to be confused

with one another, upon each of which different moral systems have laid

great stress, and for each of which the claim has been made that it

alone constitutes virtue, and, by implication, that it is the sole

good. We may first of all distinguish between (_a_) that permanent

characteristic of mind, which consists in the fact that the performance

of duty has become in the strict sense a habit, like many of the

operations performed in the putting on of clothes, and (_b_) that

permanent characteristic, which consists in the fact that what may be

called good motives habitually help to cause the performance of duties.

And in the second division we may distinguish between the habitual

tendency to be actuated by one motive, namely, the desire to do duty

for duty’s sake, and all other motives, such as love, benevolence, etc.

We thus get the three kinds of virtue, of which we are now to consider

the intrinsic value.

(_a_) There is no doubt that a man’s character may be such that he

habitually performs certain duties, without the thought ever occurring

to him, when he wills them, either that they are duties or that any

good will result from them. Of such a man we cannot and do not refuse

to say that he possesses the virtue consisting in the disposition to

perform those duties. I, for instance, am honest in the sense that

I habitually abstain from any of the actions legally qualified as

thieving, even where some other persons would be strongly tempted to

commit them. It would be grossly contrary to common usage to deny

that, for this reason, I really have the virtue of honesty: it is

quite certain that I have an habitual disposition to perform a duty.

And that as many people as possible should have a like disposition

is, no doubt, of great utility: it is good as a means. Yet I may

safely assert that neither my various performances of this duty, nor

my disposition to perform them, have the smallest intrinsic value.

It is because the majority of instances of virtue seem to be of this

nature, that we may venture to assert that virtues have, in general,

no intrinsic value whatsoever. And there seems good reason to think

that the more generally they are of this nature the more useful they

are; since a great economy of labour is effected when a useful action

becomes habitual or instinctive. But to maintain that a virtue, which

includes no more than this, is good in itself is a gross absurdity. And

of this gross absurdity, it may be observed, the Ethics of Aristotle is

guilty. For his definition of virtue does not exclude a disposition to

perform actions in this way, whereas his descriptions of the particular

virtues plainly _include_ such actions: that an action, in order to

exhibit virtue, must be done τοῦ καλοῦ ἕνεκα is a qualification which

he allows often to drop out of sight. And, on the other hand, he seems

certainly to regard the exercise of _all_ virtues as an end in itself.

His treatment of Ethics is indeed, in the most important points, highly

unsystematic and confused, owing to his attempt to base it on the

naturalistic fallacy; for strictly we should be obliged by his words

to regard θεωρία as the _only_ thing good in itself, in which case

the goodness which he attributes to the practical virtues cannot be

intrinsic value; while on the other hand he does not seem to regard

it merely as utility, since he makes no attempt to shew that they are

means to θεωρία. But there seems no doubt that on the whole he regards

the exercise of the practical virtues as a good of the same kind as

(_i.e._ having intrinsic value), only in a less degree than, θεωρία; so

that he cannot avoid the charge that he recommends as having intrinsic

value, such instances of the exercise of virtue as we are at present

discussing--instances of a disposition to perform actions which, in

the modern phrase, have merely an ‘external rightness.’ That he is

right in applying the word ‘virtue’ to such a disposition cannot be

doubted. But the protest against the view that ‘external rightness’ is

sufficient to constitute either ‘duty’ or ‘virtue’--a protest which is

commonly, and with some justice, attributed as a merit to Christian

morals--seems, in the main, to be a mistaken way of pointing out an

important truth: namely, that where there is only ‘external rightness’

there is certainly no intrinsic value. It is commonly assumed (though

wrongly) that to call a thing a virtue means that it has intrinsic

value: and on this assumption the view that virtue does not consist

in a mere disposition to do externally right actions does really

constitute an advance in ethical truth beyond the Ethics of Aristotle.

The inference that, if virtue includes in its meaning ‘good in itself,’

then Aristotle’s definition of virtue is not adequate and expresses a

false ethical judgment, is perfectly correct: only the premiss that

virtue does include this in its meaning is mistaken.

=107.= (_b_) A man’s character may be such that, when he habitually

performs a particular duty, there is, in each case of his performance,

present in his mind, a love of some intrinsically good consequence

which he expects to produce by his action or a hatred of some

intrinsically evil consequence which he hopes to prevent by it. In

such a case this love or hatred will generally be part cause of his

action, and we may then call it one of his _motives_. Where such a

feeling as this is present habitually in the performance of duties, it

cannot be denied that the state of the man’s mind, in performing it,

contains something intrinsically good. Nor can it be denied that, where

a disposition to perform duties consists in the disposition to be moved

to them by such feelings, we call that disposition a virtue. Here,

therefore, we have instances of virtue, the exercise of which really

contains something that is good in itself. And, in general, we may say

that wherever a virtue does consist in a disposition to have certain

motives, the exercise of that virtue _may_ be intrinsically good;

although the degree of its goodness may vary indefinitely according to

the precise nature of the motives and their objects. In so far, then,

as Christianity tends to emphasize the importance of motives, of the

‘inward’ disposition with which a right action is done, we may say that

it has done a service to Ethics. But it should be noticed that, when

Christian Ethics, as represented by the New Testament, are praised for

this, two distinctions of the utmost importance, which they entirely

neglect, are very commonly overlooked. In the first place the New

Testament is largely occupied with continuing the tradition of the

Hebrew prophets, by recommending such virtues as ‘justice’ and ‘mercy’

as against mere ritual observances; and, in so far as it does this, it

is recommending virtues which may be _merely_ good as means, exactly

like the Aristotelian virtues. This characteristic of its teaching must

therefore be rigorously distinguished from that which consists in its

enforcement of such a view as that to be angry without a cause is as

bad as actually to commit murder. And, in the second place, though the

New Testament does praise some things which are only good as means, and

others which are good in themselves, it entirely fails to recognise

this distinction. Though the state of the man who is angry may be

really as bad in itself as that of the murderer, and so far Christ

may be right, His language would lead us to suppose that it is _also_

as bad in every way, that it _also causes_ as much evil: and this is

utterly false. In short, when Christian Ethics approves, it does not

distinguish whether its approval asserts ‘This is a means to good’ or

‘This is good in itself’; and hence it both praises things merely good

as means, as if they were good in themselves, and things merely good in

themselves as if they were also good as means. Moreover it should be

noticed, that if Christian Ethics does draw attention to those elements

in virtues which are good in themselves, it is by no means alone in

this. The Ethics of Plato are distinguished by upholding, far more

clearly and consistently than any other system, the view that intrinsic

value belongs exclusively to those states of mind which consist in love

of what is good or hatred of what is evil.

=108.= But (_c_) the Ethics of Christianity are distinguished from

those of Plato by emphasizing the value of one particular motive--that

which consists in the emotion excited by the idea, not of any

intrinsically good consequences of the action in question, nor even

of the action itself, but by that of its rightness. This idea of

abstract ‘rightness’ and the various degrees of the specific emotion

excited by it are what constitute the specifically ‘moral sentiment’ or

‘conscience.’ An action seems to be most properly termed ‘internally

right[23],’ solely in virtue of the fact that the agent has previously

regarded it as right: the idea of ‘rightness’ must have been present

to his mind, but need not necessarily have been among his motives. And

we mean by a ‘conscientious’ man, one who, when he deliberates, always

has this idea in his mind, and does not act until he believes that his

action is right.

[23] This sense of the term must be carefully distinguished from

that in which the agent’s intention may be said to be ‘right,’ if

only the results he intended would have been the best possible.

The presence of this idea and its action as a motive certainly seem

to have become more common objects of notice and commendation owing

to the influence of Christianity; but it is important to observe

that there is no ground for the view, which Kant implies, that it is

the _only_ motive which the New Testament regards as intrinsically

valuable. There seems little doubt that when Christ tells us to ‘Love

our neighbours as ourselves,’ He did not mean merely what Kant calls

‘practical love‘--beneficence of which the _sole_ motive is the idea of

its rightness, or the emotion caused by that idea. Among the ‘inward

dispositions’ of which the New Testament inculcates the value, there

are certainly included what Kant terms mere ‘natural inclinations,’

such as pity, etc.

But what are we to say of virtue, when it consists in a disposition to

be moved to the performance of duties by this idea? It seems difficult

to deny that the emotion excited by rightness as such has some

intrinsic value; and still more difficult to deny that its presence

may heighten the value of some wholes into which it enters. But, on

the other hand, it certainly has not more value than many of the

motives treated in our last section--emotions of love towards things

really good in themselves. And as for Kant’s implication that it is

the sole good[24], this is inconsistent with other of his own views.

For he certainly regards it as _better_ to perform the actions, to

which he maintains that it prompts us--namely, ‘material’ duties--than

to omit them. But, if better at all, then, these actions must be

better either in themselves or as a means. The former hypothesis would

directly contradict the statement that this motive was _sole_ good,

and the latter is excluded by Kant himself since he maintains that

no actions can _cause_ the existence of this motive. And it may also

be observed that the other claim which he makes for it, namely, that

it is _always_ good as a means, can also not be maintained. It is as

certain as anything can be that very harmful actions may be done from

conscientious motives; and that Conscience does not always tell us the

truth about what actions are right. Nor can it be maintained even that

it is _more_ useful than many other motives. All that can be admitted

is that it is one of the things which are generally useful.

[24] Kant, so far as I know, never expressly states this view,

but it is implied _e.g._ in his argument against Heteronomy.

What more I have to say with regard to those elements in some virtues

which are good in themselves, and with regard to their relative degrees

of excellence, as well as the proof that all of them together cannot be

the sole good, may be deferred to the next chapter.

=109.= The main points in this chapter, to which I desire to direct

attention, may be summarised as follows:--(1) I first pointed out how

the subject-matter with which it deals, namely, ethical judgments

on conduct, involves a question, utterly different in kind from the

two previously discussed, namely: (_a_) What is the nature of the

predicate peculiar to Ethics? and (_b_) What kinds of things themselves

possess this predicate? Practical Ethics asks, not ‘What ought to be?’

but ‘What ought we to do?’; it asks what actions are _duties_, what

actions are _right_, and what _wrong_: and all these questions can

only be answered by shewing the relation of the actions in question,

as _causes_ or _necessary conditions_, to what is good in itself. The

enquiries of Practical Ethics thus fall entirely under the _third_

division of ethical questions--questions which ask, ‘What is good as

a means?’ which is equivalent to ‘What is a means to good--what is

cause or necessary condition of things good in themselves?’ (86-88).

But (2) it asks this question, almost exclusively, with regard to

actions which it is possible for most men to perform, if only they

_will_ them; and with regard to these, it does not ask merely, which

among them will have _some_ good or bad result, but which, among all

the actions possible to volition at any moment, will produce the best

_total_ result. To assert that an action is a duty, is to assert that

it is such a possible action, which will _always_, in certain known

circumstances, produce better results than any other. It follows that

universal propositions of which duty is predicate, so far from being

self-evident, always require a proof, which it is beyond our present

means of knowledge ever to give (89-92). But (3) all that Ethics has

attempted or can attempt, is to shew that certain actions, possible by

volition, _generally_ produce better or worse total results than any

probable alternative: and it must obviously be very difficult to shew

this with regard to the total results even in a comparatively near

future; whereas that what has the best results in such a near future,

also has the best on the whole, is a point requiring an investigation

which it has not received. If it is true, and if, accordingly, we give

the name of ‘duty’ to actions which _generally_ produce better total

results in the near future than any possible alternative, it may be

possible to prove that a few of the commonest rules of duty are true,

but _only_ in certain conditions of society, which may be more or less

universally presented in history; and such a proof is only possible

_in some cases_ without a correct judgment of what things are good

or bad in themselves--a judgment which has never yet been offered by

ethical writers. With regard to actions of which the _general_ utility

is thus proved, the individual should _always_ perform them; but in

other cases, where rules are commonly offered, he should rather judge

of the probable results in his particular case, guided by a correct

conception of what things are intrinsically good or bad (93-100).

(4) In order that any action may be shewn to be a duty, it must be

shewn to fulfil the above conditions; but the actions commonly called

‘duties’ do not fulfil them to any greater extent than ‘expedient’

or ‘interested’ actions: by calling them ‘duties’ we only mean that

they have, _in addition_, certain non-ethical predicates. Similarly by

‘virtue’ is mainly meant a permanent disposition to perform ‘duties’

in this restricted sense: and accordingly a virtue, if it is really

a virtue, must be good _as a means_, in the sense that it fulfils the

above conditions; but it is not _better_ as a means than non-virtuous

dispositions; it generally has no value in itself; and, where it has,

it is far from being the sole good or the best of goods. Accordingly

‘virtue’ is not, as is commonly implied, an unique _ethical_ predicate

(101-109).

CHAPTER VI.

THE IDEAL.

=110.= The title of this chapter is ambiguous. When we call a state of

things ‘ideal’ we may mean three distinct things, which have only this

in common: that we always do mean to assert, of the state of things in

question, not only that it is good in itself, but that it is good in

itself in a much higher degree than many other things. The first of

these meanings of ‘ideal’ is (1) that to which the phrase ‘_The_ Ideal’

is most properly confined. By this is meant the _best_ state of things

_conceivable_, the Summum Bonum or Absolute Good. It is in this sense

that a right conception of Heaven would be a right conception of the

Ideal: we mean by the Ideal a state of things which would be absolutely

perfect. But this conception may be quite clearly distinguished from a

second, namely, (2) that of the best _possible_ state of things in this

world. This second conception may be identified with that which has

frequently figured in philosophy as the ‘Human Good,’ or the _ultimate_

end towards which our action should be directed. It is in this sense

that Utopias are said to be Ideals. The constructor of an Utopia may

suppose many things to be possible, which are in fact impossible; but

he always assumes that some things, at least, are rendered impossible

by natural laws, and hence his construction differs essentially

from one which may disregard _all_ natural laws, however certainly

established. At all events the question ‘What is the best state of

things which we could _possibly_ bring about?’ is quite distinct from

the question ‘What would be the best state of things conceivable?’

But, thirdly, we may mean by calling a state of things ‘ideal’ merely

(3) that it is good in itself in a high degree. And it is obvious that

the question what things are ‘ideal’ in this sense is one which must

be answered before we can pretend to settle what is the Absolute or

the Human Good. It is with the Ideal, in this third sense, that this

chapter will be principally concerned. Its main object is to arrive

at some positive answer to the fundamental question of Ethics--the

question: ‘What things are goods or ends in themselves?’ To this

question we have hitherto obtained only a negative answer: the answer

that pleasure is certainly not the _sole_ good.

=111.= I have just said that it is upon a correct answer to this

question that correct answers to the two other questions, What is the

Absolute Good? and What is the Human Good? must depend; and, before

proceeding to discuss it, it may be well to point out the relation

which it has to these two questions.

(1) It is just possible that the Absolute Good may be entirely

composed of qualities which we cannot even imagine. This is possible,

because, though we certainly do know a great many things that are

good-in-themselves, and good in a high degree, yet what is best does

not necessarily contain all the good things there are. That this is so

follows from the principle explained in Chap. I. (§§ 18-22), to which

it was there proposed that the name ‘principle of organic unities’

should be confined. This principle is that the intrinsic value of a

whole is neither identical with nor proportional to the sum of the

values of its parts. It follows from this that, though in order to

obtain the greatest possible sum of values in its parts, the Ideal

would necessarily contain all the things which have intrinsic value in

any degree, yet the whole which contained all these parts might not be

so valuable as some other whole, from which certain positive goods were

omitted. But if a whole, which does not contain all positive goods, may

yet be better than a whole which does, it follows that the best whole

_may_ be one, which contains _none_ of the positive goods with which we

are acquainted.

It is, therefore, _possible_ that we cannot discover what the Ideal

is. But it is plain that, though this possibility cannot be denied,

no one can have any right to assert that it is realised--that the

Ideal _is_ something unimaginable. We cannot judge of the comparative

values of things, unless the things we judge are before our minds. We

cannot, therefore, be entitled to assert that anything, which we cannot

imagine, would be better than some of the things which we can; although

we are also not entitled to deny the possibility that this may be the

case. Consequently our search for the Ideal must be limited to a search

for that one, among all the wholes composed of elements known to us,

which seems to be better than all the rest. We shall never be entitled

to assert that this whole is Perfection, but we shall be entitled to

assert that it is _better_ than any other which may be presented as a

rival.

But, since anything which we can have any _reason_ to think ideal

must be composed of things that are known to us, it is plain that

a comparative valuation of these must be our chief instrument

for deciding what is ideal. The best ideal we can construct will

be that state of things which contains the greatest number of

things having positive value, and which contains nothing evil or

indifferent--_provided_ that the presence of none of these goods,

or the absence of things evil or indifferent, seems to diminish the

value of the whole. And, in fact, the chief defect of such attempts as

have been made by philosophers to construct an Ideal--to describe the

Kingdom of Heaven--seems to consist in the fact that they omit many

things of very great positive value, although it is plain that this

omission does _not_ enhance the value of the whole. Where this is the

case, it may be confidently asserted that the ideal proposed is not

ideal. And the review of positive goods, which I am about to undertake,

will, I hope, shew that no ideals yet proposed are satisfactory. Great

positive goods, it will appear, are so numerous, that any whole,

which shall contain them all, must be of vast complexity. And though

this fact renders it difficult, or, humanly speaking, impossible, to

decide what is The Ideal, what is the absolutely best state of things

imaginable, it is sufficient to condemn those Ideals, which are formed

by omission, without any visible gain in consequence of such omission.

Philosophers seem usually to have sought only for the _best_ of single

things; neglecting the fact that a whole composed of two great goods,

even though one of these be obviously inferior to the other, may yet be

often seen to be decidedly superior to either by itself.

(2) On the other hand, Utopias--attempted descriptions of a Heaven

upon Earth--commonly suffer not only from this, but also from the

opposite defect. They are commonly constructed on the principle of

merely omitting the great positive evils, which exist at present, with

utterly inadequate regard to the goodness of what they retain: the

so-called goods, to which they have regard, are, for the most part,

things which are, at best, mere means to good--things, such as freedom,

_without_ which, possibly, nothing very good can exist in this world,

but which are of no value in themselves and are by no means certain

even to produce anything of value. It is, of course, necessary to the

purpose of their authors, whose object is merely to construct the

best that may be possible in this world, that they should include,

in the state of things which they describe, many things, which are

themselves indifferent, but which, according to natural laws, seem

to be absolutely necessary for the existence of anything which is

good. But, in fact, they are apt to include many things, of which

the necessity is by no means apparent, under the mistaken idea that

these things are goods-in-themselves, and not merely, here and now,

a means to good: while, on the other hand, they also omit from their

description great positive goods, of which the attainment seems to be

quite as possible as many of the changes which they recommend. That

is to say, conceptions of the Human Good commonly err, not only, like

those of the Absolute Good, in omitting some great goods, but also by

including things indifferent; and they both omit and include in cases

where the limitations of natural necessity, by the consideration of

which they are legitimately differentiated from conceptions of the

Absolute Good, will not justify the omission and inclusion. It is, in

fact, obvious that in order to decide correctly at what state of things

we ought to aim, we must not only consider what results it is possible

for us to obtain, but also which, among equally possible results, will

have the greatest value. And upon this second enquiry the comparative

valuation of known goods has a no less important bearing than upon the

investigation of the Absolute Good.

=112.= The method which must be employed in order to decide the

question ‘What things have intrinsic value, and in what degrees?’

has already been explained in Chap. III. (§§ 55, 57). In order to

arrive at a correct decision on the first part of this question, it is

necessary to consider what things are such that, if they existed _by

themselves_, in absolute isolation, we should yet judge their existence

to be good; and, in order to decide upon the relative _degrees_ of

value of different things, we must similarly consider what comparative

value seems to attach to the isolated existence of each. By employing

this method, we shall guard against two errors, which seem to have

been the chief causes which have vitiated previous conclusions on the

subject. The first of these is (1) that which consists in supposing

that what seems absolutely necessary here and now, for the existence of

anything good--what we cannot do without--is therefore good in itself.

If we isolate such things, which are mere means to good, and suppose

a world in which they alone, and nothing but they, existed, their

intrinsic worthlessness becomes apparent. And, secondly, there is the

more subtle error (2) which consists in neglecting the principle of

organic unities. This error is committed, when it is supposed, that,

if one part of a whole has no intrinsic value, the value of the whole

must reside entirely in the other parts. It has, in this way, been

commonly supposed, that, if all valuable wholes could be seen to have

one and only one common property, the wholes must be valuable solely

_because_ they possess this property; and the illusion is greatly

strengthened, if the common property in question seems, considered

by itself, to have more value than the other parts of such wholes,

considered by themselves. But, if we consider the property in question,

_in isolation_, and then compare it with the whole, of which it forms

a part, it may become easily apparent that, existing by itself, the

property in question has not nearly so much value, as has the whole to

which it belongs. Thus, if we compare the value of a certain amount of

pleasure, _existing absolutely by itself_, with the value of certain

‘enjoyments,’ containing an equal amount of pleasure, it may become

apparent that the ‘enjoyment’ is much better than the pleasure, and

also, in some cases, much worse. In such a case it is plain that the

‘enjoyment’ does _not_ owe its value _solely_ to the pleasure it

contains, although it might easily have appeared to do so, when we

only considered the other constituents of the enjoyment, and seemed

to see that, without the pleasure, they would have had no value. It

is now apparent, on the contrary, that the whole ‘enjoyment’ owes its

value quite equally to the presence of the other constituents, _even

though_ it may be true that the pleasure is the only constituent having

any value by itself. And similarly, if we are told that all things

owe their value solely to the fact that they are ‘realisations of the

true self,’ we may easily refute this statement, by asking whether the

predicate that is meant by ‘realising the true self,’ supposing that it

could exist alone, would have any value whatsoever. Either the _thing_,

which does ‘realise the true self,’ has intrinsic value or it has not;

and if it has, then it certainly does not owe its value solely to the

fact that it realises the true self.

=113.= If, now, we use this method of absolute isolation, and guard

against these errors, it appears that the question we have to answer

is far less difficult than the controversies of Ethics might have led

us to expect. Indeed, once the meaning of the question is clearly

understood, the answer to it, in its main outlines, appears to be so

obvious, that it runs the risk of seeming to be a platitude. By far the

most valuable things, which we know or can imagine, are certain states

of consciousness, which may be roughly described as the pleasures of

human intercourse and the enjoyment of beautiful objects. No one,

probably, who has asked himself the question, has ever doubted that

personal affection and the appreciation of what is beautiful in Art

or Nature, are good in themselves; nor, if we consider strictly what

things are worth having _purely for their own sakes_, does it appear

probable that any one will think that anything else has _nearly_ so

great a value as the things which are included under these two heads.

I have myself urged in Chap. III. (§ 50) that the mere existence of

what is beautiful does appear to have _some_ intrinsic value; but I

regard it as indubitable that Prof. Sidgwick was so far right, in the

view there discussed, that such mere existence of what is beautiful

has value, so small as to be negligible, in comparison with that which

attaches to the _consciousness_ of beauty. This simple truth may,

indeed, be said to be universally recognised. What has _not_ been

recognised is that it is the ultimate and fundamental truth of Moral

Philosophy. That it is only for the sake of these things--in order that

as much of them as possible may at some time exist--that any one can

be justified in performing any public or private duty; that they are

the _raison d’être_ of virtue; that it is they--these complex wholes

_themselves_, and not any constituent or characteristic of them--that

form the rational ultimate end of human action and the sole criterion

of social progress: these appear to be truths which have been generally

overlooked.

That they are truths--that personal affections and aesthetic enjoyments

include _all_ the greatest, and _by far_ the greatest, goods we can

imagine, will, I hope, appear more plainly in the course of that

analysis of them, to which I shall now proceed. All the things, which I

have meant to include under the above descriptions, are highly complex

_organic unities_; and in discussing the consequences, which follow

from this fact, and the elements of which they are composed, I may hope

at the same time both to confirm and to define my position.

=114.= I. I propose to begin by examining what I have called aesthetic

enjoyments, since the case of personal affections presents some

additional complications. It is, I think, universally admitted that the

proper appreciation of a beautiful object is a good thing in itself;

and my question is: What are the main elements included in such an

appreciation?

(1) It is plain that in those instances of aesthetic appreciation,

which we think most valuable, there is included, not merely a bare

cognition of what is beautiful in the object, but also some kind of

feeling or emotion. It is not sufficient that a man should merely see

the beautiful qualities in a picture and know that they are beautiful,

in order that we may give his state of mind the highest praise. We

require that he should also _appreciate_ the beauty of that which he

sees and which he knows to be beautiful--that he should feel and see

_its beauty_. And by these expressions we certainly mean that he should

have an appropriate emotion towards the beautiful qualities which he

cognises. It is perhaps the case that all aesthetic emotions have some

common quality; but it is certain that differences in the emotion seem

to be appropriate to differences in the kind of beauty perceived: and

by saying that different emotions are _appropriate_ to different kinds

of beauty, we mean that the whole which is formed by the consciousness

of that kind of beauty _together with_ the emotion appropriate to it,

is better than if any other emotion had been felt in contemplating that

particular beautiful object. Accordingly we have a large variety of

different emotions, each of which is a necessary constituent in some

state of consciousness which we judge to be good. All of these emotions

are essential elements in great positive goods; they are _parts_ of

organic wholes, which have great intrinsic value. But it is important

to observe that these wholes are organic, and that, hence, it does not

follow that the emotion, _by itself_, would have any value whatsoever,

nor yet that, if it were directed to a different object, the whole thus

formed might not be positively bad. And, in fact, it seems to be the

case that if we distinguish the emotional element, in any aesthetic

appreciation, from the cognitive element, which accompanies it and

is, in fact, commonly thought of as a part of the emotion; and if

we consider what value this emotional element would have, _existing

by itself_, we can hardly think that it has any great value, even

if it has any at all. Whereas, if the same emotion be directed to a

different object, if, for instance, it is felt towards an object that

is positively ugly, the whole state of consciousness is certainly often

positively bad in a high degree.

=115.= (2) In the last paragraph I have pointed out the two facts,

that the presence of some emotion is necessary to give any very high

value to a state of aesthetic appreciation, and that, on the other

hand, this same emotion, in itself, may have little or no value: it

follows that these emotions give to the wholes of which they form a

part a value far greater than that which they themselves possess.

The same is obviously true of the cognitive element which must be

combined with these emotions in order to form these highly valuable

wholes; and the present paragraph will attempt to define what is meant

by this cognitive element, so far as to guard against a possible

misunderstanding. When we talk of seeing a beautiful object, or, more

generally, of the cognition or consciousness of a beautiful object,

we may mean by these expressions something which forms no part of

any valuable whole. There is an ambiguity in the use of the term

‘object,’ which has probably been responsible for as many enormous

errors in philosophy and psychology as any other single cause. This

ambiguity may easily be detected by considering the proposition, which,

though a contradiction in terms, is obviously true: That when a man

sees a beautiful picture, he may see nothing beautiful whatever. The

ambiguity consists in the fact that, by the ‘object’ of vision (or

cognition), may be meant _either_ the qualities actually seen _or_ all

the qualities possessed by the thing seen. Thus in our case: when it

is said that the picture is beautiful, it is meant that it contains

qualities which are beautiful; when it is said that the man sees the

picture, it is meant that he sees a great number of the qualities

contained in the picture; and when it is said that, nevertheless,

he sees nothing beautiful, it is meant that he does _not_ see those

qualities of the picture which are beautiful. When, therefore, I speak

of the cognition of a beautiful object, as an essential element in a

valuable aesthetic appreciation, I must be understood to mean only the

cognition of _the beautiful qualities_ possessed by that object, and

_not_ the cognition of other qualities of the object possessing them.

And this distinction must itself be carefully distinguished from the

other distinction expressed above by the distinct terms ‘seeing the

beauty of a thing’ and ‘seeing its beautiful qualities.’ By ‘seeing

the beauty of a thing’ we commonly mean the having an emotion towards

its beautiful qualities; whereas in the ‘seeing of its beautiful

qualities’ we do not include any emotion. By the cognitive element,

which is equally necessary with emotion to the existence of a valuable

appreciation, I mean merely the actual cognition or consciousness of

any or all of an object’s _beautiful qualities_--that is to say any or

all of those elements in the object which possess any positive beauty.

That such a cognitive element is essential to a valuable whole may be

easily seen, by asking: What value should we attribute to the proper

emotion excited by hearing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, if that emotion

were entirely unaccompanied by any consciousness, either of the notes,

or of the melodic and harmonic relations between them? And that the

mere _hearing_ of the Symphony, even accompanied by the appropriate

emotion, is not sufficient, may be easily seen, if we consider what

would be the state of a man, who should hear all the notes, but should

_not_ be aware of any of those melodic and harmonic relations, which

are necessary to constitute the smallest beautiful elements in the

Symphony.

=116.= (3) Connected with the distinction just made between ‘object’

in the sense of the qualities actually before the mind, and ‘object’

in the sense of the whole thing which possesses the qualities actually

before the mind, is another distinction of the utmost importance for

a correct analysis of the constituents necessary to a valuable whole.

It is commonly and rightly thought that to see beauty in a thing which

has no beauty is in some way inferior to seeing beauty in that which

really has it. But under this single description of ‘seeing beauty

in that which has no beauty,’ two very different facts, and facts

of very different value, may be included. We may mean _either_ the

attribution to an object of really beautiful qualities which it does

not possess _or_ the feeling towards qualities, which the object does

possess but which are in reality not beautiful, an emotion which is

appropriate only to qualities really beautiful. Both these facts are

of very frequent occurrence; and in most instances of emotion both

no doubt occur together: but they are obviously quite distinct, and

the distinction is of the utmost importance for a correct estimate of

values. The former may be called an error of judgment, and the latter

an error of taste; but it is important to observe that the ‘error

of taste’ commonly involves a false judgment _of value_; whereas the

‘error of judgment’ is merely a false judgment _of fact_.

Now the case which I have called an error of taste, namely, where the

actual qualities we admire (whether possessed by the ‘object’ or not)

are ugly, can in any case have no value, except such as may belong

to the emotion _by itself_; and in most, if not in all, cases it is

a considerable positive evil. In this sense, then, it is undoubtedly

right to think that seeing beauty in a thing which has no beauty is

inferior in value to seeing beauty where beauty really is. But the

other case is much more difficult. In this case there is present all

that I have hitherto mentioned as necessary to constitute a great

positive good: there is a cognition of qualities really beautiful,

together with an appropriate emotion towards these qualities. There

can, therefore, be no doubt that we have here a great positive good.

But there is present also something else; namely, a belief that these

beautiful qualities exist, and that they exist in a certain relation

to other things--namely, to some properties of the object to which

we attribute these qualities: and further the object of this belief

is false. And we may ask, with regard to the whole thus constituted,

whether the presence of the belief, and the fact that what is believed

is false, make any difference to its value? We thus get three different

cases of which it is very important to determine the relative values.

Where both the cognition of beautiful qualities and the appropriate

emotion are present we may _also_ have either, (1) a belief in the

existence of these qualities, of which the object, _i.e._ that they

exist, is true: or (2) a mere cognition, without belief, when it is

(_a_) true, (_b_) false, that the object of the cognition, _i.e._ the

beautiful qualities, exists: or (3) a belief in the existence of the

beautiful qualities, when they do not exist. The importance of these

cases arises from the fact that the second defines the pleasures of

imagination, including a great part of the appreciation of those

works of art which are _representative_; whereas the first contrasts

with these the appreciation of what is beautiful in Nature, and the

human affections. The third, on the other hand, is contrasted with

both, in that it is chiefly exemplified in what is called misdirected

affection; and it is possible also that the love of God, in the case of

a believer, should fall under this head.

=117.= Now all these three cases, as I have said, have something in

common, namely, that, in them all, we have a cognition of really

beautiful qualities together with an appropriate emotion towards

those qualities. I think, therefore, it cannot be doubted (nor is it

commonly doubted) that all three include great positive goods; they

are all things of which we feel convinced that they are worth having

for their own sakes. And I think that the value of the second, in

either of its two subdivisions, is precisely the same as the value

of the element common to all three. In other words, in the case of

purely imaginative appreciations we have merely the cognition of really

beautiful qualities together with the appropriate emotion; and the

question, whether the object cognised exists or not, seems here, where

there is no belief either in its existence or in its non-existence, to

make absolutely no difference to the value of the total state. But it

seems to me that the two other cases do differ in intrinsic value both

from this one and from one another, even though the object cognised and

the appropriate emotion should be identical in all three cases. I think

that the additional presence of a belief in the reality of the object

makes the total state much better, if the belief is true; and worse,

if the belief is false. In short, where there is belief, in the sense

in which we _do_ believe in the existence of Nature and horses, and do

_not_ believe in the existence of an ideal landscape and unicorns, the

_truth_ of what is believed does make a great difference to the value

of the organic whole. If this be the case, we shall have vindicated

the belief that _knowledge_, in the ordinary sense, as distinguished

on the one hand from belief in what is false and on the other from

the mere awareness of what is true, does contribute towards intrinsic

value--that, at least in some cases, its presence as a part makes a

whole more valuable than it could have been without.