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THE METHODS OF ETHICS
Ἢ οὐ γελοῖον ἐπὶ μὲν ἄλλοις σμικροῦ ἀξίοις πᾶν ποιεῖν συντεινομένους,
ὅπως ὄτι ἀκριβέστατα καὶ καθαρώτατα ἕξει, τῶν δὲ μεγίστων μὴ μεγίστας
ἀξιοῦν εἶναι καὶ τὰς ἀκριβείας;--PLATO.
THE
METHODS OF ETHICS
BY
HENRY SIDGWICK
SOMETIME KNIGHTBRIDGE PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
_SEVENTH EDITION_
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1907
[_The Right of Translation is reserved._]
_First Edition 1874._
_Second Edition 1877._
_Third Edition 1884._
_Fourth Edition 1890._
_Fifth Edition 1893._
_Sixth Edition 1901._
_Seventh Edition 1907._
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
In offering to the public a new book upon a subject so trite as Ethics,
it seems desirable to indicate clearly at the outset its plan and
purpose. Its distinctive characteristics may be first given negatively.
It is not, in the main, metaphysical or psychological: at the same time
it is not dogmatic or directly practical: it does not deal, except by
way of illustration, with the history of ethical thought: in a sense
it might be said to be not even critical, since it is only quite
incidentally that it offers any criticism of the systems of individual
moralists. It claims to be an examination, at once expository and
critical, of the different methods of obtaining reasoned convictions
as to what ought to be done which are to be found--either explicit
or implicit--in the moral consciousness of mankind generally: and
which, from time to time, have been developed, either singly or in
combination, by individual thinkers, and worked up into the systems now
historical.
I have avoided the inquiry into the Origin of the Moral Faculty--which
has perhaps occupied a disproportionate amount of the attention of
modern moralists--by the simple assumption (which seems to be made
implicitly in all ethical reasoning) that there is something[1] under
any given circumstances which it is right or reasonable to do, and that
this may be known. If it be admitted that we now have the faculty of
knowing this, it appears to me that the investigation of the historical
antecedents of this cognition, and of its relation to other elements
of the mind, no more properly belongs to Ethics than the corresponding
questions as to the cognition of Space belong to Geometry.[2] I make,
however, no further assumption as to the nature of the object of
ethical knowledge: and hence my treatise is not dogmatic: all the
different methods developed in it are expounded and criticised from a
neutral position, and as impartially as possible. And thus, though my
treatment of the subject is, in a sense, more practical than that of
many moralists, since I am occupied from first to last in considering
how conclusions are to be rationally reached in the familiar matter
of our common daily life and actual practice; still, my immediate
object--to invert Aristotle’s phrase--is not Practice but Knowledge.
I have thought that the predominance in the minds of moralists of a
desire to edify has impeded the real progress of ethical science:
and that this would be benefited by an application to it of the same
disinterested curiosity to which we chiefly owe the great discoveries
of physics. It is in this spirit that I have endeavoured to compose
the present work: and with this view I have desired to concentrate the
reader’s attention, from first to last, not on the practical results to
which our methods lead, but on the methods themselves. I have wished
to put aside temporarily the urgent need which we all feel of finding
and adopting the true method of determining what we ought to do; and to
consider simply what conclusions will be rationally reached if we start
with certain ethical premises, and with what degree of certainty and
precision.
I ought to mention that chapter iv. of Book i. has been reprinted (with
considerable modifications) from the _Contemporary Review_, in which
it originally appeared as an article on “Pleasure and Desire.” And I
cannot conclude without a tribute of thanks to my friend Mr. Venn, to
whose kindness in accepting the somewhat laborious task of reading and
criticising my work, both before and during its passage through the
press, I am indebted for several improvements in my exposition.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
In preparing this work for the second edition, I have found it
desirable to make numerous alterations and additions. Indeed the extent
which these have reached is so considerable, that I have thought it
well to publish them in a separate form, for the use of purchasers
of my first edition. On one or two points I have to acknowledge a
certain change of view; which is partly at least due to criticism. For
instance, in chap. iv. of Book i. (on “Pleasure and Desire”), which has
been a good deal criticised by Prof. Bain and others, although I still
retain my former opinion on the psychological question at issue, I have
been led to take a different view of the relation of this question
to Ethics; and in fact § 1 of this chapter as it at present stands
directly contradicts the corresponding passage in the former edition.
So again, as regards the following chapter, on ‘Free-Will,’ though I
have not exactly found that the comments which it has called forth have
removed my difficulties in dealing with this time-honoured problem,
I have become convinced that I ought not to have crudely obtruded
these difficulties on the reader, while professedly excluding the
consideration of them from my subject. In the present edition therefore
I have carefully limited myself to explaining and justifying the view
that I take of the practical aspect of the question. I have further
been led, through study of the Theory of Evolution in its application
to practice, to attach somewhat more importance to this theory than I
had previously done; and also in several passages of Books iii. and iv.
to substitute ‘well-being’ for ‘happiness,’ in my exposition of that
implicit reference to some further end and standard which reflection on
the Morality of Common Sense continually brings into view. This latter
change however (as I explain in the concluding chapter of Book iii.) is
not ultimately found to have any practical effect. I have also modified
my view of ‘objective rightness,’ as the reader will see by comparing
Book i. chap. i. § 3 with the corresponding passage in the former
edition; but here again the alteration has no material importance.
In my exposition of the Utilitarian principle (Book iv. chap. i.) I
have shortened the cumbrous phrase ‘greatest happiness of the greatest
number’ by omitting--as its author ultimately advised--the last four
words. And finally, I have yielded as far as I could to the objections
that have been strongly urged against the concluding chapter of the
treatise. The main discussion therein contained still seems to me
indispensable to the completeness of the work; but I have endeavoured
to give the chapter a new aspect by altering its commencement, and
omitting most of the concluding paragraph.
The greater part, however, of the new matter in this edition is merely
explanatory and supplementary. I have endeavoured to give a fuller
and clearer account of my views on any points on which I either have
myself seen them to be ambiguously or inadequately expressed, or have
found by experience that they were liable to be misunderstood. Thus in
Book i. chap. ii. I have tried to furnish a rather more instructive
account than my first edition contained of the mutual relations of
Ethics and Politics. Again, even before the appearance of Mr. Leslie
Stephen’s interesting review in _Fraser_ (March 1875), I had seen the
desirability of explaining further my general view of the ‘Practical
Reason,’ and of the fundamental notion signified by the terms ‘right,’
‘ought,’ etc. With this object I have entirely rewritten chap. iii.
of Book i., and made considerable changes in chap. i. Elsewhere,
as in chaps. vi. and ix. of Book i., and chap. vi. of Book ii., I
have altered chiefly in order to make my expositions more clear and
symmetrical. This is partly the case with the considerable changes that
I have made in the first three chapters of Book iii.; but I have also
tried to obviate the objections brought by Professor Calderwood[3]
against the first of these chapters. The main part of this Book
(chaps. iv.-xii.) has been but slightly altered; but in chap. xiii. (on
‘Philosophical Intuitionism’), which has been suggestively criticised
by more than one writer, I have thought it expedient to give a more
direct statement of my own opinions; instead of confining myself (as
I did in the first edition) to comments on those of other moralists.
Chap. xiv. again has been considerably modified; chiefly in order to
introduce into it the substance of certain portions of an article
on ‘Hedonism and Ultimate Good,’ which I published in _Mind_ (No.
5). In Book iv. the changes (besides those above mentioned) have
been inconsiderable; and have been chiefly made in order to remove a
misconception which I shall presently notice, as to my general attitude
towards the three Methods which I am principally occupied in examining.
In revising my work, I have endeavoured to profit as much as possible
by all the criticisms on it that have been brought to my notice,
whether public or private.[4] I have frequently deferred to objections,
even when they appeared to me unsound, if I thought I could avoid
controversy by alterations to which I was myself indifferent. Where I
have been unable to make the changes required, I have usually replied,
in the text or the notes, to such criticisms as have appeared to me
plausible, or in any way instructive. In so doing, I have sometimes
referred by name to opponents, where I thought that, from their
recognised position as teachers of the subject, this would give a
distinct addition of interest to the discussion; but I have been
careful to omit such reference where experience has shown that it would
be likely to cause offence. The book is already more controversial
than I could wish; and I have therefore avoided encumbering it with
any polemics of purely personal interest. For this reason I have
generally left unnoticed such criticisms as have been due to mere
misapprehensions, against which I thought I could effectually
guard in the present edition. There is, however, one fundamental
misunderstanding, on which it seems desirable to say a few words.
I find that more than one critic has overlooked or disregarded the
account of the plan of my treatise, given in the original preface and
in § 5 of the introductory chapter: and has consequently supposed me
to be writing as an assailant of two of the methods which I chiefly
examine, and a defender of the third. Thus one of my reviewers seems
to regard Book iii. (on Intuitionism) as containing mere hostile
criticism from the outside: another has constructed an article on
the supposition that my principal object is the ‘suppression of
Egoism’: a third has gone to the length of a pamphlet under the
impression (apparently) that the ‘main argument’ of my treatise is
a demonstration of Universalistic Hedonism. I am concerned to have
caused so much misdirection of criticism: and I have carefully altered
in this edition the passages which I perceive to have contributed to
it. The morality that I examine in Book iii. is my own morality as
much as it is any man’s: it is, as I say, the ‘Morality of Common
Sense,’ which I only attempt to represent in so far as I share it; I
only place myself outside it either (1) temporarily, for the purpose
of impartial criticism, or (2) in so far as I am forced beyond it by
a practical consciousness of its incompleteness. I have certainly
criticised this morality unsparingly: but I conceive myself to have
exposed with equal unreserve the defects and difficulties of the
hedonistic method (cf. especially chaps. iii., iv. of Book ii., and
chap. v. of Book iv.). And as regards the two hedonistic principles, I
do not hold the reasonableness of aiming at happiness generally with
any stronger conviction than I do that of aiming at one’s own. It was
no part of my plan to call special attention to this “Dualism of the
Practical Reason” as I have elsewhere called it: but I am surprised
at the extent to which my view has perplexed even those of my critics
who have understood it. I had imagined that they would readily trace
it to the source from which I learnt it, Butler’s well-known Sermons.
I hold with Butler that “Reasonable Self-love and Conscience are
the two chief or superior principles in the nature of man,” each of
which we are under a “manifest obligation” to obey: and I do not (I
believe) differ materially from Butler in my view either of reasonable
self-love, or--theology apart--of its relation to conscience. Nor,
again, do I differ from him in regarding conscience as essentially a
function of the practical Reason: “moral precepts,” he says in the
_Analogy_ (Part II. chap. viii.), “are precepts the reason of which
we see.” My difference only begins when I ask myself, ‘What among the
precepts of our common conscience do we really see to be ultimately
reasonable?’ a question which Butler does not seem to have seriously
put, and to which, at any rate, he has given no satisfactory answer.
The answer that I found to it supplied the rational basis that I had
long perceived to be wanting to the Utilitarianism of Bentham, regarded
as an ethical doctrine: and thus enabled me to transcend the commonly
received antithesis between Intuitionists and Utilitarians.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] I did not mean to exclude the supposition that two or more
alternatives might under certain circumstances be equally right (1884).
[2] This statement now appears to me to require a slight modification
(1884).
[3] Cf. _Mind_, No. 2.
[4] Among unpublished criticisms I ought especially to mention the
valuable suggestions that I have received from Mr. Carveth Read; to
whose assistance in revising the present edition many of my corrections
are due.
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
In this third edition I have again made extensive alterations,
and introduced a considerable amount of new matter. Some of these
changes and additions are due to modifications of my own ethical or
psychological views; but I do not think that any of these are of great
importance in relation to the main subject of the treatise. And by far
the largest part of the new matter introduced has been written either
(1) to remove obscurities, ambiguities, and minor inconsistencies
in the exposition of my views which the criticisms[5] of others or
my own reflection have enabled me to discover; or (2) to treat as
fully as seemed desirable certain parts or aspects of the subject
which I had either passed over altogether or discussed too slightly
in my previous editions, and on which it now appears to me important
to explain my opinions, either for the greater completeness of my
treatise,--according to my own view of the subject,--or for its better
adaptation to the present state of ethical thought in England. The most
important changes of the first kind have been made in chaps. i. and
ix. of Book i., chaps, i.-iii. of Book ii., and chaps. i., xiii., and
xiv. of Book iii.: under the second head I may mention the discussions
of the relation of intellect to moral action in Book i. chap. iii., of
volition in Book i. chap. v., of the causes of pleasure and pain in
Book ii. chap. vi., of the notion of virtue in the morality of Common
Sense in Book iii. chap. ii., and of evolutional ethics in Book iv.
chap. iv. (chiefly).
I may add that all the important alterations and additions have been
published in a separate form, for the use of purchasers of my second
edition.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] I must here acknowledge the advantage that I have received from
the remarks and questions of my pupils, and from criticisms privately
communicated to me by others; among these latter I ought especially to
mention an instructive examination of my fundamental doctrines by the
Rev. Hastings Rashdall.
PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION
The chief alterations in this fourth edition are the following. (1) I
have expanded the discussion on Free Will in Book i. chap. v. § 3, to
meet the criticisms of Mr. Fowler, in his _Principles of Morals_, and
Dr. Martineau, in his _Types of Ethical Theory_. (2) In consequence
of the publication of the last-mentioned work, I have rewritten
part of chap. xii. of Book iii., which deals with the Ethical view
maintained by Dr. Martineau. (3) I have expanded the argument in
Book iii. chap. xiv., to meet objections ably urged by Mr. Rashdall
in _Mind_ (April 1885). (4) I have somewhat altered the concluding
chapter, in consequence of an important criticism by Prof. v. Gizycki
(_Vierteljahrsschrift für Wissenschaftliche Philosophie_, Jahrg. iv.
Heft i.) which I had inadvertently overlooked in preparing the third
edition. Several pages of new matter have thus been introduced: for
which--I am glad to say--I have made room by shortening what seemed
prolix, omitting what seemed superfluous, and relegating digressions to
notes, in other parts of the work: so that the bulk of the whole is not
increased.
For the index which forms a new feature in the present edition I am
indebted to the kindness of Miss Jones of Girton College, the author of
_Elements of Logic as a Science of Propositions_.
PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION
Such criticisms of my Ethical opinions and reasonings as have come
under my notice, since the publication of the fourth edition of this
treatise, have chiefly related to my treatment of the question of
Free Will in Book i. chap. v., or to the hedonistic view of Ultimate
Good, maintained in Book iii. chap. iv. I have accordingly rewritten
certain parts of these two chapters, in the hope of making my arguments
more clear and convincing: in each case a slight change in view will
be apparent to a careful reader who compares the present with the
preceding edition: but in neither case does the change affect the
main substance of the argument. Alterations, in one or two cases not
inconsiderable, have been made in several other chapters, especially
Book i. chap. ii., and Book iii. chaps. i. and ii.: but they have
chiefly aimed at removing defects of exposition, and do not (I think)
in any case imply any material change of view.
My thanks are again due to Miss Jones, of Girton College, for reading
through the proofs of this edition and making most useful corrections
and suggestions: as well as for revising the index which she kindly
made for the fourth edition.
PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION
The revision of _The Methods of Ethics_ for this edition was begun by
Professor Sidgwick and carried through by him up to p. 276, on which
the last of his corrections on the copy were made. The latter portion
of his revision was done under the pressure of severe illness, the
increase of which prevented him from continuing it beyond the point
mentioned; and by the calamity of his death the rest of the book
remains without the final touches which it might have received from his
hand. In accordance with his wish, I have seen pp. 277 to 509 through
the press unchanged--except for a few small alterations which he had
indicated, and the insertion on pp. 457-459 of the concluding passage
of Book iv. chapter iii.[6] Such alterations as were made by Professor
Sidgwick in this edition prior to p. 276 will be found chiefly in
chapters i.-v. and ix. of Book i., and chapters iii. and vi. of Book ii.
The Appendix on “The Kantian Conception of Free Will,” promised in note
1 on p. 58 of this edition, is substantially a reprint of a paper by
Professor Sidgwick under that heading which appeared in _Mind_, vol.
xiii. No. 51, and accurately covers the ground indicated in the note.
There is one further matter of importance. Among the MS. material
which Professor Sidgwick intended to be referred to, in preparing
this edition for the press, there occurs, as part of the MS. notes
for a lecture, a brief history of the development in his thought of
the ethical view which he has set forth in the _Methods of Ethics_.
This, though not in a finished condition, is in essentials complete
and coherent, and since it cannot fail to have peculiar value and
interest for students of the book, it has been decided to insert it
here. Such an arrangement seems to a certain extent in harmony with the
author’s own procedure in the Preface to the Second Edition; and in
this way while future students of the _Methods_ will have access to an
introductory account which both ethically and historically is of very
exceptional interest, no dislocation of the text will be involved.
In the account referred to Professor Sidgwick says:--
“My first adhesion to a definite Ethical system was to the
Utilitarianism of Mill: I found in this relief from the apparently
external and arbitrary pressure of moral rules which I had been
educated to obey, and which presented themselves to me as to some
extent doubtful and confused; and sometimes, even when clear, as
merely dogmatic, unreasoned, incoherent. My antagonism to this was
intensified by the study of Whewell’s _Elements of Morality_ which
was prescribed for the study of undergraduates in Trinity. It was
from that book that I derived the impression--which long remained
uneffaced--that Intuitional moralists were hopelessly loose (as
compared to mathematicians) in their definitions and axioms.
The two elements of Mill’s view which I am accustomed to distinguish
as Psychological Hedonism [that each man does seek his own Happiness]
and Ethical Hedonism [that each man ought to seek the general
Happiness] both attracted me, and I did not at first perceive their
incoherence.
Psychological Hedonism--the law of universal
pleasure-seeking--attracted me by its frank naturalness. Ethical
Hedonism, as expounded by Mill, was morally inspiring by its dictate
of readiness for absolute self-sacrifice. They appealed to different
elements of my nature, but they brought these into apparent harmony:
they both used the same words “pleasure,” “happiness,” and the
persuasiveness of Mill’s exposition veiled for a time the profound
discrepancy between the natural end of action--private happiness, and
the end of duty--general happiness. Or if a doubt assailed me as to
the coincidence of private and general happiness, I was inclined to
hold that it ought to be cast to the winds by a generous resolution.
But a sense grew upon me that this method of dealing with the conflict
between Interest and Duty, though perhaps proper for practice
could not be final for philosophy. For practical men who do not
philosophise, the maxim of subordinating self-interest, as commonly
conceived, to “altruistic” impulses and sentiments which they feel to
be higher and nobler is, I doubt not, a commendable maxim; but it is
surely the business of Ethical Philosophy to find and make explicit
the rational ground of such action.
I therefore set myself to examine methodically the relation of
Interest and Duty.
This involved a careful study of Egoistic Method, to get the relation
of Interest and Duty clear. Let us suppose that my own Interest is
paramount. What really is my Interest, how far can acts conducive
to it be known, how far does the result correspond with Duty (or
Wellbeing of Mankind)? This investigation led me to feel very
strongly _this_ opposition, rather than that which Mill and the
earlier Utilitarians felt between so-called Intuitions or Moral Sense
Perceptions, and Hedonism, whether Epicurean or Utilitarian. Hence the
arrangement of my book--ii., iii., iv. [Book ii. Egoism, Book iii.
Intuitionism, Book iv. Utilitarianism].
The result was that I concluded that no complete solution of the
conflict between my happiness and the general happiness was possible
on the basis of mundane experience. This [conclusion I] slowly and
reluctantly accepted--cf. Book ii. chap. v., and last chapter of
treatise [Book ii. chap. v. is on “Happiness and Duty,” and the
concluding chapter is on “The Mutual Relations of the Three Methods”].
This [was] most important to me.
In consequence of this perception, moral choice of the general
happiness or acquiescence in self-interest as ultimate, became
practically necessary. But on what ground?
I put aside Mill’s phrases that such sacrifice was “heroic”: that it
was not “well” with me unless I was in a disposition to make it. I put
to him in my mind the dilemma:--Either it is for my own happiness or
it is not. If not, why [should I do it]?--It was no use to say that
if I was a moral hero I should have formed a habit of willing actions
beneficial to others which would remain in force, even with my own
pleasure in the other scale. I knew that at any rate I was not the
kind of moral hero who does this without reason; from _blind_ habit.
Nor did I even wish to be that kind of hero: for it seemed to me that
that kind of hero, however admirable, was certainly not a philosopher.
I must somehow _see_ that it was right for me to sacrifice my
happiness for the good of the whole of which I am a part.
Thus, in spite of my early aversion to Intuitional Ethics, derived
from the study of Whewell, and in spite of my attitude of discipleship
to Mill, I was forced to recognise the need of a fundamental ethical
intuition.
The utilitarian method--which I had learnt from Mill--could not, it
seemed to me, be made coherent and harmonious without this fundamental
intuition.
In this state of mind I read Kant’s Ethics again: I had before read
it somewhat unintelligently, under the influence of Mill’s view
as to its “grotesque failure.”[7] I now read it more receptively
and was impressed with the truth and importance of its fundamental
principle:--_Act from a principle or maxim that you can will to be
a universal law_--cf. Book iii. chap. i. § 3 [of _The Methods of
Ethics_]. It threw the “golden rule” of the gospel (“Do unto others as
ye would that others should do unto you”) into a form that commended
itself to my reason.
Kant’s resting of morality on Freedom did not indeed commend itself to
me,[8] though I did not at first see, what I now seem to see clearly,
that it involves the fundamental confusion of using “freedom” in two
distinct senses--“freedom” that is realised only when we do right,
when reason triumphs over inclination, and “freedom” that is realised
equally when we choose to do wrong, and which is apparently implied
in the notion of ill-desert. What commended itself to me, in short,
was Kant’s ethical principle rather than its metaphysical basis.
This I briefly explain in Book iii. chap. i. § 3 [of _The Methods of
Ethics_]. I shall go into it at more length when we come to Kant.
That whatever is right for me must be right for all persons in similar
circumstances--which was the form in which I accepted the Kantian
maxim--seemed to me certainly fundamental, certainly true, and not
without practical importance.
But the fundamental principle seemed to me inadequate for the
construction of a system of duties; and the more I reflected on it the
more inadequate it appeared.
On reflection it did not seem to me really to meet the difficulty
which had led me from Mill to Kant: it did not settle finally the
subordination of Self-interest to Duty.
For the Rational Egoist--a man who had learnt from Hobbes that
Self-preservation is the first law of Nature and Self-interest the
only rational basis of social morality--and in fact, its actual basis,
so far as it is effective--such a thinker might accept the Kantian
principle and remain an Egoist.
He might say, “I quite admit that when the painful necessity comes
for another man to choose between his own happiness and the general
happiness, he must as a reasonable being prefer his own, i.e. it is
right for him to do this on my principle. No doubt, as I probably do
not sympathise with him in particular any more than with other persons,
I as a disengaged spectator should like him to sacrifice himself to
the general good: but I do not expect him to do it, any more than I
should do it myself in his place.”
It did not seem to me that this reasoning could be effectively
confuted. No doubt it was, from the point of view of the universe,
reasonable to prefer the greater good to the lesser, even though the
lesser good was the private happiness of the agent. Still, it seemed
to me also undeniably reasonable for the individual to prefer his
own. The rationality of self-regard seemed to me as undeniable as the
rationality of self-sacrifice. I could not give up this conviction,
though neither of my masters, neither Kant nor Mill, seemed willing to
admit it: in different ways, each in his own way, they refused to admit
it.
I was, therefore, [if] I may so say, a disciple on the loose, in search
of a master--or, if the term ‘master’ be too strong, at any rate I
sought for sympathy and support, in the conviction which I had attained
in spite of the opposite opinions of the thinkers from whom I had
learnt most.
It was at this point then that the influence of Butler came in. For
the stage at which I had thus arrived in search of an ethical creed,
at once led me to understand Butler, and to find the support and
intellectual sympathy that I required in his view.
I say to understand him, for hitherto I had misunderstood him,
as I believe most people then misunderstood, and perhaps still
misunderstand, him. He had been presented to me as an advocate of the
authority of Conscience; and his argument, put summarily, seemed to be
that because reflection on our impulses showed us Conscience claiming
authority therefore we ought to obey it. Well, I had no doubt that
my conscience claimed authority, though it was a more utilitarian
conscience than Butler’s: for, through all this search for principles I
still adhered for practical purposes to the doctrine I had learnt from
Mill, _i.e._ I still held to the maxim of aiming at the general
happiness as the supreme directive rule of conduct, and I thought I
could answer the objections that Butler brought against this view
(in the “Dissertation on Virtue” at the end of the _Analogy_). My
difficulty was, as I have said, that this claim of conscience, whether
utilitarian or not, had to be harmonised with the claim of Rational
Self-love; and that I vaguely supposed Butler to avoid or override
[the latter claim].
But reading him at this stage with more care, I found in him, with
pleasure and surprise, a view very similar to that which had developed
itself in my own mind in struggling to assimilate Mill and Kant. I
found he expressly admitted that “interest, my own happiness, is a
manifest obligation,” and that “Reasonable Self-love” [is “one of the
two chief or superior principles in the nature of man”]. That is, he
recognised a “Dualism of the Governing Faculty”--or as I prefer to
say “Dualism of the Practical Reason,” since the ‘authority’ on which
Butler laid stress must present itself to my mind as the authority of
reason, before I can admit it.
Of this more presently: what I now wish to make clear is that it was
on this side--if I may so say--that I entered into Butler’s system and
came under the influence of his powerful and cautious intellect. But
the effect of his influence carried me a further step away from Mill:
for I was led by it to abandon the doctrine of Psychological Hedonism,
and to recognise the existence of ‘disinterested’ or ‘extra-regarding’
impulses to action, [impulses] not directed towards the agent’s
pleasure [cf. chap. iv. of Book i. of _The Methods of Ethics_]. In fact
as regards what I may call a Psychological basis of Ethics, I found
myself much more in agreement with Butler than Mill.
And this led me to reconsider my relation to Intuitional Ethics. The
strength and vehemence of Butler’s condemnation of pure Utilitarianism,
in so cautious a writer, naturally impressed me much. And I had myself
become, as I had to admit to myself, an Intuitionist to a certain
extent. For the supreme rule of aiming at the general happiness, as I
had come to see, must rest on a fundamental moral intuition, if I was
to recognise it as binding at all. And in reading the writings of the
earlier English Intuitionists, More and Clarke, I found the axiom I
required for my Utilitarianism [That a rational agent is bound to aim
at Universal Happiness], in one form or another, holding a prominent
place (cf. _History of Ethics_, pp. 172, 181).
I had then, theoretically as well as practically, accepted this
fundamental moral intuition; and there was also the Kantian principle,
which I recognised as irresistibly valid, though not adequate to give
complete guidance.--I was then an “intuitional” moralist to this
extent: and if so, why not further? The orthodox moralists such as
Whewell (then in vogue) said that there was a whole intelligible system
of intuitions: but how were they to be learnt? I could not accept
Butler’s view as to the sufficiency of a plain man’s conscience: for it
appeared to me that plain men agreed rather verbally than really.
In this state of mind I had to read Aristotle again; and a
light seemed to dawn upon me as to the meaning and drift of his
procedure--especially in Books ii., iii., iv. of the _Ethics_--(cf.
_History of Ethics_, chap. ii. § 9, p. 58, read to end of section).
What he gave us there was the Common Sense Morality of Greece,
reduced to consistency by careful comparison: given not as something
external to him but as what “we”--he and others--think, ascertained by
reflection. And was not this really the Socratic induction, elicited by
interrogation?
Might I not imitate this: do the same for _our_ morality here and now,
in the same manner of impartial reflection on current opinion?
Indeed _ought_ I not to do this before deciding on the question whether
I had or had not a system of moral intuitions? At any rate the result
would be useful, whatever conclusion I came to.
So this was the part of my book first written (Book iii., chaps.
i.-xi.), and a certain imitation of Aristotle’s manner was very marked
in it at first, and though I have tried to remove it where it seemed to
me affected or pedantic, it still remains to some extent.
But the result of the examination was to bring out with fresh force
and vividness the difference between the maxims of Common Sense
Morality (even the strongest and strictest, _e.g._ Veracity and
Good Faith) and the intuitions which I had already attained, _i.e._
the Kantian Principle (of which I now saw the only certain element
in Justice--“treat similar cases similarly”--to be a particular
application), and the Fundamental Principle of Utilitarianism. And this
latter was in perfect harmony with the Kantian Principle. I certainly
could will it to be a universal law that men should act in such a way
as to promote universal happiness; in fact it was the only law that it
was perfectly clear to me that I could thus decisively will, from a
universal point of view.
I was then a Utilitarian again, but on an Intuitional basis.
But further, the reflection on Common Sense Morality which I had gone
through, had continually brought home to me its character as a system
of rules tending to the promotion of general happiness (cf. [_Methods
of Ethics_] pp. 470, 471).
Also the previous reflection on hedonistic method for Book ii. had
shown me its weaknesses. What was then to be done? [The] conservative
attitude [to be observed] towards Common Sense [is] given in chapter
v. of Book iv.: “Adhere generally, deviate and attempt reform only
in exceptional cases in which,--notwithstanding the roughness of
hedonistic method,--the argument against Common Sense is decisive.”
In this state of mind I published my book: I tried to say what I had
found: that the opposition between Utilitarianism and Intuitionism was
due to a misunderstanding. There was indeed a fundamental opposition
between the individual’s interest and either morality, which I could
not solve by any method I had yet found trustworthy, without the
assumption of the moral government of the world: so far I agreed with
both Butler and Kant.
But I could find no real opposition between Intuitionism and
Utilitarianism.... The Utilitarianism of Mill and Bentham seemed to me
to want a basis: that basis could only be supplied by a fundamental
intuition; on the other hand the best examination I could make of the
Morality of Common Sense showed me no clear and self-evident principles
except such as were perfectly consistent with Utilitarianism.
Still, investigation of the Utilitarian method led me to see defects
[in it]: the merely empirical examination of the consequences of
actions is unsatisfactory; and being thus conscious of the practical
imperfection in many cases of the guidance of the Utilitarian calculus,
I remained anxious to treat with respect, and make use of, the guidance
afforded by Common Sense in these cases, on the ground of the general
presumption which evolution afforded that moral sentiments and opinions
would point to conduct conducive to general happiness; though I
could not admit this presumption as a ground for overruling a strong
probability of the opposite, derived from utilitarian calculations.”
It only remains to mention that the Table of Contents and the Index
have been revised in accordance with the changes in the text.
E. E. CONSTANCE JONES.
GIRTON COLLEGE,
CAMBRIDGE, _April 1901_.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Cf. note on p. 457, and Prefatory Note to the Seventh Edition.
[7] Kant’s _Fundamental Principles_ (_Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der
Sitten_), §§ 1, 2. Mill, _Utilitarianism_, pp. 5, 6 [7th edition (large
print), 1879].
[8] Book i. chap. v. of _The Methods of Ethics_.
PREFATORY NOTE TO THE SEVENTH EDITION
This Edition is a reprint of the Sixth, the only changes (besides
correction of a few clerical errors) being an alteration of type in the
passage which occurs on p. 457 in the Sixth Edition and pp. 457-459
in this Edition, together with consequent changes (1) in paging and
indexing, (2) in the reference to the passage in question in the
reprinted Preface to the Sixth Edition, and (3) in the insertion of the
note on p. 457.
E. E. C. J.
_December 1906._
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
PAGES
1. Ethics is a department of the Theory or Study of Practice. 1-2
2. It is the study of what ought to be, so far as this depends upon
the voluntary action of individuals. 2-4
3. In deciding what they ought to do, men naturally proceed on
different principles, and by different methods. 4-6
4. There are two _prima facie_ rational Ends, Excellence or
Perfection and Happiness: of which the latter at least may be
sought for oneself or universally. It is also commonly thought
that certain Rules are prescribed without reference to ulterior
consequences. The Methods corresponding to these different
principles reduce themselves in the main to three, Egoism,
Intuitionism, Utilitarianism. 6-11
5. These methods we are to examine separately, abstracting them
from ordinary thought, where we find them in confused combination,
and developing them as precisely and consistently as possible. 11-14
CHAPTER II
ETHICS AND POLITICS
1. In considering the relation between Ethics and Politics, we have
to distinguish between Positive Law and Ideal Law. 15-18
2. But at any rate the primary object of Ethics is not to determine
what ought to be done in an ideal society: it therefore does not
necessarily require as a preliminary the theoretical construction
of such a society. 18-22
CHAPTER III
ETHICAL JUDGMENTS
1. By ‘Reasonable’ conduct--whether morally or prudentially
reasonable--we mean that of which we judge that it ‘ought’ to be
done. Such a judgment cannot be legitimately interpreted as a
judgment concerning facts, nor as referring exclusively to the
_means_ to ulterior ends: in particular, the term ‘ought,’ as used
in moral judgments, does not merely signify that the person judging
feels a specific emotion: 23-28
2. nor does it merely signify that the conduct in question is
prescribed under penalties: 28-31
3. The notion expressed by “ought,” in its strictest ethical use
is too elementary to admit of formal definition, or of resolution
into simpler notions; it is assumed to be objectively valid; and
judgments in which it is used when they relate to the future
conduct of the person judging, are accompanied by a special kind of
impulse to action. 31-35
4. This ‘dictate of reason’ is also exemplified by merely
prudential judgments; and by merely hypothetical imperatives. 35-38
CHAPTER IV
PLEASURE AND DESIRE
1. The psychological doctrine, that the object of Desire is always
Pleasure, is liable to collide with the view of Ethical judgments
just given: and in any case deserves careful examination. 39-42
2. If by “pleasure” is meant “agreeable feeling,” this doctrine
is opposed to experience: for throughout the whole scale of our
desires, from the highest to the lowest, we can distinguish
impulses directed towards other ends than our own feelings from the
desire of pleasure: 42-51
3. as is further shown by the occasional conflict between the two
kinds of impulse. 51-52
4. Nor can the doctrine derive any real support from consideration
either of the ‘unconscious’ or the ‘original’ aim of human action. 52-54
Note 54-56
CHAPTER V
FREE WILL
1. The Kantian identification of ‘Free’ and ‘Rational’ action is
misleading from the ambiguity of the term ‘freedom.’ 57-59
2. When, by definition and analysis of voluntary action, the issue
in the Free Will Controversy has been made clear, it appears that
the cumulative argument for Determinism is almost overwhelming: 59-65
3. still it is impossible to me in acting not to regard myself as
free to do what I judge to be reasonable. However the solution of
the metaphysical question of Free Will is not important--Theology
apart--for systematic Ethics generally: 65-70
4. it seems however to have a special relation to the notion of
Justice: 71-72
5. The practical unimportance of the question of Free Will becomes
more clear if we scrutinize closely the range of volitional effects.72-76
CHAPTER VI
ETHICAL PRINCIPLES AND METHODS
1. The Methods indicated in chap. i. have a _prima facie_ claim to
proceed on reasonable principles: other principles seem, in so far
as they can be made precise, to reduce themselves to these: 77-80
2. especially the principle of “living according to Nature.” 80-83
3. In short, all varieties of Method may conveniently be classed
under three heads: Intuitionism and the two kinds of Hedonism,
Egoistic and Universalistic. The common confusion between the two
latter is easily explained, but must be carefully guarded against. 83-87
Note 87-88
CHAPTER VII
EGOISM AND SELF-LOVE
1. To get a clear idea of what is commonly known as Egoism, we must
distinguish and exclude several possible meanings of the term: 89-93
2. and define its end as the greatest attainable surplus of
pleasure over pain for the agent,--pleasures being valued in
proportion to their pleasantness. 93-95
CHAPTER VIII
INTUITIONISM
1. I apply the term Intuitional--in the narrower of two legitimate
senses--to distinguish a method in which the rightness of some
kinds of action is assumed to be known without consideration of
ulterior consequences. 96-98
2. The common antithesis between Intuitive and Inductive is
inexact, since this method does not necessarily proceed from the
universal to the particular. We may distinguish Perceptional
Intuitionism, according to which it is always the rightness of some
particular action that is held to be immediately known: 98-100
3. Dogmatic Intuitionism, in which the general rules of Common
Sense are accepted as axiomatic: 100-101
4. Philosophical Intuitionism, which attempts to find a deeper
explanation for these current rules. 101-103
Note 103-104
CHAPTER IX
GOOD
1. Another important variety of Intuitionism is constituted by
substituting for “right” the wider notion “good.” 105-106
2. The common judgment that a thing is “good” does not on
reflection appear to be equivalent to a judgment that it is
directly or indirectly pleasant. 106-109
3. “Good” = “desirable” or “reasonably desired”: as applied to
conduct, the term does not convey so definite a dictate as
“right,” and it is not confined to the strictly voluntary. 109-113
4. There are many other things commonly judged to be good: but
reflection shows that nothing is ultimately good except some
mode of human existence. 113-115
BOOK II
EGOISM
CHAPTER I
THE PRINCIPLE AND METHOD OF EGOISM
1. The Principle of Egoistic Hedonism is the widely accepted
proposition that the rational end of conduct for each individual
is the Maximum of his own Happiness or Pleasure. 119-121
2. There are several methods of seeking this end: but we may take
as primary that which proceeds by Empirical-reflective comparison
of pleasures. 121-122
CHAPTER II
EMPIRICAL HEDONISM
1. In this method it is assumed that all pleasures sought and pains
shunned are commensurable; and can be arranged in a certain scale
of preferableness: 123-125
2. pleasure being defined as “feeling apprehended as desirable by
the sentient individual at the time of feeling it.” 125-130
Note 130
CHAPTER III
EMPIRICAL HEDONISM (_continued_)
1. To get a clearer view of this method, let us consider objections
tending to show its inherent impracticability: as, first, that
“pleasure as feeling cannot be conceived,” and that a “sum of
pleasures is intrinsically unmeaning”: 131-134
2. that transient pleasures cannot satisfy; and that the
predominance of self-love tends to defeat its own end: 134-138
3. that the habit of introspectively comparing pleasures is
unfavourable to pleasure: 138-140
4. that any quantitative comparison of pleasures and pains is
vague and uncertain, even in the case of our own past
experiences: 140-144
5. that it also tends to be different at different times:
especially through variations in the present state of the person
performing the comparison: 144-146
6. that, in fact, the supposed definite commensurability of
pleasures is an unverifiable assumption: 146-147
7. that there is a similar liability to error in appropriating
the experience of others; and in inferring future pleasures
from past. 147-150
CHAPTER IV
OBJECTIVE HEDONISM AND COMMON SENSE
1. It may seem that the judgments of Common Sense respecting the
Sources of Happiness offer a refuge from the uncertainties of
Empirical Hedonism: but there are several fundamental defects in
this refuge; 151-153
2. and these judgments when closely examined are found to be
perplexingly inconsistent. 153-158
3. Still we may derive from them a certain amount of practical
guidance. 158-161
CHAPTER V
HAPPINESS AND DUTY
1. It has been thought possible to prove on empirical grounds that
one’s greatest happiness is always attained by the performance of
duty. 162-163
2. But no such complete coincidence seems to result from a
consideration either of the Legal Sanctions of Duty: 163-166
3. or of the Social Sanctions: 166-170
4. or of the Internal Sanctions: even if we consider not merely
isolated acts of duty, but a virtuous life as a whole. 170-175
CHAPTER VI
DEDUCTIVE HEDONISM
1. Hedonistic Method must ultimately rest on facts of empirical
observation: but it might become largely deductive, through
scientific knowledge of the causes of pleasure and pain: 176-180
2. but we have no practically available general theory of these
causes, either psychophysical, 180-190
3. or biological. 190-192
4. Nor can the principle of ‘increasing life,’ or that of ‘aiming
at self-development,’ or that of ‘giving free play to impulse,’
be so defined as to afford us any practical guidance to the end
of Egoism, without falling back on the empirical comparison of
pleasures and pains. 192-195
BOOK III
INTUITIONISM
CHAPTER I
INTUITIONISM
1. The fundamental assumption of Intuitionism is that we have the
power of seeing clearly what actions are in themselves right and
reasonable. 199-201
2. Though many actions are commonly judged to be made better
or worse through the presence of certain _motives_, our common
judgments of right and wrong relate, strictly speaking, to
_intentions_. One motive, indeed, the desire to do what is right
as such, has been thought an essential condition to right conduct:
but the Intuitional method should be treated as not involving this
assumption. 201-207
3. It is certainly an essential condition that we should not
believe the act to be wrong; and this implies that we should
not believe it to be wrong for any similar person in similar
circumstances: but this implication, though it may supply a
valuable practical rule, cannot furnish a complete criterion of
right conduct. 207-210
4. The _existence_ of apparent cognitions of right conduct,
intuitively obtained, as distinct from their validity, will
scarcely be questioned; and to establish their validity it is not
needful to prove their ‘originality.’ 210-214
5. Both particular and universal intuitions are found in our
common moral thought: but it is for the latter that ultimate
validity is ordinarily claimed by intuitional moralists. We must
try, by reflecting on Common Sense, how far we can state these
Moral Axioms with clearness and precision. 214-216
CHAPTER II
VIRTUE AND DUTY
1. Duties are Right acts, for the adequate performance of which a
moral motive is at least occasionally necessary. Virtuous conduct
includes the performance of duties as well as praiseworthy acts
that are thought to go beyond strict duty, and that may even be
beyond the power of some to perform. 217-221
2. Virtues as commonly recognised, are manifested primarily in
volitions to produce particular right effects--which must at least
be thought by the agent to be not wrong--: but for the
completeness of some virtues the presence of certain emotions
seems necessary. 221-228
3. It may be said that Moral Excellence, like Beauty, eludes
definition: but if Ethical Science is to be constituted, we must
obtain definite Moral Axioms. 228-230
CHAPTER III
THE INTELLECTUAL VIRTUES
1. The common conception of Wisdom assumes a harmony of the ends of
different ethical methods: all of which--and not one rather than
another--the wise man is commonly thought to aim at and attain as
far as circumstances admit. 231-233
2. The Will is to some extent involved in forming wise decisions:
but more clearly in acting on them--whatever we may call the
Virtue thus manifested. 233-236
3. Of minor intellectual excellences, some are not strictly
Virtues: others are, such as Caution and Decision, being in
part voluntary. 236-237
Note 237
CHAPTER IV
BENEVOLENCE
1. The Maxim of Benevolence bids us to some extent _cultivate_
affections, and confer happiness 238-241
2. on sentient, chiefly human, beings; especially in certain
circumstances and relations, in which affections--which are hardly
virtues--prompt to kind services. Rules for the distribution of
Kindness are needed, 241-246
3. as claims may conflict; but clearly binding rules cannot be
obtained from Common Sense in a definite form; 246-247
4. nor clear principles from which rules may be deduced; as is
seen when we examine the duties to Kinsmen, as commonly
conceived: 247-250
5. and the wider duties of Neighbourhood, Citizenship, Universal
Benevolence; and the duties of cultivating Reverence and Loyalty: 250-254
6. and those springing from the Conjugal relation: 254-256
7. and those of Friendship: 256-259
8. and those of Gratitude: and those to which we are prompted by
Pity. 259-263
Note 263
CHAPTER V
JUSTICE
1. Justice is especially difficult to define. The Just cannot
be identified with the Legal, as laws may be unjust. Again, the
Justice of laws does not consist merely in the absence of
arbitrary inequality in framing or administering them. 264-268
2. One element of Justice seems to consist in the fulfilment of (1)
contracts and definite understandings, and (2) expectations arising
naturally out of the established order of Society; but the duty of
fulfilling these latter is somewhat indefinite: 268-271
3. and this social order may itself, from another point of view,
be condemned as unjust; that is, as tried by the standard of Ideal
Justice. What then is this Standard? We seem to find various
degrees and forms of it. 271-274
4. One view of Ideal Law states Freedom as its absolute End: but
the attempt to construct a system of law on this principle
involves us in insuperable difficulties. 274-278
5. Nor does the realisation of Freedom satisfy our common
conception of Ideal Justice. The principle of this is rather
‘that Desert should be requited.’ 278-283
6. But the application of this principle is again very perplexing:
whether we try to determine Good Desert (or the worth of
services), 283-290
7. or Ill Desert, in order to realise Criminal Justice. There
remains too the difficulty of reconciling Conservative and Ideal
Justice. 290-294
CHAPTER VI
LAWS AND PROMISES
1. The duty of obeying Laws, though it may to a great extent be
included under Justice, still requires a separate treatment. We
can, however, obtain no _consensus_ for any precise definition
of it. 295-297
2. For we are neither agreed as to what kind of government is
ideally legitimate, 297-299
3. nor as to the criterion of a traditionally legitimate
government, 299-301
4. nor as to the proper limits of governmental authority. 301-303
5. The duty of fulfilling a promise in the sense in which it
was understood by both promiser and promisee is thought to be
peculiarly stringent and certain 303-304
6. (it being admitted that its obligation is relative to the
promisee, and may be annulled by him, and that it cannot override
strict prior obligations). 304-305
7. But Common Sense seems to doubt how far a promise is binding
when it has been obtained by force or fraud: 305-306
8. or when circumstances have materially altered since it was
made--especially if it be a promise to the dead or absent,
from which no release can be obtained, or if the performance
of the promise will be harmful to the promisee, or inflict a
disproportionate sacrifice on the promiser. 306-308
9. Other doubts arise when a promise has been misapprehended: and
in the peculiar case where a prescribed form of words has been
used. 308-311
CHAPTER VII
CLASSIFICATION OF DUTIES. TRUTH
1. I have not adopted the classification of duties into Social
and Self-regarding: as it seems inappropriate to the Intuitional
method, of which the characteristic is, that it lays down certain
absolute and independent rules: such as the rule of Truth. 312-315
2. But Common Sense after all scarcely seems to prescribe
truth-speaking under all circumstances: nor to decide clearly
whether the beliefs which we are bound to make true are those
directly produced by our words or the immediate inferences from
these. 315-317
3. It is said that the general allowance of Unveracity would be
suicidal, as no one would believe the falsehood. But this argument,
though forcible, is not decisive; for (1) this result may be in
special circumstances desirable, or (2) we may have reason to
expect that it will not occur. 317-319
Note 319
CHAPTER VIII
OTHER SOCIAL DUTIES AND VIRTUES
1. Common opinion sometimes condemns sweepingly malevolent feelings
and volitions: but Reflective Common Sense seems to admit some as
legitimate, determining the limits of this admission on
utilitarian grounds. 320-324
2. Other maxims of social duty seem clearly subordinate to
those already discussed: as is illustrated by an examination of
Liberality and other cognate notions. 324-326
CHAPTER IX
SELF-REGARDING VIRTUES
1. The general duty of seeking one’s own happiness is commonly
recognised under the notion of Prudence. 327-328
2. This as specially applied to the control of bodily appetites is
called Temperance: but under this notion a more rigid restraint is
sometimes thought to be prescribed: though as to the principle of
this there seems no agreement. 328-329
3. Nor is it easy to give a clear definition of the maxim of
Purity--but in fact common sense seems averse to attempt this.
We must note, however, that suicide is commonly judged to be
absolutely wrong. 329-331
CHAPTER X
COURAGE, HUMILITY, ETC.
1. The Duty of Courage is subordinate to those already discussed:
and in drawing the line between the Excellence of Courage and
the Fault of Foolhardiness we seem forced to have recourse to
considerations of expediency. 332-334
2. Similarly the maxim of Humility seems either clearly
subordinate or not clearly determinate. 334-336
CHAPTER XI
REVIEW OF THE MORALITY OF COMMON SENSE
1. We have now to examine the moral maxims that have been defined,
to ascertain whether they possess the characteristics of
scientific intuitions. 337-338
2. We require of an Axiom that it should be (1) stated in clear
and precise terms, (2) really self-evident, (3) not conflicting
with any other truth, (4) supported by an adequate ‘consensus of
experts.’ These characteristics are not found in the moral maxims
of Common Sense. 338-343
3. The maxims of Wisdom and Self-control are only self-evident in
so far as they are tautological: 343-345
4. nor can we state any clear, absolute, universally-admitted
axioms for determining the duties of the Affections: 345-349
5. and as for the group of principles that were extracted from
the common notion of Justice, we cannot define each singly in a
satisfactory manner, still less reconcile them: 349-352
6. and even the Duty of Good Faith, when we consider the numerous
qualifications of it more or less doubtfully admitted by Common
Sense, seems more like a subordinate rule than an independent
First Principle. Still more is this the case with Veracity: 352-355
7. similarly with other virtues: even the prohibition of Suicide,
so far as rational, seems to rest ultimately on utilitarian
grounds. 355-357
8. Even Purity when we force ourselves to examine it rigorously
yields no clear independent principle. 357-359
9. The common moral maxims are adequate for practical guidance,
but do not admit of being elevated into scientific axioms. 359-361
CHAPTER XII
MOTIVES OR SPRINGS OF ACTION AS SUBJECTS OF MORAL JUDGMENT
1. It has been held by several moralists that the “Universal
Conscience” judges primarily not of Rightness of acts, but of Rank
of Motives. 362-365
2. If, however, we include the Moral Sentiments among these
motives, this latter view involves all the difficulties and
perplexities of the former, yet it is paradoxical to omit these
sentiments. 365-367
3. But even if we leave these out, we still find very little
agreement as to Rank of Motives: and there is a special difficulty
arising from complexity of motive. Nor does Common Sense seem to
hold that a “higher” motive--below the highest--is always to be
preferred to a “lower.” 367-372
CHAPTER XIII
PHILOSOPHICAL INTUITIONISM
1. The Philosopher, as such, attempts to penetrate beneath the
surface of Common Sense to some deeper principles: 373-374
2. but has too often presented to the world, as the result of his
investigation, tautological propositions and vicious circles. 374-379
3. Still there are certain abstract moral principles of real
importance, intuitively known; though they are not sufficient by
themselves to give complete practical guidance. Thus we can exhibit
a self-evident element in the commonly recognised principles of
Prudence, Justice, and Benevolence. 379-384
4. This is confirmed by a reference to Clarke’s and Kant’s
systems: 384-386
5. and also to Utilitarianism: which needs for its basis a
self-evident principle of Rational Benevolence; as is shown by
a criticism of Mill’s “proof.” 386-389
Note 389-390
CHAPTER XIV
ULTIMATE GOOD
1. The notion of Virtue, as commonly conceived, cannot without a
logical circle be identified with the notion of Ultimate Good: 391-394
2. nor is it in accordance with Common Sense to regard Subjective
Rightness of Will, or other elements of Perfection, as
constituting Ultimate Good. 394-395
3. What is ultimately good or desirable must be Desirable
Consciousness. 395-397
4. _i.e._ either simply Happiness, or certain objective relations
of the Conscious Mind. 398-400
5. When these alternatives are fairly presented, Common Sense
seems disposed to choose the former: especially as we can now
explain its instinctive disinclination to admit Pleasure as
ultimate end: while the other alternative leaves us without a
criterion for determining the comparative value of different
elements of ‘Good.’ 400-407
BOOK IV
UTILITARIANISM
CHAPTER I
THE MEANING OF UTILITARIANISM
1. The ethical theory called Utilitarianism, or Universalistic
Hedonism, is to be carefully distinguished from Egoistic Hedonism:
and also from any psychological theory as to the nature and origin
of the Moral Sentiments. 411-413
2. The notion of ‘Greatest Happiness’ has been determined in Book
ii. chap. i.: but the extent and manner of its application require
to be further defined. Are we to include all Sentient Beings? and
is it Total or Average Happiness that we seek to make a maximum?
We also require a supplementary Principle for _Distribution_ of
Happiness: the principle of Equality is _prima facie_ reasonable. 413-417
CHAPTER II
THE PROOF OF UTILITARIANISM
Common Sense demands a Proof of the first Principle of this method,
more clearly than in the case of Egoism and Intuitionism. Such
a proof, addressed to the Egoistic Hedonist, was in fact given
in Book iii. chap. xiii. § 3: it exhibited the essence of the
Utilitarian Principle as a clear and certain moral Intuition. But
it is also important to examine its relation to other received
maxims. 418-422
CHAPTER III
THE RELATION OF UTILITARIANISM TO THE MORALITY OF COMMON SENSE
1. Taking as our basis Hume’s exhibition of the Virtues as
Felicific qualities of character, we can trace a complex
coincidence between Utilitarianism and Common Sense. It is
not needful--nor does it even help the argument--to show this
coincidence to be perfect and exact. 423-426
2. We may observe, first, that Dispositions may often be admired
(as generally felicific) when the special acts that have resulted
from them are infelicific. Again, the maxims of many virtues
are found to contain an explicit or implicit reference to Duty
conceived as already determinate. Passing over these to examine
the more definite among common notions of Duty: 426-430
3. we observe, first, how the rules that prescribe the distribution
of kindness in accordance with normal promptings of Family
Affections, Friendship, Gratitude, and Pity have a firm Utilitarian
basis: and how Utilitarianism is naturally referred to for an
explanation of the difficulties that arise in attempting to define
these rules. 430-439
4. A similar result is reached by an examination, singly and
together, of the different elements into which we have analysed the
common notion of Justice: 439-448
5. and in the case of other virtues. 448-450
6. Purity has been thought an exception: but a careful examination
of common opinions as to the regulation of sexual relations
exhibits a peculiarly complex and delicate correspondence between
moral sentiments and social utilities. 450-453
7. The hypothesis that the Moral Sense is ‘unconsciously
Utilitarian’ also accounts for the actual differences in different
codes of Duty and estimates of Virtue, either in the same age and
country, or when we compare different ages and countries. It is not
maintained that perception of rightness has always been consciously
derived from perception of utility: a view which the evidence of
history fails to support. 453-457
On the Utilitarian view, the relation between Ethics and Politics
is different for different parts of the legal code. 457-459
CHAPTER IV
THE METHOD OF UTILITARIANISM
1. Ought a Utilitarian, then, to accept the Morality of Common
Sense provisionally as a body of Utilitarian doctrine? Not quite;
for even accepting the theory that the Moral Sense is derived from
Sympathy, we can discern several causes that must have operated
to produce a divergence between Common Sense and a perfectly
Utilitarian code of morality. 460-467
2. At the same time it seems idle to try to construct such a code
in any other way than by taking Positive Morality as our basis. 467-471
3. If General Happiness be the ultimate end, it is not reasonable
to adopt “social health” or “efficiency” as the practically
ultimate criterion of morality. 471-474
CHAPTER V
THE METHOD OF UTILITARIANISM (_continued_)
1. It is, then, a Utilitarian’s duty at once to support generally,
and to rectify in detail, the morality of Common Sense: and the
method of pure empirical Hedonism seems to be the only one that he
can at present use in the reasonings that finally determine the
nature and extent of this rectification. 475-480
2. His innovations may be either negative and destructive, or
positive and supplementary. There are certain important general
reasons against an innovation of the former kind, which may, in
any given case, easily outweigh the special arguments in its
favour. 480-484
3. Generally, a Utilitarian in recommending, by example or precept,
a deviation from an established rule of conduct, desires his
innovation to be generally imitated. But in some cases he may
neither expect nor desire such imitation; though cases of this
kind are rare and difficult to determine. 485-492
4. There are no similar difficulties in the way of modifying the
Ideal of Moral Excellence--as distinguished from the dictates of
Moral Duty--in order to render it more perfectly felicific. 492-495
CONCLUDING CHAPTER
THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF THE THREE METHODS
1. It is not difficult to combine the Intuitional and Utilitarian
methods into one; but can we reconcile Egoistic and Universalistic
Hedonism? 496-498
2. In so far as the latter coincides with Common Sense, we have
seen in Book ii. chap. v. that no complete reconciliation is
possible, on the basis of experience. 498-499
3. Nor does a fuller consideration of Sympathy, as a specially
Utilitarian sanction, lead us to modify this conclusion; in spite
of the importance that is undoubtedly to be attached to
sympathetic pleasures. 499-503
4. The Religious Sanction, if we can show that it is actually
attached to the Utilitarian Code, is of course adequate: 503-506
5. but its existence cannot be demonstrated by ethical arguments
alone. Still, without this or some similar assumption, a
fundamental contradiction in Ethics cannot be avoided. 506-509
APPENDIX ON KANT’S CONCEPTION OF FREE WILL 511
INDEX 517
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
§ 1. The boundaries of the study called Ethics are variously and often
vaguely conceived: but they will perhaps be sufficiently defined, at
the outset, for the purposes of the present treatise, if a ‘Method
of Ethics’ is explained to mean any rational procedure by which we
determine what individual human beings ‘ought’--or what it is ‘right’
for them--to do, or to seek to realise by voluntary action.[9] By
using the word “individual” I provisionally distinguish the study of
Ethics from that of Politics,[10] which seeks to determine the proper
constitution and the right public conduct of governed societies: both
Ethics and Politics being, in my view, distinguished from positive
sciences by having as their special and primary object to determine
what ought to be, and not to ascertain what merely is, has been, or
will be.
The student of Ethics seeks to attain systematic and precise general
knowledge of what ought to be, and in this sense his aims and methods
may properly be termed ‘scientific’: but I have preferred to call
Ethics a study rather than a science, because it is widely thought that
a Science must necessarily have some department of actual existence
for its subject-matter. And in fact the term ‘Ethical Science’
might, without violation of usage, denote either the department of
Psychology that deals with voluntary action and its springs, and with
moral sentiments and judgments, as actual phenomena of individual
human minds; or the department of Sociology dealing with similar
phenomena, as manifested by normal members of the organised groups of
human beings which we call societies. We observe, however, that most
persons do not pursue either of these studies merely from curiosity,
in order to ascertain what actually exists, has existed, or will exist
in time. They commonly wish not only to understand human action, but
also to regulate it; in this view they apply the ideas ‘good’ and
‘bad,’ ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ to the conduct or institutions which they
describe; and thus pass, as I should say, from the point of view of
Psychology or Sociology to that of Ethics or Politics. My definition
of Ethics is designed to mark clearly the fundamental importance of
this transition. It is true that the mutual implication of the two
kinds of study--the positive and the practical--is, on any theory, very
close and complete. On any theory, our view of what ought to be must
be largely derived, in details, from our apprehension of what is; the
means of realising our ideal can only be thoroughly learnt by a careful
study of actual phenomena; and to any individual asking himself ‘What
ought I to do or aim at?’ it is important to examine the answers which
his fellow-men have actually given to similar questions. Still it seems
clear that an attempt to ascertain the general laws or uniformities
by which the varieties of human conduct, and of men’s sentiments and
judgments respecting conduct, may be _explained_, is essentially
different from an attempt to determine which among these varieties of
conduct is _right_ and which of these divergent judgments _valid_. It
is, then, the systematic consideration of these latter questions which
constitutes, in my view, the special and distinct aim of Ethics and
Politics.
§ 2. In the language of the preceding section I could not avoid taking
account of two different forms in which the fundamental problem of
Ethics is stated; the difference between which leads, as we shall
presently see, to rather important consequences. Ethics is sometimes
considered as an investigation of the true Moral laws or rational
precepts of Conduct; sometimes as an inquiry into the nature of the
Ultimate End of reasonable human action--the Good or ‘True Good’ of
man--and the method of attaining it. Both these views are familiar,
and will have to be carefully considered: but the former seems most
prominent in modern ethical thought, and most easily applicable
to modern ethical systems generally. For the Good investigated in
Ethics is limited to Good in some degree attainable by human effort;
accordingly knowledge of the end is sought in order to ascertain what
actions are the right means to its attainment. Thus however prominent
the notion of an Ultimate Good--other than voluntary action of any
kind--may be in an ethical system, and whatever interpretation may be
given to this notion, we must still arrive finally, if it is to be
practically useful, at some determination of precepts or directive
rules of conduct.
On the other hand, the conception of Ethics as essentially an
investigation of the ‘Ultimate Good’ of Man and the means of attaining
it is not universally applicable, without straining, to the view of
Morality which we may conveniently distinguish as the Intuitional
view; according to which conduct is held to be right when conformed
to certain precepts or principles of Duty, intuitively known to be
unconditionally binding. In this view the conception of Ultimate Good
is not necessarily of fundamental importance in the determination of
Right conduct except on the assumption that Right conduct itself--or
the character realised in and developed through Right conduct--is the
sole Ultimate Good for man. But this assumption is not implied in the
Intuitional view of Ethics: nor would it, I conceive, accord with the
moral common sense of modern Christian communities. For we commonly
think that the complete notion of human Good or Well-being must include
the attainment of Happiness as well as the performance of Duty; even if
we hold with Butler that “the happiness of the world is the concern of
Him who is the Lord and the Proprietor of it,” and that, accordingly,
it is not right for men to make their performance of Duty conditional
on their knowledge of its conduciveness to their Happiness. For those
who hold this, what men ought to take as the _practically_ ultimate
end of their action and standard of Right conduct, may in some cases
have no logical connexion with the conception of Ultimate Good for man:
so that, in such cases, however indispensable this latter conception
may be to the completeness of an ethical system, it would still not be
important for the methodical determination of Right conduct.
It is on account of the prevalence of the Intuitional view just
mentioned, and the prominent place which it consequently occupies in
my discussion, that in defining Ethics I have avoided the term ‘Art of
Conduct’ which some would regard as its more appropriate designation.
For the term ‘Art’--when applied to the contents of a treatise--seems
to signify systematic express knowledge (as distinguished from the
implicit knowledge or organised habit which we call skill) of the right
means to a given end. Now if we assume that the rightness of action
depends on its conduciveness to some ulterior end, then no doubt--when
this end has been clearly ascertained--the process of determining the
right rules of conduct for human beings in different relations and
circumstances would naturally come under the notion of Art. But on
the view that the practically ultimate end of moral action is often
the Rightness of the action itself--or the Virtue realised in and
confirmed by such action--and that this is known intuitively in each
case or class of cases, we can hardly regard the term ‘Art’ as properly
applicable to the systematisation of such knowledge. Hence, as I do not
wish to start with any assumption incompatible with this latter view, I
prefer to consider Ethics as the science or study of what is right or
what ought to be, so far as this depends upon the voluntary action of
individuals.[11]
§ 3. If, however, this view of the scope of Ethics is accepted, the
question arises why it is commonly taken to consist, to a great extent,
of psychological discussion as to the ‘nature of the moral faculty’;
especially as I have myself thought it right to include some discussion
of this kind in the present treatise. For it does not at first appear
why this should belong to Ethics, any more than discussions about the
mathematical faculty or the faculty of sense-perception belong to
mathematics and physics respectively. Why do we not simply start with
certain premises, stating what ought to be done or sought, without
considering the faculty by which we apprehend their truth?
One answer is that the moralist has a practical aim: we desire
knowledge of right conduct in order to act on it. Now we cannot help
believing what we see to be true, but we can help doing what we see
to be right or wise, and in fact often do what we know to be wrong or
unwise: thus we are forced to notice the existence in us of irrational
springs of action, conflicting with our knowledge and preventing its
practical realisation: and the very imperfectness of the connexion
between our practical judgment and our will impels us to seek for more
precise knowledge as to the nature of that connexion.
But this is not all. Men never ask, ‘Why should I believe what I see to
be true?’ but they frequently ask, ‘Why should I do what I see to be
right?’ It is easy to reply that the question is futile, since it could
only be answered by a reference to some other recognised principle of
right conduct, and the question might just as well be asked as regards
that again, and so on. But still we do ask the question widely and
continually, and therefore this demonstration of its futility is not
completely satisfactory; we require besides some explanation of its
persistency.
One explanation that may be offered is that, since we are moved
to action not by moral judgment alone, but also by desires and
inclinations that operate independently of moral judgment, the answer
which we really want to the question ‘Why should I do it?’ is one which
does not merely prove a certain action to be right, but also stirs in
us a predominant inclination to do the action.
That this explanation is true for some minds in some moods I would not
deny. Still I think that when a man seriously asks ‘why he should do’
anything, he commonly assumes in himself a determination to pursue
whatever conduct may be shown by argument to be reasonable, even though
it be very different from that to which his non-rational inclinations
may prompt. And we are generally agreed that reasonable conduct in any
case has to be determined on principles, in applying which the agent’s
inclination--as it exists apart from such determination--is only one
element among several that have to be considered, and commonly not the
most important element. But when we ask what these principles are, the
diversity of answers which we find manifestly declared in the systems
and fundamental formulæ of professed moralists seems to be really
present in the common practical reasoning of men generally; with this
difference, that whereas the philosopher seeks unity of principle, and
consistency of method at the risk of paradox, the unphilosophic man
is apt to hold different principles at once, and to apply different
methods in more or less confused combination. If this be so, we can
offer another explanation of the persistent unsatisfied demand for an
ultimate reason, above noticed. For if there are different views of
the ultimate reasonableness of conduct, implicit in the thought of
ordinary men, though not brought into clear relation to each other,--it
is easy to see that any single answer to the question ‘why’ will not
be completely satisfactory, as it will be given only from one of these
points of view, and will always leave room to ask the question from
some other.
I am myself convinced that this is the main explanation of the
phenomenon: and it is on this conviction that the plan of the present
treatise is based. We cannot, of course, regard as valid reasonings
that lead to conflicting conclusions; and I therefore assume as a
fundamental postulate of Ethics, that so far as two methods conflict,
one or other of them must be modified or rejected. But I think it
fundamentally important to recognise, at the outset of Ethical inquiry,
that there is a diversity of methods applied in ordinary practical
thought.
§ 4. What then are these different methods? what are the different
practical principles which the common sense of mankind is _prima facie_
prepared to accept as ultimate? Some care is needed in answering this
question: because we frequently prescribe that this or that ‘ought’
to be done or aimed at without any express reference to an ulterior
end, while yet such an end is tacitly presupposed. It is obvious that
such prescriptions are merely, what Kant calls them, Hypothetical
Imperatives; they are not addressed to any one who has not first
accepted the end.
For instance: a teacher of any art assumes that his pupil wants to
produce the product of the art, or to produce it excellent in quality:
he tells him that he _ought_ to hold the awl, the hammer, the brush
differently. A physician assumes that his patient wants health: he
tells him that he _ought_ to rise early, to live plainly, to take hard
exercise. If the patient deliberately prefers ease and good living
to health, the physician’s precepts fall to the ground: they are no
longer addressed to him. So, again, a man of the world assumes that his
hearers wish to get on in society, when he lays down rules of dress,
manner, conversation, habits of life. A similar view may be plausibly
taken of many rules prescribing what are sometimes called “duties to
oneself”: it may be said that they are given on the assumption that
a man regards his own Happiness as an ultimate end: that if any one
should be so exceptional as to disregard it, he does not come within
their scope: in short, that the ‘_ought_’ in such formulæ is still
implicitly relative to an _optional_ end.
It does not, however, seem to me that this account of the matter is
exhaustive. We do not all look with simple indifference on a man who
declines to take the right means to attain his own happiness, on no
other ground than that he does not care about happiness. Most men would
regard such a refusal as irrational, with a certain disapprobation;
they would thus implicitly assent to Butler’s statement[12] that
“interest, one’s own happiness, is a manifest obligation.” In other
words, they would think that a man _ought_ to care for his own
happiness. The word ‘ought’ thus used is no longer relative: happiness
now appears as an ultimate end, the pursuit of which--at least within
the limits imposed by other duties--appears to be prescribed by
reason ‘categorically,’ as Kant would say, _i.e._ without any tacit
assumption of a still ulterior end. And it has been widely held by even
orthodox moralists that all morality rests ultimately on the basis
of “reasonable self-love”;[13] _i.e._ that its rules are ultimately
binding on any individual only so far as it is his interest on the
whole to observe them.
Still, common moral opinion certainly regards the duty or virtue of
Prudence as only a part--and not the most important part--of duty
or virtue in general. Common moral opinion recognises and inculcates
other fundamental rules--_e.g._ those of Justice, Good Faith,
Veracity--which, in its ordinary judgments on particular cases, it is
inclined to treat as binding without qualification and without regard
to ulterior consequences. And, in the ordinary form of the Intuitional
view of Ethics, the “categorical” prescription of such rules is
maintained explicitly and definitely, as a result of philosophical
reflection: and the realisation of Virtue in act--at least in the
case of the virtues just mentioned--is held to consist in strict and
unswerving conformity to such rules.
On the other hand it is contended by many Utilitarians that all the
rules of conduct which men prescribe to one another as moral rules
are really--though in part unconsciously--prescribed as means to the
general happiness of mankind, or of the whole aggregate of sentient
beings; and it is still more widely held by Utilitarian thinkers that
such rules, however they may originate, are only valid so far as their
observance is conducive to the general happiness. This contention I
shall hereafter examine with due care. Here I wish only to point out
that, if the duty of aiming at the general happiness is thus taken
to include all other duties, as subordinate applications of it, we
seem to be again led to the notion of Happiness as an ultimate end
categorically prescribed,--only it is now General Happiness and not the
private happiness of any individual. And this is the view that I myself
take of the Utilitarian principle.
At the same time, it is not necessary, in the methodical investigation
of right conduct, considered relatively to the end either of private or
of general happiness, to assume that the end itself is determined or
prescribed by reason: we only require to assume, in reasoning to cogent
practical conclusions, that it is adopted as ultimate and paramount.
For if a man accepts any end as ultimate and paramount, he accepts
implicitly as his “method of ethics” whatever process of reasoning
enables him to determine the actions most conducive to this end.[14]
Since, however, to every difference in the end accepted at least
some difference in method will generally correspond: if all the ends
which men are found practically to adopt as ultimate (subordinating
everything else to the attainment of them under the influence of
‘ruling passions’), were taken as principles for which the student of
Ethics is called upon to construct rational methods, his task would
be very complex and extensive. But if we confine ourselves to such
ends as the common sense of mankind appears to accept as rational
ultimate ends, the task is reduced, I think, within manageable limits;
since this criterion will exclude at least many of the objects which
men practically seem to regard as paramount. Thus many men sacrifice
health, fortune, happiness, to Fame; but no one, so far as I know, has
deliberately maintained that Fame is an object which it is reasonable
for men to seek for its own sake. It only commends itself to reflective
minds either (1) as a source of Happiness to the person who gains
it, or (2) a sign of his Excellence, moral or intellectual, or (3)
because it attests the achievement by him of some important benefit
to society, and at the same time stimulates him and others to further
achievement in the future: and the conception of “benefit” would, when
examined in its turn, lead us again to Happiness or Excellence of human
nature,--since a man is commonly thought to benefit others either by
making them happier or by making them wiser and more virtuous.
Whether there are any ends besides these two, which can be reasonably
regarded as ultimate, it will hereafter[15] be part of our business to
investigate: but we may perhaps say that _prima facie_ the only two
ends which have a strongly and widely supported claim to be regarded
as rational ultimate ends are the two just mentioned, Happiness and
Perfection or Excellence of human nature--meaning here by ‘Excellence’
not primarily superiority to others, but a partial realisation of,
or approximation to, an ideal type of human Perfection. And we must
observe that the adoption of the former of these ends leads us to
two _prima facie_ distinct methods, according as it is sought to be
realised universally, or by each individual for himself alone. For
though doubtless a man may often best promote his own happiness by
labouring and abstaining for the sake of others, it seems to be implied
in our common notion of self-sacrifice that actions most conducive to
the general happiness do not--in this world at least--always tend
also to the greatest happiness of the agent.[16] And among those who
hold that “happiness is our being’s end and aim” we seem to find a
fundamental difference of opinion as to whose happiness it is that it
is ultimately reasonable to aim at. For to some it seems that “the
constantly proper end of action on the part of any individual at the
moment of action is his real greatest happiness from that moment to
the end of his life”;[17] whereas others hold that the view of reason
is essentially universal, and that it cannot be reasonable to take
as an ultimate and paramount end the happiness of any one individual
rather than that of any other--at any rate if equally deserving
and susceptible of it--so that general happiness must be the “true
standard of right and wrong, in the field of morals” no less than of
politics.[18] It is, of course, possible to adopt an end intermediate
between the two, and to aim at the happiness of some limited portion
of mankind, such as one’s family or nation or race: but any such
limitation seems arbitrary, and probably few would maintain it to be
reasonable _per se_, except as the most practicable way of aiming at
the general happiness, or of indirectly securing one’s own.
The case seems to be otherwise with Excellence or Perfection.[19] At
first sight, indeed, the same alternatives present themselves:[20] it
seems that the Excellence aimed at may be taken either individually
or universally; and circumstances are conceivable in which a man is
not unlikely to think that he could best promote the Excellence of
others by sacrificing his own. But no moralist who takes Excellence
as an ultimate end has ever approved of such sacrifice, at least so
far as Moral Excellence is concerned; no one has ever directed an
individual to promote the virtue of others except in so far as this
promotion is compatible with, or rather involved in, the complete
realisation of Virtue in himself.[21] So far, then, there seems to
be no need of separating the method of determining right conduct
which takes the Excellence or Perfection of the individual as the
ultimate aim from that which aims at the Excellence or Perfection of
the human community. And since Virtue is commonly conceived as the
most valuable element of human Excellence--and an element essentially
preferable to any other element that can come into competition with
it as an alternative for rational choice--any method which takes
Perfection or Excellence of human nature as ultimate End will _prima
facie_ coincide to a great extent with that based on what I called
the Intuitional view: and I have accordingly decided to treat it as a
special form of this latter.[22] The two methods which take happiness
as an ultimate end it will be convenient to distinguish as Egoistic
and Universalistic Hedonism: and as it is the latter of these, as
taught by Bentham and his successors, that is more generally understood
under the term ‘Utilitarianism,’ I shall always restrict that word to
this signification. For Egoistic Hedonism it is somewhat hard to find
a single perfectly appropriate term. I shall often call this simply
Egoism: but it may sometimes be convenient to call it Epicureanism: for
though this name more properly denotes a particular historical system,
it has come to be commonly used in the wider sense in which I wish to
employ it.
§ 5. The last sentence suggests one more explanation, which, for
clearness’ sake, it seems desirable to make: an explanation, however,
rather of the plan and purpose of the present treatise than of the
nature and boundaries of the subject of Ethics as generally understood.
There are several recognised ways of treating this subject, none of
which I have thought it desirable to adopt. We may start with existing
systems, and either study them historically, tracing the changes in
thought through the centuries, or compare and classify them according
to relations of resemblance, or criticise their internal coherence.
Or we may seek to add to the number of these systems: and claim after
so many unsuccessful efforts to have at last attained the one true
theory of the subject, by which all others may be tested. The present
book contains neither the exposition of a system nor a natural or
critical history of systems. I have attempted to define and unfold
not one Method of Ethics, but several: at the same time these are not
here studied historically, as methods that have actually been used or
proposed for the regulation of practice; but rather as alternatives
between which--so far as they cannot be reconciled--the human mind
seems to me necessarily forced to choose, when it attempts to frame
a complete synthesis of practical maxims and to act in a perfectly
consistent manner. Thus, they might perhaps be called natural methods
rationalised; because men commonly seem to guide themselves by a
mixture of different methods, more or less disguised under ambiguities
of language. The impulses or principles from which the different
methods take their rise, the different claims of different ends to be
rational, are admitted, to some extent, by all minds: and as along
with these claims is felt the need of harmonising them--since it is,
as was said, a postulate of the Practical Reason, that two conflicting
rules of action cannot both be reasonable--the result is ordinarily
either a confused blending, or a forced and premature reconciliation,
of different principles and methods. Nor have the systems framed by
professed moralists been free from similar defects. The writers have
usually proceeded to synthesis without adequate analysis; the practical
demand for the former being more urgently felt than the theoretical
need of the latter. For here as in other points the development of the
theory of Ethics would seem to be somewhat impeded by the preponderance
of practical considerations; and perhaps a more complete detachment
of the theoretical study of right conduct from its practical
application is to be desired for the sake even of the latter itself:
since a treatment which is a compound between the scientific and the
hortatory is apt to miss both the results that it would combine; the
mixture is bewildering to the brain and not stimulating to the heart.
So again, I am inclined to think that here, as in other sciences, it
would be an advantage to draw as distinct a line as possible between
the known and the unknown; as the clear indication of an unsolved
problem is at any rate a step to its solution. In ethical treatises,
however, there has been a continual tendency to ignore and keep out
of sight the difficulties of the subject; either unconsciously, from
a latent conviction that the questions which the writer cannot answer
satisfactorily must be questions which ought not to be asked; or
consciously, that he may not shake the sway of morality over the minds
of his readers. This last well-meant precaution frequently defeats
itself: the difficulties thus concealed in exposition are liable to
reappear in controversy: and then they appear not carefully limited,
but magnified for polemical purposes. Thus we get on the one hand vague
and hazy reconciliation, on the other loose and random exaggeration of
discrepancies; and neither process is effective to dispel the original
vagueness and ambiguity which lurks in the fundamental notions of our
common practical reasonings. To eliminate or reduce this indefiniteness
and confusion is the sole immediate end that I have proposed to
myself in the present work. In order better to execute this task, I
have refrained from expressly attempting any such complete and final
solution of the chief ethical difficulties and controversies as would
convert this exposition of various methods into the development of a
harmonious system. At the same time I hope to afford aid towards the
construction of such a system; because it seems easier to judge of the
mutual relations and conflicting claims of different modes of thought,
after an impartial and rigorous investigation of the conclusions to
which they logically lead. It is not uncommon to find in reflecting
on practical principles, that--however unhesitatingly they seem to
command our assent at first sight, and however familiar and apparently
clear the notions of which they are composed--nevertheless when we
have carefully examined the consequences of adopting them they wear a
changed and somewhat dubious aspect. The truth seems to be that most of
the practical principles that have been seriously put forward are more
or less satisfactory to the common sense of mankind, so long as they
have the field to themselves. They all find a response in our nature:
their fundamental assumptions are all such as we are disposed to
accept, and such as we find to govern to a certain extent our habitual
conduct. When I am asked, “Do you not consider it ultimately reasonable
to seek pleasure and avoid pain for yourself?” “Have you not a moral
sense?” “Do you not intuitively pronounce some actions to be right and
others wrong?” “Do you not acknowledge the general happiness to be a
paramount end?” I answer ‘yes’ to all these questions. My difficulty
begins when I have to choose between the different principles or
inferences drawn from them. We admit the necessity, when they conflict,
of making this choice, and that it is irrational to let sometimes one
principle prevail and sometimes another; but the necessity is a painful
one. We cannot but hope that all methods may ultimately coincide: and
at any rate, before making our election we may reasonably wish to have
the completest possible knowledge of each.
My object, then, in the present work, is to expound as clearly and as
fully as my limits will allow the different methods of Ethics that I
find implicit in our common moral reasoning; to point out their mutual
relations; and where they seem to conflict, to define the issue as much
as possible. In the course of this endeavour I am led to discuss the
considerations which should, in my opinion, be decisive in determining
the adoption of ethical first principles: but it is not my primary
aim to establish such principles; nor, again, is it my primary aim to
supply a set of practical directions for conduct. I have wished to keep
the reader’s attention throughout directed to the processes rather than
the results of ethical thought: and have therefore never stated as my
own any positive practical conclusions unless by way of illustration:
and have never ventured to decide dogmatically any controverted points,
except where the controversy seemed to arise from want of precision or
clearness in the definition of principles, or want of consistency in
reasoning.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] The exact relation of the terms ‘right’ and ‘what ought to be’ is
discussed in chap. iii. of this Book. I here assume that they may be
used as convertible, for most purposes.
[10] I use ‘Politics’ in what I take to be its most ordinary
signification, to denote the science or study of Right or Good
Legislation and Government. There is a wider possible sense of the
term, according to which it would include the greater part of Ethics:
_i.e._ if understood to be the Theory of Right Social Relations. See
chap. ii. § 2.
[11] The relation of the notion of ‘Good’ to that of ‘Right’ or ‘what
ought to be’ will be further considered in a subsequent chapter of this
Book (ix.)
[12] See the Preface to Butler’s _Sermons on Human Nature_.
[13] The phrase is Butler’s.
[14] See the last paragraph of chap. iii. of this Book.
[15] See chap. ix. of this Book, and Book iii. chap. xiv.
[16] For a full discussion of this question, see Book ii. chap. v. and
the concluding chapter of the work.
[17] Bentham, _Memoirs_ (vol. x. of Bowring’s edition), p. 560.
[18] Bentham again, _Memoirs_, p. 79. See note at the end of Book i.
chap. vi. The Utilitarians since Bentham have sometimes adopted one,
sometimes the other, of these two principles as paramount.
[19] I use the terms ‘Excellence’ and ‘Perfection’ to denote the same
ultimate end regarded in somewhat different aspects: meaning by either
an ideal complex of mental qualities, of which we admire and approve
the manifestation in human life: but using ‘Perfection’ to denote the
ideal as such, while ‘Excellence’ denotes such partial realisation of
or approximation to the ideal as we actually find in human experience.
[20] It may be said that even more divergent views of the reasonable
end are possible here than in the case of happiness: for we are not
necessarily limited (as in that case) to the consideration of sentient
beings: inanimate things also seem to have a perfection and excellence
of their own and to be capable of being made better or worse in their
kind; and this perfection, or one species of it, appears to be the end
of the Fine Arts. But reflection I think shows that neither beauty
nor any other quality of inanimate objects can be regarded as good or
desirable in itself, out of relation to the perfection or happiness of
sentient beings. Cf. _post_, chap. ix. of this Book.
[21] Kant roundly denies that it can be my duty to take the Perfection
of others for my end: but his argument is not, I think, valid. Cf.
_post_, Book iii. chap. iv. § 1.
[22] See Book iii. chap. xiv., where I explain my reasons for only
giving a subordinate place to the conception of Perfection as Ultimate
End.
CHAPTER II
THE RELATION OF ETHICS TO POLITICS
§ 1. In the last chapter I have spoken of Ethics and Politics as being
both Practical Studies, including in the scope of their investigation
somewhat that lies outside the sphere of positive sciences--viz. the
determination of ends to be sought, or rules to be unconditionally
obeyed. Before proceeding further, it would seem desirable to determine
in outline the mutual relations of these cognate studies, regarded from
the point of view of Ethics.
As I have defined them, Ethics aims at determining what ought to be
done by individuals, while Politics aims at determining what the
government of a state or political society ought to do and how it ought
to be constituted,--including under the latter head all questions as to
the control over government that should be exercised by the governed.
At first sight it may seem that Politics, so conceived, must be a
branch of Ethics. For all the actions of government are actions of
individuals, alone or in combination, and so are all the actions of
those who, obeying, influencing, or perhaps occasionally resisting
government, maintain and from time to time modify the constitution of
their state: and it would seem that if properly performed such actions
must be determined on ethical principles or be capable of justification
by such principles. But this argument is not decisive; for by similar
reasoning Ethics would have to comprehend all arts, liberal and
industrial. _E.g._ it is a main part of the moral duty of a sea-captain
and his subordinates to navigate their ship properly; but we do not
take Ethics to include a study of the rules of navigation. It may be
replied that every man is not a sailor, but--at least in a country
under popular government--every citizen has important political duties,
which he ought to perform according to knowledge, so far as possible;
but, similarly, it is an important part of every adult’s moral duty
to take care of his health, and it is proverbial that “every man at
forty is a fool or his own physician”; yet we do not consider Ethics to
include the art of medicine.
The specially important connexion between Ethics and Politics arises in
a different way. It is the business of government, by laying down and
enforcing laws, to regulate the outward conduct of the governed, not in
one department only, but in all their social relations, so far as such
conduct is a proper subject for coercive rules. And not only ought this
regulation to be in harmony with morality--for obviously people ought
not to be compelled to do what they ought not to do--but further, to an
important extent the Law of a man’s state will properly determine the
details of his moral duty, even beyond the sphere of legal enforcement.
Thus we commonly regard it as an individual’s moral duty, under the
head of Justice, to “give every man his own,” even when--through some
accident--the other party has not the power of legally enforcing his
right; but still, in considering what is the other’s “own,” we assume
him generally to be guided by the law of his state; if that were
changed, his moral duty would change with it. Similarly, the mutual
moral duties of husbands and wives, and of children and parents, will
vary in detail with the variations in their legal relations.
But when we look closer at the relation thus constituted between
Ethics and Politics, we see that a distinction has to be taken between
actual or Positive Law and Ideal Law or Law as it ought to be. It is
for the latter that Political Theory lays down principles; but it is
Positive, not Ideal, Law that primarily determines right conduct for an
individual here and now, in the manner just exemplified. No doubt if
Positive and Ideal Law appear to me to diverge very widely--if (_e.g._)
I am convinced by political theory that a fundamental change in the
law of property is desirable--this conviction is likely to influence
my view of my moral duty under the existing law; but the extent of
this influence is vague and uncertain. Suppose I am a slave-owner
in a society in which slavery is established, and become convinced
that private property in human beings should be abolished by law: it
does not therefore follow that I shall regard it as my moral duty to
set free my slaves at once. I may think immediate general abolition
of slavery not only hopeless, but even inexpedient for the slaves
themselves, who require a gradual education for freedom: so that it is
better for the present to aim at legal changes that would cut off the
worst evils of slavery, and meanwhile to set an example of humane and
considerate treatment of bondsmen. Similar reasonings might be applied
to the abolition of private property in the instruments of production,
or in appointments to offices, civil or ecclesiastical. Speaking
generally, the extent to which political ideals ought to influence
moral duty would seem to depend partly on the apparent remoteness
or nearness of the prospect of realising the ideal, partly on its
imperativeness, or the expediency of immediate realisation: and the
force attached to both these considerations is likely to vary with the
political method adopted; so that it belongs to Politics rather than
Ethics to determine them more precisely.
To sum up: we have to distinguish clearly between two questions: (1)
how far the determination of right conduct for an individual here
and now ought to be influenced by Positive Laws, and other commands
of Government as actually established; and (2) how far it ought to
be influenced by Political Theory, as to the functions and structure
of Government as it ought to be. As regards the former, it clearly
belongs to Ethics to determine the grounds and limits of obedience
to Government; and also the general conception of political duty, so
far as it goes beyond mere obedience--with due recognition of the
large variations due to the varying political conditions of different
states. (A “good citizen” in the United States will reasonably form
a conception of his actual political duty widely divergent from that
reasonably formed by a good citizen in Russia.[23]) And this will be
the primary business of Ethics so far as it deals with the political
side of life. The discussion of political ideals will only come within
its purview in a more indefinite and indirect way, so far as such
ideals cannot but have some influence on the determination of political
duty under existing conditions.
§ 2. I have stated the Relation of Ethics to Politics--regarded from an
ethical point of view--that seems to me to accord with the definition
of the former subject adopted in the preceding chapter. Some thinkers,
however, take a view of Ethical Theory which involves a relation to
Political Theory quite different from that just set forth; regarding
Theoretical or “Absolute” Ethics as properly an investigation not of
what ought to be done here and now, but of what ought to be the rules
of behaviour in a society of ideally perfect human beings. Thus the
subject-matter of our study would be doubly ideal: as it would not only
prescribe what ought to be done as distinct from what is, but what
ought to be done in a society that itself _is_ not, but only _ought_ to
be. In this view the conclusions of Theoretical or “Absolute” Ethics
would have as indirect and uncertain a relation to the practical
problems of actual life as those of Theoretical Politics:--or even more
so, as in sober political theory it is commonly only the government and
not the governed society that is conceived in an ideal condition. Still
the two studies are not unlikely to blend in one theory of ideal social
relations;--unless the ideal society is conceived as having no need
of government, so that Politics, in the ordinary sense,[24] vanishes
altogether.
Those who take this view[25] adduce the analogy of Geometry to show
that Ethics ought to deal with ideally perfect human relations, just
as Geometry treats of ideally straight lines and perfect circles. But
the irregular lines which we meet with in experience have spatial
relations which Geometry does not ignore altogether; it can and does
ascertain them with a sufficient degree of accuracy for practical
purposes: though of course they are more complex than those of
perfectly straight lines. So in Astronomy, it would be more convenient
for purposes of study if the stars moved in circles, as was once
believed: but the fact that they move not in circles but in ellipses,
and even in imperfect and perturbed ellipses, does not take them out
of the sphere of scientific investigation: by patience and industry we
have learnt how to reduce to principles and calculate even these more
complicated motions. It may be useful for purposes of instruction to
assume that the planets move in perfect ellipses: but what we want, as
astronomers, to know is the actual motion of the stars, and its causes:
and similarly as moralists we naturally inquire what ought to be done
in the actual world in which we live. In neither case can we hope to
represent in our general reasonings the full complexity of the actual
considerations: but we endeavour to approximate to it as closely as
possible. It is only so that we really grapple with the question to
which mankind generally require an answer: ‘What is a man’s duty in his
present condition?’ For it is too paradoxical to say that the whole
duty of man is summed up in the effort to attain an ideal state of
social relations; and unless we say this, we must determine our duties
to existing men in view of existing circumstances: and this is what
the student of Ethics seeks to do in a systematic manner.
The inquiry into the morality of an ideal society can therefore be at
best but a preliminary investigation, after which the step from the
ideal to the actual, in accordance with reason, remains to be taken.
We have to ask, then, how far such a preliminary construction seems
desirable. And in answering this we must distinguish the different
methods of Ethics. For it is generally held by Intuitionists that true
morality prescribes absolutely what is in itself right, under all
social conditions; at least as far as determinate duties are concerned:
as (_e.g._) that truth should always be spoken and promises kept, and
‘Justice be done, though the sky should fall.’ And so far as this is
held it would seem that there can be no fundamental distinction drawn,
in the determination of duty, between the actual state of society and
an ideal state: at any rate the general definition of (_e.g._) Justice
will be the same for both, no less than its absolute stringency. Still
even an extreme Intuitionist would admit that the details of Justice
and other duties will vary with social institutions: and it is a
plausible suggestion, that if we can clearly contemplate as a pattern
the “absolute” Justice of an ideal community, we shall be better able
to attain the merely “relative” Justice that is alone possible under
existing conditions. How far this is so, we shall be in a better
position to judge when we have examined the definition of Justice from
an Intuitional point of view.
The question takes a simpler form in the case of the method which
proposes as an ultimate end, and supreme standard, Universal
Happiness.[26] Here we have merely to ask how far a systematic
consideration of the social relations of an ideally happy group of
human beings is likely to afford guidance in our efforts to promote
human happiness here and now. I shall not at present deny that this
task might usefully be included in an exhaustive study of this method.
But it can easily be shown that it is involved in serious difficulties.
For as in ordinary deliberation we have to consider what is best
under certain conditions of human life, internal or external, so
we must do this in contemplating the ideal society. We require to
contemplate not so much the end supposed to be attained--which is
simply the most pleasant consciousness conceivable, lasting as long and
as uninterruptedly as possible--but rather some method of realising
it, pursued by human beings; and these, again, must be conceived as
existing under conditions not too remote from our own, so that we
can at least endeavour to imitate them. And for this we must know
how far our present circumstances are modifiable; a very difficult
question, as the constructions which have actually been made of such
ideal societies show. For example, the _Republic_ of Plato seems in
many respects sufficiently divergent from the reality, and yet he
contemplates war as a permanent unalterable fact, to be provided for
in the ideal state, and indeed such provision seems the predominant
aim of his construction; whereas the soberest modern Utopia would
certainly include the suppression of war. Indeed the ideal will often
seem to diverge in diametrically opposite directions from the actual,
according to the line of imagined change which we happen to adopt,
in our visionary flight from present evils. For example, permanent
marriage-unions now cause some unhappiness, because conjugal affection
is not always permanent; but they are thought to be necessary, partly
to protect men and women from vagaries of passion pernicious to
themselves, but chiefly in order to the better rearing of children. Now
it may seem to some that in an ideal state of society we could trust
more to parental affections, and require less to control the natural
play of emotion between the sexes, and that ‘Free Love’ is therefore
the ideal; while others would maintain that permanence in conjugal
affection is natural and normal, and that any exceptions to this rule
must be supposed to disappear as we approximate to the ideal. Again,
the happiness enjoyed in our actual society seems much diminished by
the unequal distribution of the means of happiness, and the division
of mankind into rich and poor. But we can conceive this evil removed
in two quite different ways: either by an increased disposition on
the part of the rich to redistribute their share, or by such social
arrangements as would enable the poor to secure more for themselves. In
the one case the ideal involves a great extension and systematisation
of the arbitrary and casual almsgiving that now goes on: in the other
case, its extinction.
In short, it seems that when we abandon the firm ground of actual
society we have an illimitable cloudland surrounding us on all sides,
in which we may construct any variety of pattern states; but no
definite ideal to which the actual undeniably approximates, as the
straight lines and circles of the actual physical world approximate to
those of scientific geometry.
It may be said, however, that we can reduce this variety by studying
the past history of mankind, as this will enable us to predict to
some extent their future manner of existence. But even so it does
not appear that we shall gain much definite guidance for our present
conduct. For let us make the most favourable suppositions that we can,
and such as soar even above the confidence of the most dogmatic of
scientific historians. Let us assume that the process of human history
is a progress of mankind towards ever greater happiness. Let us assume
further that we can not only fix certain limits within which the future
social condition of mankind must lie, but even determine in detail the
mutual relations of the different elements of the future community,
so as to view in clear outline the rules of behaviour, by observing
which they will attain the maximum of happiness. It still remains quite
doubtful how far it would be desirable for us to imitate these rules
in the circumstances in which we now live. For this foreknown social
order is _ex hypothesi_ only presented as a more advanced stage in
our social progress, and not as a type or pattern which we ought to
make a struggle to realise approximately at an earlier stage. How far
it should be taken as such a pattern, is a question which would still
have to be determined, and in the consideration of it the effects of
our actions on the existing generation would after all be the most
important element.[27]
FOOTNOTES:
[23] It may be doubted whether the latter ought properly to be termed
a “good citizen,” and not rather a “faithful subject of the Czar of
Russia.” But this doubt only illustrates the divergence to which I am
drawing attention.
[24] Sometimes, as before observed, Politics appears to be used in a
wider sense, to denote the theory of ideal social relations, whether
conceived to be established through governmental coercion or otherwise.
[25] In writing this section I had primarily in view the doctrine set
forth in Mr. Spencer’s _Social Statics_. As Mr. Spencer has restated
his view and replied to my arguments in his _Data of Ethics_, it is
necessary for me to point out that the first paragraph of this section
is not directed against such a view of ‘Absolute’ and ‘Relative’
Ethics as is given in the later treatise--which seems to me to differ
materially from the doctrine of _Social Statics_. In _Social Statics_
it is maintained not merely--as in the _Data of Ethics_--that Absolute
Ethics which “formulates normal conduct in an ideal society” ought to
“take precedence of Relative Ethics”; but that Absolute Ethics is the
only kind of Ethics with which a philosophical moralist can possibly
concern himself. To quote Mr. Spencer’s words:--“Any proposed system of
morals which recognises existing defects, and countenances acts made
needful by them, stands self-condemned.... Moral law ... requires as
its postulate that human beings be perfect. The philosophical moralist
treats solely of the _straight_ man ... shows in what relationship
he stands to other straight men ... a problem in which a _crooked_
man forms one of the elements, is insoluble by him.” _Social Statics_
(chap. i.). Still more definitely is Relative Ethics excluded in the
following passage of the concluding chapter of the same treatise (the
italics are mine):--“It will very likely be urged that, whereas the
perfect moral code is confessedly beyond the fulfilment of imperfect
men, some other code is needful for our present guidance ... to say
that the imperfect man requires a moral code which recognises his
imperfection and allows for it, _seems at first sight reasonable_. _But
it is not really so_ ... a system of morals which shall recognise man’s
present imperfections and allow for them _cannot be devised; and would
be useless if it could be devised_.”
[26] I omit, for the present, the consideration of the method which
takes Perfection as an ultimate end: since, as has been before
observed, it is hardly possible to discuss this satisfactorily, in
relation to the present question, until it has been somewhat more
clearly distinguished from the ordinary Intuitional Method.
[27] Some further consideration of this question will be found in a
subsequent chapter. Cf. Book iv. chap. iv. § 2.
CHAPTER III
ETHICAL JUDGMENTS
§ 1. In the first chapter I spoke of actions that we judge to be right
and what ought to be done as being “reasonable,” or “rational,” and
similarly of ultimate ends as “prescribed by Reason”: and I contrasted
the motive to action supplied by the recognition of such reasonableness
with “non-rational” desires and inclinations. This manner of speaking
is employed by writers of different schools, and seems in accordance
with the common view and language on the subject. For we commonly think
that wrong conduct is essentially irrational, and can be shown to be so
by argument; and though we do not conceive that it is by reason alone
that men are influenced to act rightly, we still hold that appeals to
the reason are an essential part of all moral persuasion, and that
part which concerns the moralist or moral philosopher as distinct from
the preacher or moral rhetorician. On the other hand it is widely
maintained that, as Hume says, “Reason, meaning the judgment of truth
and falsehood, can never of itself be any motive to the Will”; and
that the motive to action is in all cases some Non-rational Desire,
including under this term the impulses to action given by present
pleasure and pain. It seems desirable to examine with some care the
grounds of this contention before we proceed any further.
Let us begin by defining the issue raised as clearly as possible. Every
one, I suppose, has had experience of what is meant by the conflict of
non-rational or irrational desires with reason: most of us (_e.g._)
occasionally feel bodily appetite prompting us to indulgences which
we judge to be imprudent, and anger prompting us to acts which we
disapprove as unjust or unkind. It is when this conflict occurs that
the desires are said to be irrational, as impelling us to volitions
opposed to our deliberate judgments; sometimes we yield to such
seductive impulses, and sometimes not; and it is perhaps when we do
_not_ yield that the impulsive force of such irrational desires is most
definitely felt, as we have to exert in resisting them a voluntary
effort somewhat analogous to that involved in any muscular exertion.
Often, again,--since we are not always thinking either of our duty
or of our interest,--desires of this kind take effect in voluntary
actions without our having judged such actions to be either right
or wrong, either prudent or imprudent; as (_e.g._) when an ordinary
healthy man eats his dinner. In such cases it seems most appropriate
to call the desires “non-rational” rather than “irrational.” Neither
term is intended to imply that the desires spoken of--or at least the
more important of them--are not normally accompanied by intellectual
processes. It is true that some impulses to action seem to take
effect, as we say “blindly” or “instinctively,” without any definite
consciousness either of the end at which the action is aimed, or of
the means by which the end is to be attained: but this, I conceive, is
only the case with impulses that do not occupy consciousness for an
appreciable time, and ordinarily do not require any but very familiar
and habitual actions for the attainment of their proximate ends. In
all other cases--that is, in the case of the actions with which we
are chiefly concerned in ethical discussion--the result aimed at, and
some part at least of the means by which it is to be realised, are
more or less distinctly represented in consciousness, previous to the
volition that initiates the movements tending to its realisation.
Hence the resultant forces of what I call “non-rational” desires,
and the volitions to which they prompt, are continually modified by
intellectual processes in two distinct ways; first by new perceptions
or representations of means conducive to the desired ends, and secondly
by new presentations or representations of facts actually existing
or in prospect--especially more or less probable consequences of
contemplated actions--which rouse new impulses of desire and aversion.
The question, then, is whether the account just given of the influence
of the intellect on desire and volition is not exhaustive; and whether
the experience which is commonly described as a “conflict of desire
with reason” is not more properly conceived as merely a conflict among
desires and aversions; the sole function of reason being to bring
before the mind ideas of actual or possible facts, which modify in the
manner above described the resultant force of our various impulses.
I hold that this is not the case; that the ordinary moral or prudential
judgments which, in the case of all or most minds, have some--though
often an inadequate--influence on volition, cannot legitimately be
interpreted as judgments respecting the present or future existence
of human feelings or any facts of the sensible world; the fundamental
notion represented by the word “ought” or “right,”[28] which such
judgments contain expressly or by implication, being essentially
different from all notions representing facts of physical or psychical
experience. The question is one on which appeal must ultimately be
made to the reflection of individuals on their practical judgments
and reasonings: and in making this appeal it seems most convenient
to begin by showing the inadequacy of all attempts to explain the
practical judgments or propositions in which this fundamental notion
is introduced, without recognising its unique character as above
negatively defined. There is an element of truth in such explanations,
in so far as they bring into view feelings which undoubtedly accompany
moral or prudential judgments, and which ordinarily have more or less
effect in determining the will to actions judged to be right; but so
far as they profess to be interpretations of what such judgments mean,
they appear to me to fail altogether.
In considering this question it is important to take separately the
two species of judgments which I have distinguished as “moral” and
“prudential.” Both kinds might, indeed, be termed “moral” in a wider
sense; and, as we saw, it is a strongly supported opinion that all
valid moral rules have ultimately a prudential basis. But in ordinary
thought we clearly distinguish cognitions or judgments of duty from
cognitions or judgments as to what “is right” or “ought to be done” in
view of the agent’s private interest or happiness: and the depth of the
distinction will not, I think, be diminished by the closer examination
of these judgments on which we are now to enter.
This very distinction, however, suggests an interpretation of the
notion of rightness which denies its peculiar significance in moral
judgments. It is urged that “rightness” is properly an attribute of
means, not of ends: so that the attribution of it merely implies
that the act judged right is the fittest or only fit means to the
realisation of some end understood if not expressly stated: and
similarly that the affirmation that anything ‘ought to be done’ is
always made with at least tacit reference to some ulterior end. And I
grant that this is a legitimate interpretation, in respect of a part of
the use of either term in ordinary discourse. But it seems clear (1)
that certain kinds of actions--under the names of Justice, Veracity,
Good Faith, etc.--are commonly held to be right unconditionally,
without regard to ulterior results: and (2) that we similarly regard
as “right” the adoption of certain ends--such as the common good
of society, or general happiness. In either of these cases the
interpretation above suggested seems clearly inadmissible.[29]
We have therefore to find a meaning for “right” or “what ought to be”
other than the notion of fitness to some ulterior end. Here we are met
by the suggestion that the judgments or propositions which we commonly
call moral--in the narrower sense--really affirm no more than the
existence of a specific emotion in the mind of the person who utters
them; that when I say ‘Truth ought to be spoken’ or ‘Truthspeaking is
right,’ I mean no more than that the idea of truthspeaking excites in
my mind a feeling of approbation or satisfaction. And probably some
degree of such emotion, commonly distinguished as ‘moral sentiment,’
ordinarily accompanies moral judgments on real cases. But it is absurd
to say that a mere statement of my approbation of truth-speaking is
properly given in the proposition ‘Truth ought to be spoken’; otherwise
the fact of another man’s disapprobation might equally be expressed
by saying ‘Truth ought not to be spoken’; and thus we should have two
coexistent facts stated in two mutually contradictory propositions.
This is so obvious, that we must suppose that those who hold the view
which I am combating do not really intend to deny it: but rather to
maintain that this subjective fact of my approbation is all that
there is any _ground_ for stating, or perhaps that it is all that any
reasonable person is prepared on reflection to affirm. And no doubt
there is a large class of statements, in form objective, which yet
we are not commonly prepared to maintain as more than subjective if
their validity is questioned. If I say that ‘the air is sweet,’ or
‘the food disagreeable,’ it would not be exactly true to say that
I mean no more than that I like the one or dislike the other: but
if my statement is challenged, I shall probably content myself with
affirming the existence of such feelings in my own mind. But there
appears to me to be a fundamental difference between this case and
that of moral feelings. The peculiar emotion of moral approbation is,
in my experience, inseparably bound up with the conviction, implicit
or explicit, that the conduct approved is ‘really’ right--_i.e._
that it cannot, without error, be disapproved by any other mind. If
I give up this conviction because others do not share it, or for any
other reason, I may no doubt still retain a sentiment prompting to
the conduct in question, or--what is perhaps more common--a sentiment
of repugnance to the opposite conduct: but this sentiment will no
longer have the special quality of ‘moral sentiment’ strictly so
called. This difference between the two is often overlooked in ethical
discussion: but any experience of a change in moral opinion produced by
argument may afford an illustration of it. Suppose (_e.g._) that any
one habitually influenced by the sentiment of Veracity is convinced
that under certain peculiar circumstances in which he finds himself,
speaking truth is not right but wrong. He will probably still feel a
repugnance against violating the rule of truthspeaking: but it will be
a feeling quite different in kind and degree from that which prompted
him to veracity as a department of virtuous action. We might perhaps
call the one a ‘moral’ and the other a ‘quasi-moral’ sentiment.
The argument just given holds equally against the view that approbation
or disapprobation is not the mere liking or aversion of an individual
for certain kinds of conduct, but this complicated by a sympathetic
representation of similar likings or aversions felt by other human
beings. No doubt such sympathy is a normal concomitant of moral
emotion, and when the former is absent there is much greater difficulty
in maintaining the latter: this, however, is partly because our moral
beliefs commonly agree with those of other members of our society, and
on this agreement depends to an important extent our confidence in the
truth of these beliefs.[30] But if, as in the case just supposed, we
are really led by argument to a new moral belief, opposed not only to
our own habitual sentiment but also to that of the society in which
we live, we have a crucial experiment proving the existence in us of
moral sentiments as I have defined them, colliding with the represented
sympathies of our fellow-men no less than with our own mere likings
and aversions. And even if we imagine the sympathies opposed to our
convictions extended until they include those of the whole human race,
against whom we imagine ourselves to stand as _Athanasius contra
mundum_; still, so long as our conviction of duty is firm, the emotion
which we call moral stands out in imagination quite distinct from the
complex sympathy opposed to it, however much we extend, complicate and
intensify the latter.
§ 2. So far, then, from being prepared to admit that the proposition
‘X ought to be done’ _merely_ expresses the existence of a certain
sentiment in myself or others, I find it strictly impossible so to
regard my own moral judgments without eliminating from the concomitant
sentiment the peculiar quality signified by the term ‘moral.’ There is,
however, another interpretation of ‘ought,’ in which the likings and
aversions that men in general feel for certain kinds of conduct are
considered not as sympathetically represented in the emotion of the
person judging, and thus constituting the moral element in it, but as
causes of pain to the person of whom ‘ought’ or ‘duty’ is predicated.
On this view, when we say that a man ‘ought’ to do anything, or that it
is his ‘duty’ to do it, we mean that he is bound under penalties to do
it; the particular penalty considered being the pain that will accrue
to him directly or indirectly from the dislike of his fellow-creatures.
I think that this interpretation expresses a part of the meaning
with which the words ‘ought’ and ‘duty’ are used in ordinary thought
and discourse. For we commonly use the term ‘moral obligation’ as
equivalent to ‘duty’ and expressing what is implied in the verb
‘ought,’ thus suggesting an analogy between this notion and that of
legal obligation; and in the case of positive law we cannot refuse
to recognise the connexion of ‘obligation’ and ‘punishment’: a law
cannot be properly said to be actually established in a society if it
is habitually violated with impunity. But a more careful reflection on
the relation of Law to Morality, as ordinarily conceived, seems to show
that this interpretation of ‘ought’--though it cannot be excluded--must
be distinguished from the special ethical use of the term. For the
ideal distinction taken in common thought between legal and merely
moral rules seems to lie in just this connexion of the former but not
the latter with punishment: we think that there are some things which a
man ought to be compelled to do, or forbear, and others which he ought
to do or forbear without compulsion, and that the former alone fall
properly within the sphere of law. No doubt we also think that in many
cases where the compulsion of law is undesirable, the fear of moral
censure and its consequences supplies a normally useful constraint on
the will of any individual. But it is evident that what we mean when we
say that a man is “morally though not legally bound” to do a thing is
not merely that he “will be punished by public opinion if he does not”;
for we often join these two statements, clearly distinguishing their
import: and further (since public opinion is known to be eminently
fallible) there are many things which we judge men ‘ought’ to do,
while perfectly aware that they will incur no serious social penalties
for omitting them. In such cases, indeed, it would be commonly said
that social disapprobation ‘ought’ to follow on immoral conduct; and
in this very assertion it is clear that the term ‘ought’ cannot mean
that social penalties are to be feared by those who do not disapprove.
Again, all or most men in whom the moral consciousness is strongly
developed find themselves from time to time in conflict with the
commonly received morality of the society to which they belong: and
thus--as was before said--have a crucial experience proving that duty
does not mean _to them_ what other men will disapprove of them for not
doing.
At the same time I admit, as indeed I have already suggested in § 3
of chap. i., that we not unfrequently pass judgments resembling moral
judgments in form, and not distinguished from them in ordinary thought,
in cases where the obligation affirmed is found, on reflection, to
depend on the existence of current opinions and sentiments as such.
The members of modern civilised societies are under the sway of a code
of Public Opinion, enforced by social penalties, which no reflective
person obeying it identifies with the moral code, or regards as
unconditionally binding: indeed the code is manifestly fluctuating and
variable, different at the same time in different classes, professions,
social circles, of the same political community. Such a code always
supports to a considerable extent the commonly received code of
morality: and most reflective persons think it generally reasonable
to conform to the dictates of public opinion--to the code of Honour,
we may say, in graver matters, or the rules of Politeness or Good
Breeding in lighter matters--wherever these dictates do not positively
conflict with morality; such conformity being maintained either on
grounds of private interest, or because it is thought conducive to
general happiness or wellbeing to keep as much as possible in harmony
with one’s fellow-men. Hence in the ordinary thought of unreflective
persons the duties imposed by social opinion are often undistinguished
from moral duties: and indeed this indistinctness is almost inherent
in the common meaning of many terms. For instance, if we say that a
man has been ‘dishonoured’ by a cowardly act, it is not quite clear
whether we mean that he has incurred contempt, or that he has deserved
it, or both: as becomes evident when we take a case in which the Code
of Honour comes into conflict with Morality. If (_e.g._) a man were
to incur social ostracism anywhere for refusing a duel on religious
grounds, some would say that he was ‘dishonoured,’ though he had
acted rightly, others that there could be no real dishonour in a
virtuous act. A similar ambiguity seems to lurk in the common notion
of ‘improper’ or ‘incorrect’ behaviour. Still in all such cases the
ambiguity becomes evident on reflection: and when discovered, merely
serves to illustrate further the distinction between the notion
of ‘right conduct,’ ‘duty,’ what we ‘ought’ or are under ‘moral
obligation’ to do--when these terms are used in a strictly ethical
sense--and conduct that is merely conformed to the standard of current
opinion.
There is, however, another way of interpreting ‘ought’ as connoting
penalties, which is somewhat less easy to meet by a crucial
psychological experiment. The moral imperative may be taken to be a
law of God, to the breach of which Divine penalties are annexed; and
these, no doubt, in a Christian society, are commonly conceived to be
adequate and universally applicable. Still, it can hardly be said that
this belief is shared by all the persons whose conduct is influenced
by independent moral convictions, occasionally unsupported either by
the law or the public opinion of their community. And even in the case
of many of those who believe fully in the moral government of the
world, the judgment “I ought to do this” cannot be identified with
the judgment “God will punish me if I do not”; since the conviction
that the former proposition is true is distinctly recognised as an
important part of the grounds for believing the latter. Again, when
Christians speak--as they commonly do--of the ‘justice’ (or other moral
attributes) of God, as exhibited in punishing sinners and rewarding the
righteous, they obviously imply not merely that God _will_ thus punish
and reward, but that it is ‘right’[31] for Him to do so: which, of
course, cannot be taken to mean that He is ‘bound under penalties.’
§ 3. It seems then that the notion of ‘ought’ or ‘moral obligation’ as
used in our common moral judgments, does not merely import (1) that
there exists in the mind of the person judging a specific emotion
(whether complicated or not by sympathetic representation of similar
emotions in other minds); nor (2) that certain rules of conduct are
supported by penalties which will follow on their violation (whether
such penalties result from the general liking or aversion felt for
the conduct prescribed or forbidden, or from some other source). What
then, it may be asked, does it import? What definition can we give
of ‘ought,’ ‘right,’ and other terms expressing the same fundamental
notion? To this I should answer that the notion which these terms
have in common is too elementary to admit of any formal definition.
In so saying, I do not mean to imply that it belongs to the “original
constitution of the mind”; _i.e._ that its presence in consciousness
is not the result of a process of development. I do not doubt that the
whole fabric of human thought--including the conceptions that present
themselves as most simple and elementary--has been developed, through
a gradual process of psychical change, out of some lower life in which
thought, properly speaking, had no place. But it is not therefore to be
inferred, as regards this or any other notion, that it has not really
the simplicity which it appears to have when we now reflect upon it.
It is sometimes assumed that if we can show how thoughts have grown
up--if we can point to the psychical antecedents of which they are the
natural consequents--we may conclude that the thoughts in question are
really compounds containing their antecedents as latent elements. But
I know no justification for this transference of the conceptions of
chemistry to psychology;[32] I know no reason for considering psychical
antecedents as really constitutive of their psychical consequents, in
spite of the apparent dissimilarity between the two. In default of such
reasons, a psychologist must accept as elementary what introspection
carefully performed declares to be so; and, using this criterion, I
find that the notion we have been examining, as it now exists in our
thought, cannot be resolved into any more simple notions: it can only
be made clearer by determining as precisely as possible its relation
to other notions with which it is connected in ordinary thought,
especially to those with which it is liable to be confounded.
In performing this process it is important to note and distinguish
two different implications with which the word “ought” is used; in
the narrowest ethical sense what we judge ‘ought to be’ done, is
always thought capable of being brought about by the volition of any
individual to whom the judgment applies. I cannot conceive that I
‘ought’ to do anything which at the same time I judge that I cannot do.
In a wider sense, however,--which cannot conveniently be discarded--I
sometimes judge that I ‘ought’ to know what a wiser man would know,
or feel as a better man would feel, in my place, though I may know
that I could not directly produce in myself such knowledge or feeling
by any effort of will. In this case the word merely implies an ideal
or pattern which I ‘ought’--in the stricter sense--to seek to imitate
as far as possible. And this wider sense seems to be that in which
the word is normally used in the precepts of Art generally, and in
political judgments: when I judge that the laws and constitution of my
country ‘ought to be’ other than they are, I do not of course imply
that my own or any other individual’s single volition can directly
bring about the change.[33] In either case, however, I imply that what
ought to be is a possible object of knowledge: _i.e._ that what I judge
ought to be must, unless I am in error, be similarly judged by all
rational beings who judge truly of the matter.
In referring such judgments to the ‘Reason,’ I do not mean here to
prejudge the question whether valid moral judgments are normally
attained by a process of reasoning from universal principles or axioms,
or by direct intuition of the particular duties of individuals.
It is not uncommonly held that the moral faculty deals primarily
with individual cases as they arise, applying directly to each case
the general notion of duty, and deciding intuitively what ought
to be done by this person in these particular circumstances. And
I admit that on this view the apprehension of moral truth is more
analogous to Sense-perception than to Rational Intuition (as commonly
understood):[34] and hence the term Moral Sense might seem more
appropriate. But the term Sense suggests a capacity for feelings
which may vary from _A_ to _B_ without either being in error, rather
than a faculty of cognition:[35] and it appears to me fundamentally
important to avoid this suggestion. I have therefore thought it better
to use the term Reason with the explanation above given, to denote the
faculty of moral cognition:[36] adding, as a further justification of
this use, that even when a moral judgment relates primarily to some
particular action we commonly regard it as applicable to any other
action belonging to a certain definable class: so that the moral truth
apprehended is implicitly conceived to be intrinsically universal,
though particular in our first apprehension of it.
Further, when I speak of the cognition or judgment that ‘X ought to
be done’--in the stricter ethical sense of the term ought[37]--as a
‘dictate’ or ‘precept’ of reason to the persons to whom it relates, I
imply that in rational beings as such this cognition gives an impulse
or motive to action: though in human beings, of course, this is only
one motive among others which are liable to conflict with it, and is
not always--perhaps not usually--a predominant motive. In fact, this
possible conflict of motives seems to be connoted by the term ‘dictate’
or ‘imperative,’ which describes the relation of Reason to mere
inclinations or non-rational impulses by comparing it to the relation
between the will of a superior and the wills of his subordinates. This
conflict seems also to be implied in the terms ‘ought,’ ‘duty,’ ‘moral
obligation,’ as used in ordinary moral discourse: and hence these terms
cannot be applied to the actions of rational beings to whom we cannot
attribute impulses conflicting with reason. We may, however, say of
such beings that their actions are ‘reasonable,’ or (in an absolute
sense) ‘right.’
§ 4. I am aware that some persons will be disposed to answer all the
preceding argument by a simple denial that they can find in their
consciousness any such unconditional or categorical imperative as I
have been trying to exhibit. If this is really the final result of
self-examination in any case, there is no more to be said. I, at least,
do not know how to impart the notion of moral obligation to any one
who is entirely devoid of it. I think, however, that many of those who
give this denial only mean to deny that they have any consciousness of
moral obligation to actions without reference to their consequences;
and would not really deny that they recognise some universal end or
ends--whether it be the general happiness, or well-being otherwise
understood--as that at which it is ultimately reasonable to aim,
subordinating to its attainment the gratification of any personal
desires that may conflict with this aim. But in this view, as I have
before said, the unconditional imperative plainly comes in as regards
the end, which is--explicitly or implicitly--recognised as an end at
which all men ‘ought’ to aim; and it can hardly be denied that the
recognition of an end as ultimately reasonable involves the recognition
of an obligation to do such acts as most conduce to the end. The
obligation is not indeed “unconditional,” but it does not depend on the
existence of any non-rational desires or aversions. And nothing that
has been said in the preceding section is intended as an argument in
favour of Intuitionism, as against Utilitarianism or any other method
that treats moral rules as relative to General Good or Well-being.
For instance, nothing that I have said is inconsistent with the view
that Truthspeaking is only valuable as a means to the preservation of
society: only if it be admitted that it _is_ valuable on this ground I
should say that it is implied that the preservation of society--or some
further end to which this preservation, again, is a means--must be
valuable _per se_, and therefore something at which a rational being,
as such, ought to aim. If it be granted that we need not look beyond
the preservation of society, the primary ‘dictate of reason’ in this
case would be ‘that society _ought_ to be preserved’: but reason would
also dictate that truth ought to be spoken, so far as truthspeaking
is recognised as the indispensable or fittest means to this end: and
the notion “ought” as used in either dictate is that which I have been
trying to make clear.
So again, even those who hold that moral rules are only obligatory
because it is the individual’s interest to conform to them--thus
regarding them as a particular species of prudential rules--do not
thereby get rid of the ‘dictate of reason,’ so far as they recognise
private interest or happiness as an end at which it is ultimately
reasonable to aim. The conflict of Practical Reason with irrational
desire remains an indubitable fact of our conscious experience, even if
practical reason is interpreted to mean merely self-regarding Prudence.
It is, indeed, maintained by Kant and others that it cannot properly
be said to be a man’s duty to promote his own happiness; since “what
every one inevitably wills cannot be brought under the notion of duty.”
But even granting[38] it to be in some sense true that a man’s volition
is always directed to the attainment of his own happiness, it does not
follow that a man always does what he believes will be conducive to his
own _greatest_ happiness. As Butler urges, it is a matter of common
experience that men indulge appetite or passion even when, in their own
view, the indulgence is as clearly opposed to what they conceive to be
their interest as it is to what they conceive to be their duty. Thus
the notion ‘ought’--as expressing the relation of rational judgment
to non-rational impulses--will find a place in the practical rules of
any egoistic system, no less than in the rules of ordinary morality,
understood as prescribing duty without reference to the agent’s
interest.
Here, however, it may be held that Egoism does not properly regard
the agent’s own greatest happiness as what he “ought” to aim at: but
only as the ultimate end for the realisation of which he has, on
the whole, a predominant desire; which may be temporarily overcome
by particular passions and appetites, but ordinarily regains its
predominance when these transient impulses have spent their force. I
quite recognise that this is a view widely taken of egoistic action,
and I propose to consider it in a subsequent chapter.[39] But even
if we discard the belief, that any end of action is unconditionally
or “categorically” prescribed by reason, the notion ‘ought’ as above
explained is not thereby eliminated from our practical reasonings: it
still remains in the “hypothetical imperative” which prescribes the
fittest means to any end that we may have determined to aim at. When
(_e.g._) a physician says, “If you wish to be healthy you ought to
rise early,” this is not the same thing as saying “early rising is
an indispensable condition of the attainment of health.” This latter
proposition expresses the relation of physiological facts on which
the former is founded; but it is not merely this relation of facts
that the word ‘ought’ imports: it also implies the unreasonableness of
adopting an end and refusing to adopt the means indispensable to its
attainment. It may perhaps be argued that this is not only unreasonable
but impossible: since adoption of an end means the preponderance of a
desire for it, and if aversion to the indispensable means causes them
not to be adopted although recognised as indispensable, the desire for
the end is _not_ preponderant and it ceases to be adopted. But this
view is due, in my opinion, to a defective psychological analysis.
According to my observation of consciousness, the adoption of an end
as paramount--either absolutely or within certain limits--is quite a
distinct psychical phenomenon from desire: it is a kind of volition,
though it is, of course, specifically different from a volition
initiating a particular immediate action. As a species intermediate
between the two, we may place resolutions to act in a certain way at
some future time: we continually make such resolutions, and sometimes
when the time comes for carrying them out, we do in fact act otherwise
under the influence of passion or mere habit, without consciously
cancelling our previous resolve. This inconsistency of will our
practical reason condemns as irrational, even apart from any judgment
of approbation or disapprobation on either volition considered by
itself. There is a similar inconsistency between the adoption of an
end and a general refusal to take whatever means we may see to be
indispensable to its attainment: and if, when the time comes, we do not
take such means while yet we do not consciously retract our adoption
of the end, it can hardly be denied that we ‘ought’ in consistency to
act otherwise than we do. And such a contradiction as I have described,
between a general resolution and a particular volition, is surely a
matter of common experience.
FOOTNOTES:
[28] The difference between the significations of the two words is
discussed later.
[29] As, for instance, when Bentham explains (_Principles of Morals
and Legislation_, chap. i. § i. note) that his fundamental principle
“states the greatest happiness of all those whose interest is in
question as being the right and proper end of human action,” we cannot
understand him really to _mean_ by the word “right” “conducive to the
general happiness,” though his language in other passages of the same
chapter (§§ ix. and x.) would seem to imply this; for the proposition
that it is conducive to general happiness to take general happiness as
an end of action, though not exactly a tautology, can hardly serve as
the fundamental principle of a moral system.
[30] See Book iii. chap. xi. § 1.
[31] ‘Ought’ is here inapplicable, for a reason presently explained.
[32] In Chemistry we regard the antecedents (elements) as still
existing in and constituting the consequent (compound) because the
latter is exactly similar to the former in weight, and because we can
generally cause this compound to disappear and obtain the elements in
its place. But we find nothing at all like this in the growth of mental
phenomena: the psychical consequent is in no respect exactly similar
to its antecedents, nor can it be resolved into them. I should explain
that I am not here arguing the question whether the _validity_ of moral
judgments is affected by a discovery of their psychical antecedents.
This question I reserve for subsequent discussion. See Book iii. chap.
i. § 4.
[33] I do not even imply that any combination of individuals could
completely realise the state of political relations which I conceive
‘ought to’ exist. My conception would be futile if it had no relation
to practice: but it may merely delineate a pattern to which no more
than an approximation is practically possible.
[34] We do not commonly say that particular physical facts are
apprehended by the Reason: we consider this faculty to be conversant
in its discursive operation with the relation of judgments or
propositions: and the intuitive reason (which is here rather in
question) we restrict to the apprehension of universal truths, such as
the axioms of Logic and Mathematics.
[35] By cognition I always mean what some would rather call “apparent
cognition”--that is, I do not mean to affirm the _validity_ of the
cognition, but only its existence as a psychical fact, and its claim to
be valid.
[36] A further justification for this extended use of the term Reason
will be suggested in a subsequent chapter of this Book (chap. viii. §
3).
[37] This is the sense in which the term will always be used in the
present treatise, except where the context makes it quite clear that
only the wider meaning--that of the political ‘ought’--is applicable.
[38] As will be seen from the next chapter, I do not grant this.
[39] Chap. ix. of this Book.
CHAPTER IV
PLEASURE AND DESIRE
§ 1. In the preceding chapter I have left undetermined the emotional
characteristics of the impulse that prompts us to obey the dictates
of Reason. I have done so because these seem to be very different
in different minds, and even to vary much and rapidly in the same
mind, without any corresponding variation in the volitional direction
of the impulse. For instance, in the mind of a rational Egoist the
ruling impulse is generally what Butler and Hutcheson call a “calm”
or “cool” self-love: whereas in the man who takes universal happiness
as the end and standard of right conduct, the desire to do what is
judged to be reasonable as such is commonly blended in varying degrees
with sympathy and philanthropic enthusiasm. Again, if one conceives
the dictating Reason--whatever its dictates may be--as external to
oneself, the cognition of rightness is accompanied by a sentiment of
Reverence for Authority; which may by some be conceived impersonally,
but is more commonly regarded as the authority of a supreme Person,
so that the sentiment blends with the affections normally excited by
persons in different relations, and becomes Religious. This conception
of Reason as an external authority, against which the self-will
rebels, is often irresistibly forced on the reflective mind: at other
times, however, the identity of Reason and Self presents itself as
an immediate conviction, and then Reverence for Authority passes
over into Self-respect; and the opposite and even more powerful
sentiment of Freedom is called in, if we consider the rational Self
as liable to be enslaved by the usurping force of sensual impulses.
Quite different again are the emotions of Aspiration or Admiration
aroused by the conception of Virtue as an ideal of Moral Beauty.[40]
Other phases of emotion might be mentioned, all having with these
the common characteristic that they are inseparable from an apparent
cognition--implicit or explicit, direct or indirect--of _rightness_
in the conduct to which they prompt. There are, no doubt, important
differences in the moral value and efficacy of these different
emotions, to which I shall hereafter call attention; but their primary
practical effect does not appear to vary so long as the cognition of
rightness remains unchanged. It is then with these cognitions that
Ethics, in my view, is primarily concerned: its object is to free them
from doubt and error, and systematise them as far as possible.
There is, however, one view of the feelings which prompt to voluntary
action, which is sometimes thought to cut short all controversy as to
the principles on which such action ought to be regulated. I mean the
view that volition is always determined by pleasures or pains actual or
prospective. This doctrine--which I may distinguish as Psychological
Hedonism--is often connected and not seldom confounded with the method
of Ethics which I have called Egoistic Hedonism; and no doubt it seems
at first sight a natural inference that if one end of action--my
own pleasure or absence of pain--is definitely determined for me by
unvarying psychological laws, a different end cannot be prescribed for
me by Reason.
Reflection, however, shows that this inference involves the unwarranted
assumption that a man’s pleasure and pain are determined independently
of his moral judgments: whereas it is manifestly possible that our
prospect of pleasure resulting from any course of conduct may largely
depend on our conception of it as right or otherwise: and in fact the
psychological theory above mentioned would require us to suppose that
this is normally the case with conscientious persons, who habitually
act in accordance with their moral convictions. The connexion of the
expectation of pleasure from an act with the judgment that it is right
may be different in different cases: we commonly conceive a truly moral
man as one who finds pleasure in doing what he judges to be right
because he so judges it: but, even where moral sensibility is weak,
expectation of pleasure from an act may be a necessary consequent of a
judgment that it is right, through a belief in the moral government of
the world somehow harmonising Virtue and Self-interest.
I therefore conclude that there is no necessary connexion between
the psychological proposition that pleasure or absence of pain to
myself is always the actual ultimate end of my action, and the ethical
proposition that my own greatest happiness or pleasure is for me the
_right_ ultimate end. It may, however, be replied that if the former
proposition be accepted in the same quantitatively precise form as the
latter--if it is admitted that I must by a law of my nature always aim
at the greatest possible pleasure (or least pain) to myself--then at
least I cannot conceive any aim conflicting with this to be prescribed
by Reason. And this seems to me undeniable. If, as Bentham[41] affirms,
“on the occasion of every act he exercises, every human being is”
inevitably “led to pursue that line of conduct which, according to his
view of the case, taken by him at the moment, will be in the highest
degree contributory to his own greatest happiness,”[42] then, to any
one who knows this, it must become inconceivable that Reason dictates
to him to pursue any other line of conduct. But at the same time, as
it seems to me, the proposition that he ‘ought’ to pursue _that_ line
of conduct becomes no less clearly incapable of being affirmed with
any significance. For a psychological law invariably realised in my
conduct does not admit of being conceived as ‘a precept’ or ‘dictate’
of reason: this latter must be a rule from which I am conscious that it
is possible to deviate. I do not, however, think that the proposition
quoted from Bentham would be affirmed without qualification by any of
the writers who now maintain psychological Hedonism. They would admit,
with J. S. Mill,[43] that men often, not from merely intellectual
deficiencies, but from “infirmity of character, make their election
for the nearer good, though they know it to be less valuable: and this
no less when the choice is between two bodily pleasures ... they pursue
sensual indulgences to the injury of health, though perfectly aware
that health is the greater good.”[44]
This being so, Egoistic Hedonism becomes a possible ethical ideal
to which psychological Hedonism seems to point. If it can be shown
that the ultimate aim of each of us in acting is always solely _some_
pleasure (or absence of pain) to himself, the demonstration certainly
suggests that each _ought_ to seek his own _greatest_ pleasure.[45] As
has been said, no cogent inference is possible from the psychological
generalisation to the ethical principle: but the mind has a natural
tendency to pass from the one position to the other: if the actual
ultimate springs of our volition are always our own pleasures and
pains, it seems _prima facie_ reasonable to be moved by them in
proportion to their pleasantness and painfulness, and therefore to
choose the greatest pleasure or least pain on the whole. Further,
this psychological doctrine seems to conflict with an ethical view
widely held by persons whose moral consciousness is highly developed:
viz. that an act, to be in the highest sense virtuous, must not be
done solely for the sake of the attendant pleasure, even if that be
the pleasure of the moral sense; so that if I do an act from the sole
desire of obtaining the glow of moral self-approbation which I believe
will attend its performance, the act will not be truly virtuous.
It seems therefore important to subject psychological Hedonism, even in
its more indefinite form, to a careful examination.
§ 2. It will be well to begin by defining more precisely the question
at issue. First, I will concede that pleasure is a kind of feeling
which stimulates the will to actions tending to sustain or produce
it,--to sustain it, if actually present, and to produce it, if it be
only represented in idea--; and similarly pain is a kind of feeling
which stimulates to actions tending to remove or avert it.[46] It
seems convenient to call the felt volitional stimulus in the two cases
respectively Desire[47] and Aversion; though it should be observed
that the former term is ordinarily restricted to the impulse felt
when pleasure is not actually present, but only represented in idea.
The question at issue, then, is not whether pleasure, present or
represented, is normally accompanied by an impulse to prolong the
actual or realise the represented feeling, and pain correspondingly by
aversion: but whether there are no desires and aversions which have not
pleasures and pains for their objects--no conscious impulses to produce
or avert results other than the agent’s own feelings. In the treatise
to which I have referred, Mill explains that “desiring a thing, and
finding it pleasant, are, in the strictness of language, two modes of
naming the same psychological fact.” If this be the case, it is hard
to see how the proposition we are discussing requires to be determined
by “practised self-consciousness and self-observation”; as the denial
of it would involve a contradiction in terms. The truth is that an
ambiguity in the word Pleasure has tended to confuse the discussion
of this question.[48] When we speak of a man doing something “at his
pleasure,” or “as he pleases,” we usually signify the mere fact of
voluntary choice: not necessarily that the result aimed at is some
prospective feeling of the chooser. Now, if by “pleasant” we merely
mean that which influences choice, exercises a certain attractive force
on the will, it is an assertion incontrovertible because tautological,
to say that we desire what is pleasant--or even that we desire a
thing in proportion as it appears pleasant. But if we take “pleasure”
to denote the kind of feelings, above defined, it becomes a really
debateable question whether the end to which our desires are always
consciously directed is the attainment by ourselves of such feelings.
And this is what we must understand Mill to consider “so obvious, that
it will hardly be disputed.”
It is rather curious to find that one of the best-known of English
moralists regards the exact opposite of what Mill thinks so obvious, as
being not merely a universal fact of our conscious experience, but even
a necessary truth. Butler, as is well known, distinguishes self-love,
or the impulse towards our own pleasure, from “particular movements
towards particular external objects--honour, power, the harm or good
of another”; the actions proceeding from which are “no otherwise
interested than as every action of every creature must from the nature
of the case be; for no one can act but from a desire, or choice, or
preference of his own.” Such particular passions or appetites are,
he goes on to say, “_necessarily presupposed by the very idea_ of
an interested pursuit; since the very idea of interest or happiness
consists in this, that an appetite or affection enjoys its object.” We
could not pursue pleasure at all, unless we had desires for something
else than pleasure; for pleasure consists in the satisfaction of just
these “disinterested” impulses.
Butler has certainly over-stated his case,[49] so far as my own
experience goes; for many pleasures,--especially those of sight,
hearing and smell, together with many emotional pleasures,--occur to
me without any perceptible relation to previous desires, and it seems
quite _conceivable_ that our primary desires might be entirely directed
towards such pleasures as these. But as a matter of fact, it appears to
me that throughout the whole scale of my impulses, sensual, emotional,
and intellectual alike, I can distinguish desires of which the object
is something other than my own pleasure.
I will begin by taking an illustration of this from the impulses
commonly placed lowest in the scale. The appetite of hunger, so far
as I can observe, is a direct impulse to the eating of food. Such
eating is no doubt commonly attended with an agreeable feeling of
more or less intensity; but it cannot, I think, be strictly said that
this agreeable feeling is the object of hunger, and that it is the
representation of this pleasure which stimulates the will of the hungry
man as such. Of course, hunger is frequently and naturally accompanied
with anticipation of the pleasure of eating: but careful introspection
seems to show that the two are by no means inseparable. And even when
they occur together the pleasure seems properly the object not of the
primary appetite, but of a secondary desire which can be distinguished
from the former; since the _gourmand_, in whom this secondary desire
is strong, is often prompted by it to actions designed to stimulate
hunger, and often, again, is led to control the primary impulse, in
order to prolong and vary the process of satisfying it.
Indeed it is so obvious that hunger is something different from the
desire for anticipated pleasure, that some writers have regarded
its volitional stimulus (and that of desire generally) as a case of
aversion from present pain. This, however, seems to me a distinct
mistake in psychological classification. No doubt desire is a state of
consciousness so far similar to pain, that in both we feel a stimulus
prompting us to pass from the present state into a different one. But
aversion from pain is an impulse to get out of the present state and
pass into some other state which is only negatively represented as
different from the present: whereas in desire as such, the primary
impulse is towards the realisation of some positive future result. It
is true that when a strong desire is, for any reason, baulked of its
effect in causing action, it is generally painful in some degree: and
so a secondary aversion to the state of desire is generated, which
blends itself with the desire and may easily be confounded with it.
But here, again, we may distinguish the two impulses by observing the
different kinds of conduct to which they occasionally prompt: for the
aversion to the pain of ungratified desire, though it may act as an
additional stimulus towards the gratification of the desire, may also
(and often does) prompt us to get rid of the pain by suppressing the
desire.
The question whether all desire has in some degree the quality of pain,
is one of psychological rather than ethical interest;[50] so long as
it is admitted that it is often not painful in any degree comparable
to its intensity as desire, so that its volitional impulse cannot be
explained as a case of aversion to its own painfulness. At the same
time, so far as my experience goes, I have no hesitation in answering
the question in the negative. Consider again the case of hunger; I
certainly do not find hunger as an element of my normal life at all
a painful feeling: it only becomes painful when I am in ill health,
or when the satisfaction of the appetite is abnormally delayed. And,
generally speaking, any desire that is not felt to be thwarted in
its primary impulse to actions tending to its satisfaction, is not
only not itself a painful feeling--even when this attainment is still
remote--but is often an element of a state of consciousness which
as a whole is highly pleasurable. Indeed, the pleasures afforded by
the consciousness of eager activity, in which desire is an essential
element, constitute a considerable item in the total enjoyment of
life. It is almost a commonplace to say that such pleasures, which
we may call generally the pleasures of Pursuit, are more important
than the pleasures of Attainment: and in many cases it is the prospect
of the former rather than of the latter that induces us to engage in
a pursuit. In such cases it is peculiarly easy to distinguish the
desire to attain the object pursued, from a desire of the pleasure of
attainment: since the attainment only becomes pleasant in prospect
because the pursuit itself stimulates a desire for what is pursued.
Take, for example, the case of any game which involves--as most games
do--a contest for victory. No ordinary player before entering on such
a contest, has any desire for victory in it: indeed he often finds
it difficult to imagine himself deriving gratification from such
victory, before he has actually engaged in the competition. What he
deliberately, before the game begins, desires is not victory, but
the pleasant excitement of the struggle for it; only for the full
development of this pleasure a transient desire to win the game is
generally indispensable. This desire, which does not exist at first, is
stimulated to considerable intensity by the competition itself: and in
proportion as it is thus stimulated both the mere contest becomes more
pleasurable, and the victory, which was originally indifferent, comes
to afford a keen enjoyment.
The same phenomenon is exhibited in the case of more important kinds
of pursuit. Thus it often happens that a man, feeling his life languid
and devoid of interests, begins to occupy himself in the prosecution
of some scientific or socially useful work, for the sake not of the
end but of the occupation. At first, very likely, the occupation is
irksome: but soon, as he foresaw, a desire to attain the end at which
he aims is stimulated, partly by sympathy with other workers, partly by
his sustained exercise of voluntary effort directed towards it; so that
his pursuit, becoming eager, becomes also a source of pleasure. Here,
again, it is no doubt true that in proportion as his desire for the end
grows strong, the attainment of it becomes pleasant in prospect: but it
would be a palpable mistake to say that this prospective pleasure is
the object of the desire that causes it.[51]
When we compare these pleasures with those previously discussed,
another important observation suggests itself. In the former case,
though we could distinguish appetite, as it appears in consciousness,
from the desire of the pleasure attending the satisfaction of appetite,
there appeared to be no incompatibility between the two. The fact that
a glutton is dominated by the desire of the pleasures of eating in no
way impedes the development in him of the appetite which is a necessary
condition of these pleasures. But when we turn to the pleasures
of pursuit, we seem to perceive this incompatibility to a certain
extent: a certain subordination of self-regard seems to be necessary
in order to obtain full enjoyment. A man who maintains throughout an
epicurean mood, keeping his main conscious aim perpetually fixed on
his own pleasure, does not catch the full spirit of the chase; his
eagerness never gets just the sharpness of edge which imparts to the
pleasure its highest zest. Here comes into view what we may call the
fundamental paradox of Hedonism, that the impulse towards pleasure, if
too predominant, defeats its own aim. This effect is not visible, or at
any rate is scarcely visible, in the case of passive sensual pleasures.
But of our active enjoyments generally, whether the activities on
which they attend are classed as ‘bodily’ or as ‘intellectual’ (as
well as of many emotional pleasures), it may certainly be said that
we cannot attain them, at least in their highest degree, so long as
we keep our main conscious aim concentrated upon them. It is not only
that the exercise of our faculties is insufficiently stimulated by the
mere desire of the pleasure attending it, and requires the presence
of other more objective, ‘extra-regarding,’ impulses, in order to be
fully developed: we may go further and say that these other impulses
must be temporarily predominant and absorbing, if the exercise and
its attendant gratification are to attain their full scope. Many
middle-aged Englishmen would maintain the view that business is more
agreeable than amusement; but they would hardly find it so if they
transacted the business with a perpetual conscious aim at the attendant
pleasure. Similarly, the pleasures of thought and study can only be
enjoyed in the highest degree by those who have an ardour of curiosity
which carries the mind temporarily away from self and its sensations.
In all kinds of Art, again, the exercise of the creative faculty is
attended by intense and exquisite pleasures: but it would seem that in
order to get them, one must forget them: the genuine artist at work
seems to have a predominant and temporarily absorbing desire for the
realisation of his ideal of beauty.
The important case of the benevolent affections is at first sight
somewhat more doubtful. On the one hand it is of course true, that when
those whom we love are pleased or pained, we ourselves feel sympathetic
pleasure and pain: and further, that the flow of love or kindly feeling
is itself highly pleasurable. So that it is at least plausible to
interpret benevolent actions as aiming ultimately at the attainment
of one or both of these two kinds of pleasures, or at the averting
of sympathetic pain from the agent. But we may observe, first, that
the impulse to beneficent action produced in us by sympathy is often
so much out of proportion to any actual consciousness of sympathetic
pleasure and pain in ourselves, that it would be paradoxical to regard
this latter as its object. Often indeed we cannot but feel that a tale
of actual suffering arouses in us an excitement on the whole more
pleasurable than painful, like the excitement of witnessing a tragedy;
and yet at the same time stirs in us an impulse to relieve it, even
when the process of relieving is painful and laborious and involves
various sacrifices of our own pleasures. Again, we may often free
ourselves from sympathetic pain most easily by merely turning our
thoughts from the external suffering that causes it: and we sometimes
feel an egoistic impulse to do this, which we can then distinguish
clearly from the properly sympathetic impulse prompting us to relieve
the original suffering. And finally, the much-commended pleasures of
benevolence seem to require, in order to be felt in any considerable
degree, the pre-existence of a desire to do good to others for their
sake and not for our own. As Hutcheson explains, we may _cultivate_
benevolent affection for the sake of the pleasures attending it (just
as the glutton cultivates appetite), but we cannot produce it at will,
however strong may be our desire of these pleasures: and when it
exists, even though it may owe its origin to a purely egoistic impulse,
it is still essentially a desire to do good to others for their sake
and not for our own.
It cannot perhaps be said that the self-abandonment and
self-forgetfulness, which seemed an essential condition of the full
development of the other elevated impulses before noticed, characterise
benevolent affection normally and permanently; as love, when a powerful
emotion, seems naturally to involve a desire for reciprocated love,
strong in proportion to the intensity of the emotion; and thus the
consciousness of self and of one’s own pleasures and pains seems
often heightened by the very intensity of the affection that binds
one to others. Still we may at least say that this self-suppression
and absorption of consciousness in the thought of other human beings
and their happiness is a common incident of all strong affections:
and it is said that persons who love intensely sometimes feel a sense
of antagonism between the egoistic and altruistic elements of their
desire, and an impulse to suppress the former, which occasionally
exhibits itself in acts of fantastic and extravagant self-sacrifice.
If then reflection on our moral consciousness seems to show that “the
pleasure of virtue is one which can only be obtained on the express
condition of its not being the object sought,”[52] we need not distrust
this result of observation on account of the abnormal nature of the
phenomenon. We have merely another illustration of a psychological law,
which, as we have seen, is exemplified throughout the whole range
of our desires. In the promptings of Sense no less than in those of
Intellect or Reason we find the phenomenon of strictly disinterested
impulse: base and trivial external ends may excite desires of this
kind, as well as the sublime and ideal: and there are pleasures of the
merely animal life which can only be obtained on condition of not being
directly sought, no less than the satisfactions of a good conscience.
§ 3. So far I have been concerned to insist on the felt incompatibility
of ‘self-regarding’ and ‘extra-regarding’ impulses only as a means of
proving their essential distinctness. I do not wish to overstate this
incompatibility: I believe that most commonly it is very transient, and
often only momentary, and that our greatest happiness--if that be our
deliberate aim--is generally attained by means of a sort of alternating
rhythm of the two kinds of impulse in consciousness. A man’s conscious
desire is, I think, more often than not chiefly extra-regarding; but
where there is strong desire in any direction, there is commonly keen
susceptibility to the corresponding pleasures; and the most devoted
enthusiast is sustained in his work by the recurrent consciousness of
such pleasures. But it is important to point out that the familiar
and obvious instances of conflict between self-love and some
extra-regarding impulse are not paradoxes and illusions to be explained
away, but phenomena which the analysis of our consciousness in its
normal state, when there is no such conflict, would lead us to expect.
If we are continually acting from impulses whose immediate objects are
something other than our own happiness, it is quite natural that we
should occasionally yield to such impulses when they prompt us to an
uncompensated sacrifice of pleasure. Thus a man of weak self-control,
after fasting too long, may easily indulge his appetite for food to
an extent which he knows to be unwholesome: and that not because the
pleasure of eating appears to him, even in the moment of indulgence, at
all worthy of consideration in comparison with the injury to health;
but merely because he feels an impulse to eat food, which prevails
over his prudential judgment. Thus, again, men have sacrificed all
the enjoyments of life, and even life itself, to obtain posthumous
fame: not from any illusory belief that they would be somehow capable
of deriving pleasure from it, but from a direct desire of the future
admiration of others, and a preference of it to their own pleasure. And
so, again, when the sacrifice is made for some ideal end, as Truth, or
Freedom, or Religion: it may be a real sacrifice of the individual’s
happiness, and not merely the preference of one highly refined pleasure
(or of the absence of one special pain) to all the other elements of
happiness. No doubt this preference is possible; a man may feel that
the high and severe delight of serving his ideal is a “pearl of great
price” outweighing in value all other pleasures. But he may also feel
that the sacrifice will not repay _him_, and yet determine that it
shall be made.
To sum up: our conscious active impulses are so far from being always
directed towards the attainment of pleasure or avoidance of pain for
ourselves, that we can find everywhere in consciousness extra-regarding
impulses, directed towards something that is not pleasure, nor relief
from pain; and, indeed, a most important part of our pleasure depends
upon the existence of such impulses: while on the other hand they are
in many cases so far incompatible with the desire of our own pleasure
that the two kinds of impulse do not easily coexist in the same moment
of consciousness; and more occasionally (but by no means rarely) the
two come into irreconcilable conflict, and prompt to opposite courses
of action. And this incompatibility (though it is important to notice
it in other instances) is no doubt specially prominent in the case of
the impulse towards the end which most markedly competes in ethical
controversy with pleasure: the love of virtue for its own sake, or
desire to do what is right as such.
§ 4. The psychological observations on which my argument is based will
not perhaps be directly controverted, at least to such an extent as
to involve my main conclusion: but there are two lines of reasoning
by which it has been attempted to weaken the force of this conclusion
without directly denying it. In the first place, it is urged that
Pleasure, though not the only conscious aim of human action, is
yet always the result to which it is unconsciously directed. The
proposition would be difficult to disprove; since no one denies that
pleasure in some degree normally accompanies the attainment of a
desired end: and when once we go beyond the testimony of consciousness
there seems to be no clear method of determining which among the
consequences of any action is the end at which it is aimed. For the
same reason, however, the proposition is at any rate equally difficult
to prove. But I should go further, and maintain that if we seriously
set ourselves to consider human action on its unconscious side, we
can only conceive it as a combination of movements of the parts of
a material organism: and that if we try to ascertain what the ‘end’
in any case of such movements is, it is reasonable to conclude that
it is some material result, some organic condition conducive to the
preservation either of the individual organism or of the race to which
it belongs. In fact, the doctrine that pleasure (or the absence of
pain) is the end of all human action can neither be supported by the
results of introspection, nor by the results of external observation
and inference: it rather seems to be reached by an arbitrary and
illegitimate combination of the two.
But again, it is sometimes said that whatever be the case with our
present adult consciousness, our original impulses were all directed
towards pleasure[53] or from pain, and that any impulses otherwise
directed are derived from these by “association of ideas.” I can find
no evidence that even tends to prove this: so far as we can observe the
consciousness of children, the two elements, extra-regarding impulse
and desire for pleasure, seem to coexist in the same manner as they
do in mature life. In so far as there is any difference, it seems to
be in the opposite direction; as the actions of children, being more
instinctive and less reflective, are more prompted by extra-regarding
impulse, and less by conscious aim at pleasure. No doubt the two
kinds of impulse, as we trace back the development of consciousness,
gradually become indistinguishable: but this obviously does not justify
us in identifying with either of the two the more indefinite impulse
out of which both have been developed. But even supposing it were found
that our earliest appetites were all merely appetites for pleasure, it
would have little bearing on the present question. What I am concerned
to maintain is that men do not _now_ normally desire pleasure alone,
but to an important extent other things also: some in particular having
impulses towards virtue, which may and do conflict with their conscious
desire for their own pleasure. To say in answer to this that all men
_once_ desired pleasure is, from an ethical point of view, irrelevant:
except on the assumption that there is an original type of man’s
appetitive nature, to which, as such, it is right or best for him to
conform. But probably no Hedonist would expressly maintain this; though
such an assumption, no doubt, is frequently made by writers of the
Intuitional school.
NOTE.--Some psychologists regard Desire as essentially painful. This
view seems to me erroneous, according to the ordinary use of the term:
and though it does not necessarily involve the confusion--against
which I am chiefly concerned to guard in the present chapter--between
the volitional stimulus of desire itself and the volitional stimulus
of aversion to desire as painful, it has some tendency to cause
this confusion. It may therefore be worth while to point out that
the difference of opinion between myself and the psychologists in
question--of whom I select Dr. Bain as a leading example--depends
largely, though not entirely, on a difference of definition. In chap.
viii. of the second division of his book on _The Emotions and the
Will_, Dr. Bain defines Desire as “that phase of volition where there
is a motive and not ability to act on it,” and gives the following
illustration:--
“The inmate of a small gloomy chamber conceives to himself the
pleasure of light and of an expanded prospect: the unsatisfying ideal
urges the appropriate action for gaining the reality; he gets up and
walks out. Suppose now that the same ideal delight comes into the
mind of a prisoner. Unable to fulfil the prompting, he remains under
the solicitation of the motive: and his state is denominated craving,
longing, appetite, desire. If all motive impulses could be at once
followed up, desire would have no place ... there is a bar in the way
of acting which leads to the state of conflict and renders desire a
more or less painful state of mind.”
Now I agree that Desire is most frequently painful in some degree
when the person desiring is inhibited from acting for the attainment
of the desired object. I do not indeed think that even under these
circumstances it is always painful, especially when it is accompanied
with hope. Take the simple case of hunger. Ordinarily, when I am
looking forward to dinner with a good appetite, I do not find hunger
painful--unless I have fasted unusually long--although custom and a
regard for my digestion prevent me from satisfying the appetite till
the soup is served. Still I admit that when action tending to fruition
is excluded, desire is very liable to be painful.
But it is surely contrary to usage to restrict the term Desire to this
case. Suppose Dr. Bain’s prisoner becomes possessed of a file, and
sees his way to getting out of prison by a long process, which will
involve, among other operations, the filing of certain bars. It would
surely seem absurd to say that his desire finally ceases when the
operation of filing begins. No doubt the concentration of attention
on the complex activities necessary for the attainment of freedom
is likely to cause the prisoner to be so absorbed by other ideas
and feelings that the desire of freedom may temporarily cease to be
present in his consciousness. But as the stimulus on which his whole
activity ultimately depends is certainly derived from the unrealised
idea of freedom, this idea, with the concomitant feeling of desire,
will normally recur at brief intervals during the process. Similarly
in other cases, while it is quite true that men often work for a
desired end without consciously feeling desire for the end, it would
be absurd to say that they never feel desire while so working: at any
rate this restricted use of the term has never, I think, been adopted
by ethical writers in treating of Desire. And in some passages Dr.
Bain himself seems to adopt a wider meaning. He says, for instance,
in the chapter from which I have quoted, that “we have a form of
desire ... _when we are working for distant ends_.” If, then, it be
allowed that the feeling of Desire is at any rate sometimes an element
of consciousness coexisting with a process of activity directed to
the attainment of the desired object, or intervening in the brief
pauses of such a process, I venture to think that when the feeling is
observed under these conditions, it will not be found in accordance
with the common experience of mankind to describe it as essentially
painful.
Take, as a simple instance, the case of a game involving bodily
exercise and a contest of skill. Probably many persons who take part
in such exercises for sanitary or social purposes begin without
any perceptible desire to win the game: and probably as long as
they remain thus indifferent the exercise is rather tedious.
Usually, however, a conscious desire to win the game is excited,
as a consequence of actions directed towards this end: and--in my
experience at least--in proportion as the feeling grows strong, the
whole process becomes more pleasurable. If this be admitted to be a
normal experience, it must surely be also admitted that Desire in this
case is a feeling in which introspection does not enable us to detect
the slightest quality of pain.
It would be easy to give an indefinite number of similar instances of
energetic activity carried on for an end--whether in sport or in the
serious business of life--where a keen desire for the attainment of
the end in view is indispensable to a real enjoyment of the labour
required to attain, and where at the same time we cannot detect any
painfulness in the desire, however much we try to separate it in
introspective analysis from its concomitant feeling.
The error that I am trying to remove seems to me partly due to
overlooking these cases, and contemplating exclusively cases in which
Desire is for some reason or other prevented from having its normal
effect in stimulating activity directed to the attainment of the
desired object. Partly, however, it seems to be due to the resemblance
between Desire and Pain, to which I have drawn attention in the text
of this chapter, _i.e._ the _unrestfulness_ which is undoubtedly a
characteristic of the state of desire, and--ordinarily--of pain.
For the characteristic of “unrestfulness” requires some care to
distinguish it from “uneasiness,” in the sense in which this latter
term signifies some degree of painfulness. The mistake is connected
with the equally erroneous view--which Hobbes controverts in his
usual forcible style--that “the Felicity of this life consisteth
in the repose of a mind satisfied”; and it has also some affinity
with the widespread view--which has left its mark on more than one
European language--that labour, strenuous activity, is essentially
painful. On both these points, it ought to be said, there is doubtless
considerable divergence between the experiences of different
individuals: but at any rate among Englishmen I conceive that a person
who finds desire always painful--in the sense in which, as I have
tried to show, the word is commonly used both by moralists and in
ordinary discourse--is as exceptional a being as one who finds labour
always painful.
FOOTNOTES:
[40] The relation of the æsthetic to the moral ideal of conduct will be
discussed in a subsequent chapter (ix.) of this Book.
[41] I here, as in chap. i., adopt the exact hedonistic interpretation
of ‘happiness’ which Bentham has made current. This seems to me the
most suitable use of the term; but I afterwards (Book i. chap. vii. §
1) take note of other uses.
[42] _Constitutional Code_, Introduction, § 2.
[43] _Utilitarianism_, chap. ii. p. 14.
[44] Mr. Leslie Stephen, who holds (_Science of Ethics_, p. 50) that
“pain and pleasure are the sole determining causes of action,” at the
same time thinks that it “will be admitted on all hands” that “we are
not always determined by a calculation of pleasure to come.”
[45] Or, more precisely, ‘greatest surplus of pleasure over pain.’
[46] The qualifications and limitations which this proposition
requires, before it can be accepted as strictly true, do not seem to me
important for the purpose of the present argument. See Book ii. chap.
ii. § 2.
[47] In the present treatise ‘Desire’ is primarily regarded as a felt
impulse or stimulus to actions tending to the realisation of what is
desired. There are, however, states of feeling, sometimes intense, to
which the term ‘desire’ is by usage applicable, in which this impulsive
quality seems to be absent or at least latent; because the realisation
of the desired result is recognised as hopeless, and has long been
so recognised. In such cases the ‘desire’ (so-called) remains in
consciousness only as a sense of want of a recognised good, a feeling
no more or otherwise impulsive than the regretful memory of past joy.
That is, desire in this condition may develop a secondary impulse to
voluntary day-dreaming, by which a bitter-sweet imaginary satisfaction
of the want is attained; or, so far as it is painful, it may impel to
action or thought which will bring about its own extinction: but its
primary impulse to acts tending to realise the desired result is no
longer perceptible.
With this state of mind
--“the desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow”--
I am not concerned in the present discussion. I notice it chiefly
because some writers (_e.g._ Dr. Bain) seem to contemplate as the sole
or typical case of desire, “where there is a motive and no ability to
act upon it”; thus expressly excluding that condition of desire (as I
use the term) which seems to me of primary importance from an ethical
point of view, _i.e._ where action tending to bring about the desired
result is conceived as at once possible.
[48] The confusion occurs in the most singular form in Hobbes, who
actually identifies Pleasure and Appetite--“this motion in which
consisteth pleasure, is a solicitation to draw near to the thing that
pleaseth.”
[49] The same argument is put in a more guarded, and, I think,
unexceptionable form by Hutcheson. It is perhaps more remarkable that
Hume, too, shares Butler’s view which he expresses almost in the
language of the famous sermons. “There are,” he says, “bodily wants
or appetites, acknowledged by every one, which necessarily precede
all sensual enjoyment, and carry us directly to seek possession of
the object. Thus hunger and thirst have eating and drinking for their
end: and from the gratification of these primary appetites arises a
pleasure, which may become the object of another species of inclination
that is secondary and interested.” Hence Hume finds that “the
hypothesis which allows of a disinterested benevolence, distinct from
self-love,” is “conformable to the analogy of nature.” See _Enquiry
concerning the Principles of Morals_ (Appendix II.).
[50] Some further discussion of it will be found in the note at the end
of the chapter.
[51] Professor J. S. Mackenzie, in his _Manual of Ethics_ (3rd edition,
Book i. chap. ii. note), arguing for the universal painfulness of
desire, urges that the so-called “pleasures of pursuit” are really
pleasures of “progressive attainment”; what causes pleasure being
the series of partial attainments that precede the final attainment.
There seems to me much truth in this view, as regards some forms of
pursuit; but in other cases I can find nothing deserving the name in
the course of the pursuit: the prominent element of the pleasure seems
to be clearly the reflex of eager and hopeful, perhaps consciously
skilful, activity. _E.g._ this is often the case in the pursuit of
truth, scientific or historical. I have spent most pleasant hours in
hunting for evidence in favour of a conjecture that had occurred to
me as a possible solution of a difficult historical question, without
any “progressive attainment” at all, as I found no evidence of any
importance: but the pleasure had none the less been real, at any rate
in the earlier part of the pursuit. Or take the common experience of
deer-stalking, or the struggle for victory in an evenly balanced game
of chess, or a prolonged race in which no competitor gains on the
others till near the end. I find nothing like “progressive attainment”
in these cases.
But even granting Mr. Mackenzie’s view to be more widely applicable
than I think it, the question it deals with seems to me in the main
irrelevant to the issue that I am now discussing: since it remains true
that the presence of antecedent desire is an essential condition of the
pleasures of attainment--whether “progressive” or “catastrophic”--and
that the desire is not itself perceptibly painful.
[52] Lecky, _Hist. of European Morals_, Introduction.
[53] I must ask the reader to distinguish carefully the question
discussed in this chapter, which relates to the _objects_ of desires
and aversions, from the different question whether the _causes_ of
these impulses are always to be found in antecedent experiences of
pleasure and pain. The bearing of this latter question on Ethics,
though not unimportant, is manifestly more indirect than that of the
question here dealt with: and it will be convenient to postpone it till
a later stage of the discussion. Cf. _post_, Book ii. chap. vi. § 2,
and Book iv. chap. iv. § 1.
CHAPTER V
FREE WILL
§ 1. In the preceding chapters I have treated first of rational,
and secondly of disinterested action, without introducing the vexed
question of the Freedom of the Will. The difficulties connected
with this question have been proved by long dialectical experience
to be so great, that I am anxious to confine them within as strict
limits as I can, and keep as much of my subject as possible free from
their perturbing influence. And it appears to me that we have no
psychological warrant for identifying Disinterested with either “Free”
or “Rational” action; while to identify Rational and Free action is
at least misleading, and tends to obscure the real issue raised in
the Free Will controversy. In the last chapter I have tried to show
that action strictly disinterested, that is, disregardful of foreseen
balance of pleasure to ourselves, is found in the most instinctive
as well as in the most deliberate and self-conscious region of our
volitional experience. And rational action, as I conceive it, remains
rational, however completely the rationality of any individual’s
conduct may be determined by causes antecedent or external to his own
volition: so that the conception of acting rationally, as explained in
the last chapter but one, is not bound up with the notion of acting
‘freely,’ as maintained by Libertarians generally against Determinists.
I say “Libertarians generally,” because in the statements made by
disciples of Kant as to the connexion of Freedom and Rationality,
there appears to me to be a confusion between two meanings of the term
Freedom, which require to be carefully distinguished in any discussion
of Free Will. When a disciple of Kant[54] says that a man “is a free
agent in so far as he acts under the guidance of reason,” the statement
easily wins assent from ordinary readers; since, as Whewell says, we
ordinarily “consider our Reason as being ourselves rather than our
desires and affections. We speak of Desire, Love, Anger, as mastering
_us_, or of _ourselves_ as controlling them. If we decide to prefer
some remote and abstract good to immediate pleasures, or to conform to
a rule which brings us present pain (which decision implies exercise
of Reason), we more particularly consider such acts as our _own_
acts.”[55] I do not, therefore, object on the score of usage to this
application of the term “free” to denote voluntary actions in which
the seductive solicitations of appetite or passion are successfully
resisted: and I am sensible of the gain in effectiveness of moral
persuasion which is obtained by thus enlisting the powerful sentiment
of Liberty on the side of Reason and Morality. But it is clear that if
we say that a man is a “free” agent in so far as he acts rationally,
we cannot also say--in the same sense--that it is by his own “free”
choice that he acts irrationally, when he does so act; and it is this
latter proposition which Libertarians generally have been concerned to
maintain. They have thought it of fundamental importance to show the
‘Freedom’ of the moral agent, on account of the connexion that they
have held to exist between Freedom and Moral Responsibility: and it is
obvious that the Freedom thus connected with Responsibility is not the
Freedom that is only manifested or realised in rational action, but
the Freedom to choose between right and wrong which is manifested or
realised equally in either choice. Now it is implied in the Christian
consciousness of “wilful sin” that men do deliberately and knowingly
choose to act irrationally. They do not merely prefer self-interest to
duty (for here is rather a conflict of claims to rationality than clear
irrationality); but (_e.g._) sensual indulgence to health, revenge to
reputation, etc., though they know that such preference is opposed to
their true interests no less than to their duty.[56] Hence it does
not really correspond to our experience as a whole to represent the
conflict between Reason and passion as a conflict between ‘ourselves’
on the one hand and a force of nature on the other. We may say, if
we like, that when we yield to passion, we become ‘the slaves of our
desires and appetites’: but we must at the same time admit that our
slavery is self-chosen. Can we say, then, of the wilful wrongdoer that
his wrong choice was ‘free,’ in the sense that he might have chosen
rightly, not merely if the antecedents of his volition, external
and internal, had been different, but supposing these antecedents
unchanged? This, I conceive, is the substantial issue raised in the
Free Will controversy; which I now propose briefly to consider: since
it is widely believed to be of great Ethical importance.
§ 2. We may conveniently begin by defining more exactly the notion
of Voluntary action, to which, according to all methods of Ethics
alike, the predicates ‘right’ and ‘what ought to be done’--in the
strictest ethical sense--are exclusively applicable. In the first
place, Voluntary action is distinguished as ‘conscious’ from actions
or movements of the human organism which are ‘unconscious’ or
‘mechanical.’ The person whose organism performs such movements only
becomes aware of them, if at all, after they have been performed;
accordingly they are not imputed to him as a person, or judged to be
morally wrong or imprudent; though they may sometimes be judged to be
good or bad in respect of their consequences, with the implication
that they ought to be encouraged or checked as far as this can be done
indirectly by conscious effort.
So again, in the case of conscious actions, the agent is not regarded
as morally culpable, except in an indirect way, for entirely unforeseen
effects of his voluntary actions. No doubt when a man’s action has
caused some unforeseen harm, the popular moral judgment often blames
him for carelessness; but it would be generally admitted by reflective
persons that in such cases strictly moral blame only attaches to the
agent in an indirect way, in so far as his carelessness is the result
of some wilful neglect of duty. Thus the proper immediate objects of
moral approval or disapproval would seem to be always the results of
a man’s volitions so far as they were intended--_i.e._ represented in
thought as certain or probable[57] consequences of his volitions:--or,
more strictly, the volitions themselves in which such results were so
intended, since we do not consider that a man is relieved from moral
blame because his wrong intention remains unrealised through external
causes.
This view seems at first sight to differ from the common opinion
that the morality of acts depends on their ‘motives’; if by motives
are understood the desires that we feel for some of the foreseen
consequences of our acts. But I do not think that those who hold this
opinion would deny that we are blameworthy for any prohibited result
which we foresaw in willing, whether it was the object of desire or
not. No doubt it is commonly held that acts, similar as regards their
foreseen results, may be ‘better’ or ‘worse’[58] through the presence
of certain desires or aversions. Still so far as these feelings are
not altogether under the control of the will, the judgment of ‘right’
and ‘wrong’--in the strictest sense of these terms--seems to be not
properly applicable to the feelings themselves, but rather to the
exertion or omission of voluntary effort to check bad motives and
encourage good ones, or to the conscious adoption of an object of
desire as an end to be aimed at--which is a species of volition.
We may conclude then that judgments of right and wrong relate properly
to volitions accompanied with intention--whether the intended
consequences be external, or some effects produced on the agent’s own
feelings or character. This excludes from the scope of such judgments
those conscious actions which are not intentional, strictly speaking;
as when sudden strong feelings of pleasure and pain cause movements
which we are aware of making, but which are not preceded by any
representation in idea either of the movements themselves or of their
effects. For such actions, sometimes distinguished as ‘instinctive,’
we are only held to be responsible indirectly so far as any bad
consequences of them might have been prevented by voluntary efforts to
form habits of more complete self-control.
We have to observe further that our common moral judgments recognise an
important distinction between _impulsive_ and _deliberate_ wrongdoing,
condemning the latter more strongly than the former. The line between
the two cannot be sharply drawn: but we may define ‘impulsive’ actions
as those where the connexion between the feeling that prompts and the
action prompted is so simple and immediate that, though intention
is distinctly present, the consciousness of personal choice of the
intended result is evanescent. In deliberate volitions there is always
a conscious selection of the result as one of two or more practical
alternatives.
In the case, then, of such volitions as are pre-eminently the objects
of moral condemnation and approbation, the psychical fact ‘volition’
seems to include--besides intention, or representation of the results
of action--also the consciousness of self as choosing, resolving,
determining these results. And the question which I understand to be at
issue in the Free Will controversy may be stated thus: Is the self to
which I refer my deliberate volitions a self of strictly determinate
moral qualities, a definite character partly inherited, partly formed
by my past actions and feelings, and by any physical influences that
it may have unconsciously received; so that my voluntary action, for
good or for evil, is at any moment completely caused by the determinate
qualities of this character, together with my circumstances, or the
external influences acting on me at the moment--including under this
latter term my present bodily conditions?--or is there always a
possibility of my choosing to act in the manner that I now judge to be
reasonable and right, whatever my previous actions and experiences may
have been?
In the above questions a materialist would substitute ‘brain and
nervous system’ for ‘character,’ and thereby obtain a clearer notion;
but I have avoided using terms which suggest materialistic assumptions,
because Determinism by no means involves Materialism. For the present
purpose the difference is unimportant. The substantial dispute relates
to the completeness of the causal dependence of any volition upon the
state of things at the preceding instant, whether we specify these as
‘character and circumstances,’ or ‘brain and environing forces.’[59]
On the Determinist side there is a cumulative argument of great force.
The belief that events are determinately related to the state of things
immediately preceding them is now held by all competent thinkers in
respect of all kinds of occurrences except human volitions. It has
steadily grown both intensively and extensively, both in clearness and
certainty of conviction and in universality of application, as the
human mind has developed and human experience has been systematised and
enlarged. Step by step in successive departments of fact conflicting
modes of thought have receded and faded, until at length they have
vanished everywhere, except from this mysterious citadel of Will.
Everywhere else the belief is so firmly established that some declare
its opposite to be inconceivable: others even maintain that it
always was so. Every scientific procedure assumes it: each success
of science confirms it. And not only are we finding ever new proof
that events are cognisably determined, but also that the different
modes of determination of different kinds of events are fundamentally
identical and mutually dependent: and naturally, with the increasing
conviction of the essential unity of the cognisable universe, increases
the indisposition to allow the exceptional character claimed by
Libertarians for the department of human action.
Again, when we fix our attention on human action, we observe that
the portion of it which is originated unconsciously is admittedly
determined by physical causes: and we find that no clear line can be
drawn between acts of this kind and those which are conscious and
voluntary. Not only are many acts of the former class entirely similar
to those of the latter, except in being unconscious: but we remark
further that actions which we habitually perform continually pass from
the conscious class into the--wholly or partly--unconscious: and the
further we investigate, the more the conclusion is forced upon us,
that there is no kind of action originated by conscious volition which
cannot also, under certain circumstances, be originated unconsciously.
Again, when we look closely at our conscious acts, we find that in
respect of such of them as I have characterised as ‘impulsive’--acts
done suddenly under the stimulus of a momentary sensation or
emotion--our consciousness can hardly be said to suggest that they are
not completely determined by the strength of the stimulus and the state
of our previously determined temperament and character at the time of
its operation: and here again, as was before observed, it is difficult
to draw a line clearly separating these actions from those in which the
apparent consciousness of ‘free choice’ becomes distinct.
Further, we always explain[60] the voluntary action of all men except
ourselves on the principle of causation by character and circumstances.
Indeed otherwise social life would be impossible: for the life of man
in society involves daily a mass of minute forecasts of the actions of
other men, founded on experience of mankind generally, or of particular
classes of men, or of individuals; who are thus necessarily regarded
as things having determinate properties, causes whose effects are
calculable. We infer generally the future actions of those whom we know
from their past actions; and if our forecast turns out in any case to
be erroneous, we do not attribute the discrepancy to the disturbing
influence of Free Will, but to our incomplete acquaintance with their
character and motives. And passing from individuals to communities,
whether we believe in a “social science” or not, we all admit and take
part in discussions of social phenomena in which the same principle
is assumed: and however we may differ as to particular theories, we
never doubt the validity of the assumption: and if we find anything
inexplicable in history, past or present, it never occurs to us to
attribute it to an extensive exercise of free will in a particular
direction. Nay, even as regards our own actions, however ‘free’ we feel
ourselves at any moment, however unconstrained by present motives and
circumstances and unfettered by the result of what we have previously
been and felt, our volitional choice may appear: still, when it is once
well past, and we survey it in the series of our actions, its relations
of causation and resemblance to other parts of our life appear, and
we naturally explain it as an effect of our nature, education, and
circumstances. Nay we even apply the same conceptions to our future
action, and the more, in proportion as our moral sentiments are
developed: for with our sense of duty generally increases our sense of
the duty of moral culture, and our desire of self-improvement: and the
possibility of moral self-culture depends on the assumption that by a
present volition we can determine to some extent our actions in the
more or less remote future. No doubt we habitually take at the same
time the opposite, Libertarian, view as to our future: we believe, for
example, that we are perfectly able to resist henceforward temptations
to which we have continually yielded in the past. But it should be
observed that this belief is (as moralists of all schools admit and
even urge) _at any rate to a great extent_ illusory and misleading.
Though Libertarians contend that it is _possible_ for us at any moment
to act in a manner opposed to our acquired tendencies and previous
customs,--still, they and Determinists alike teach that it is much less
easy than men commonly imagine to break the subtle unfelt trammels of
habit.
§ 3. Against the formidable array of cumulative evidence offered
for Determinism there is to be set the immediate affirmation of
consciousness in the moment of deliberate action. Certainly when I have
a distinct consciousness of choosing between alternatives of conduct,
one of which I conceive as right or reasonable, I find it impossible
not to think that I can now choose to do what I so conceive,--supposing
that there is no obstacle to my doing it other than the condition of
my desires and voluntary habits,--however strong may be my inclination
to act unreasonably, and however uniformly I may have yielded to such
inclinations in the past.[61] I recognise that each concession to
vicious desire makes the difficulty of resisting it greater when the
desire recurs: but the difficulty always seems to remain separated
from impossibility by an impassable gulf. I do not deny that the
experience of mankind includes cases in which certain impulses--such as
aversion to death or extreme pain, or morbid appetite for alcohol or
opium--have reached a point of intensity at which they have been felt
as irresistibly overmastering voluntary choice. I think we commonly
judge that when this point is reached the individual ceases to be
morally responsible for the act done under such overmastering impulse:
but at any rate the moral problem thus presented is very exceptional;
in ordinary cases of yielding to temptation this consciousness of
the irresistibility of impulse does not come in. Ordinarily, however
strong may be the rush of appetite or anger that comes over me, it does
not present itself as irresistible; and, if I deliberate at such a
moment, I cannot regard the mere force of the impulse as a reason for
doing what I otherwise judge to be unreasonable. I can suppose that my
conviction of free choice _may_ be illusory: that if I knew my own
nature I _might_ see it to be predetermined that, being so constituted
and in such circumstances, I should act on the occasion in question
contrary to my rational judgment. But I cannot conceive myself seeing
this, without at the same time conceiving my whole conception of what
I now call “my” action fundamentally altered: I cannot conceive that
if I contemplated the actions of my organism in this light I should
refer them to my “self”--_i.e._ to the mind so contemplating--in the
sense in which I now refer them. In this conflict of arguments, it is
not surprising that the theoretical question as to the Freedom of the
Will is still differently decided by thinkers of repute; and I do not
myself wish at present to pronounce any decision on it. But I think it
possible and useful to show that the ethical importance of deciding
it one way or another is liable to be exaggerated; and that any one
who will consider the matter soberly and carefully will find this
importance to be of a strictly limited kind.
It is chiefly on the Libertarian side that I find a tendency to the
exaggeration of which I have just spoken. Some Libertarian writers
maintain that the conception of the Freedom of the Will, alien as it
may be to positive science, is yet quite indispensable to Ethics and
Jurisprudence; since in judging that I “ought” to do anything I imply
that I “can” do it, and similarly in praising or blaming the actions
of others I imply that they “could” have acted otherwise. If a man’s
actions are mere links in a chain of causation which, as we trace
it back, ultimately carries us to events anterior to his personal
existence, he cannot, it is said, really have either merit or demerit;
and if he has not merit or demerit, it is repugnant to the common moral
sense of mankind to reward or punish--even to praise or blame--him.
In considering this argument, it will be convenient--for clearness of
discussion--to assume in the first instance that there is no doubt
or conflict in our view of what it is right to do, except such as
may be caused by the present question. It will also be convenient to
separate the discussion of the importance of Free Will in relation to
moral action generally from the special question of its importance in
relation to punishing and rewarding; since, in the latter species of
action, what chiefly claims attention is not the present Freedom of
the agent, but the past Freedom of the person now acted on.
As regards action generally, the Determinist allows that a man is only
morally bound to do what is “in his power”; but he explains “in his
power” to mean that the result in question will be produced if the
man choose to produce it. And this is, I think, the sense in which
the proposition “what I ought to do I can do” is commonly accepted:
it means “can do if I choose,” not “can choose to do.” Still the
question remains “_Can_ I choose to do what in ordinary thought I
judge to be right to do?” Here my own view is that--within the limits
above explained--I inevitably conceive that I _can_ choose; however,
I can suppose myself to regard this conception as illusory, and to
judge, inferring the future from the past, that I certainly shall not
choose, and accordingly that such choice is not really possible to
me. This being supposed, it seems to me undeniable that this judgment
will exclude or weaken the operation of the moral motive in the case
of the act contemplated: I either shall not judge it reasonable to
choose to do what I should otherwise so judge, or if I do pass the
judgment, I shall also judge the conception of duty applied in it to be
illusory, no less than the conception of Freedom. So far I concede the
Libertarian contention as to the demoralising effect of Determinism, if
held with a real force of conviction. But I think the cases are rare in
which it is even on Determinist principles legitimate to conclude it to
be certain--and not merely highly probable--that I shall deliberately
choose to do what I judge to be unwise.[62] Ordinarily the legitimate
inference from a man’s past experience, and from his general knowledge
of human nature, would not go beyond a very strong probability that he
would choose to do wrong: and a mere probability--however strong--that
I shall not will to do right cannot be regarded by me in deliberation
as a reason for not willing:[63] while it certainly supplies a rational
ground for willing strongly--just as a strong probability of any other
evil supplies a rational ground for special exertions to avoid it.
Indeed, I do not see why a Libertarian should not--equally with a
Determinist--accept as valid, and find it instructive to contemplate,
the considerations that render it probable that he will _not_ choose
to do right in any particular circumstances. In all ordinary cases,
therefore, it does not seem to me relevant to ethical deliberation to
determine the metaphysical validity of my consciousness of freedom to
choose whatever I may conclude to be reasonable, unless the affirmation
or negation of the Freedom of the Will somehow modifies my view of what
it would be reasonable to choose to do if I could so choose.
I do not think that any such modification of view can be maintained, as
regards the ultimate ends of rational action which, in chap. i., I took
as being commonly accepted. If Happiness, whether private or general,
be taken as the ultimate end of action on a Libertarian view, the
adoption of a Determinist view affords no ground for rejecting it: and
if Excellence is in itself admirable and desirable, it surely remains
equally so whether any individual’s approximation to it is entirely
determined by inherited nature and external influences or not:--except
so far as the notion of Excellence includes that of Free Will. Now Free
Will is obviously not included in our common ideal of physical and
intellectual perfection: and it seems to me also not to be included
in the common notions of the excellences of character which we call
virtues: the manifestations of courage, temperance, and justice do not
become less admirable because we can trace their antecedents in a happy
balance of inherited dispositions developed by a careful education.[64]
Can, then, the affirmation or negation of Free Will affect our view of
the fittest means for the attainment of either end? In considering this
we have to distinguish between the case of a connexion between means
and end believed to exist on empirical or other scientific grounds, and
the case where the belief in such connexion is an inference from the
belief in a moral government of the world. According to the received
view of the moral government of the world, the performance of Duty
is the best means of attaining the agent’s happiness largely through
its expected consequences in another world, in which virtue will be
rewarded and vice punished by God: if, then, the belief in the moral
government of the world and a future life for men is held to depend
on the assumption of Free Will, this latter becomes obviously of
fundamental ethical importance: not, indeed, in determining a man’s
Duty, but in reconciling it with his Interest. This, I think, is
the main element of truth in the view that the denial of Free Will
removes motives to the performance of Duty: and I admit the validity
of the contention, so far as (1) the course of action conducive to an
individual’s Interest would be thought to diverge from his Duty, apart
from theological considerations, and (2) in the theological reasoning
that removes this divergence Free Will is an indispensable assumption.
The former point will be examined in a subsequent chapter;[65] the
latter it hardly falls within the scope of this treatise to discuss.[66]
If we confine our attention to such connexion between means and ends
as is scientifically cognisable, it does not appear that an act now
deliberated on can be less or more a means to any ulterior end, because
it is predetermined. It may, however, be urged that in considering how
we ought to act in any case, we have to take into account the probable
future actions of others, and also of ourselves; and that with regard
to these it is necessary to decide the question of Free Will, in order
that we may know whether the future is capable of being predicted from
the past. But here, again, it seems to me that no definite practical
consequences would logically follow from this decision. For however far
we may go in admitting Free Will as a cause, the actual operation of
which may falsify the most scientific forecasts of human action, still
since it is _ex hypothesi_ an absolutely unknown cause, our recognition
of it cannot lead us to modify any such forecasts: at most, it can only
affect our reliance on them.
We may illustrate this by an imaginary extreme case. Suppose we were
somehow convinced that all the planets were endowed with Free Will,
and that they only maintained their periodic motions by the continual
exercise of free choice, in resistance to strong centrifugal or
centripetal inclinations. Our general confidence in the future of the
solar system might reasonably be impaired, though it is not easy to say
how much;[67] but the details of our astronomical calculations would
be clearly unaffected: the free wills could in no way be taken as an
element in the reckoning. And the case would be similar, I suppose, in
the forecast of human conduct, if psychology and sociology should ever
become exact sciences. At present, however, they are so far from being
such that this additional element of uncertainty can hardly have even
any emotional effect.
To sum up: we may say that, in so far as we reason to any definite
conclusions as to what the future actions of ourselves or others
will be, we must consider them as determined by unvarying laws: if
they are not completely so determined our reasoning is _pro tanto_
liable to error: but no other is open to us. While on the other
hand, when we are endeavouring to ascertain (on any principles) what
choice it is reasonable to make between two alternatives of present
conduct, Determinist conceptions are as irrelevant as they are in
the former case inevitable. And from neither point of view does it
seem practically important, for the general regulation of conduct, to
decide the metaphysical question at issue in the Free-will Controversy:
unless--passing from Ethics into Theology--we rest the reconciliation
of Duty and Interest on a theological argument that requires the
assumption of Free Will.
§ 4. So far I have been arguing that the adoption of Determinism
will not--except in certain exceptional circumstances or on certain
theological assumptions--reasonably modify a man’s view of what it
is right for him to do or his reasons for doing it. It may, however,
be said that--granting the reasons for right action to remain
unaltered--still the motives that prompt to it will be weakened; since
a man will not feel _remorse_ for his actions, if he regards them as
necessary results of causes anterior to his personal existence. I admit
that so far as the sentiment of remorse implies self-blame irremovably
fixed on the self blamed, it must tend to vanish from the mind of a
convinced Determinist. Still I do not see why the imagination of a
Determinist should not be as vivid, his sympathy as keen, his love of
goodness as strong as a Libertarian’s: and I therefore see no reason
why dislike for his own shortcomings and for the mischievous qualities
of his character which have caused bad actions in the past should not
be as effective a spring of moral improvement as the sentiment of
remorse would be. For it appears to me that men in general take at
least as much pains to cure defects in their circumstances, organic
defects, and defects of intellect--which cause them no remorse--as they
do to cure moral defects; so far as they consider the former to be no
less mischievous and no less removable than the latter.
This leads me to the consideration of the effect of Determinist
doctrines on the allotment of punishment and reward. For it must be
admitted, I think, that the common retributive view of punishment,
and the ordinary notions of “merit,” “demerit,” and “responsibility,”
also involve the assumption of Free Will: if the wrong act, and the
bad qualities of character manifested in it, are conceived as the
necessary effects of causes antecedent or external to the existence of
the agent, the moral responsibility--in the ordinary sense--for the
mischief caused by them can no longer rest on him. At the same time,
the Determinist can give to the terms “ill-desert” and “responsibility”
a signification which is not only clear and definite, but, from an
utilitarian point of view, the only suitable meaning. In this view,
if I affirm that A is responsible for a harmful act, I mean that it
is right to punish him for it; primarily, in order that the fear of
punishment may prevent him and others from committing similar acts
in future. The difference between these two views of punishment is
theoretically very wide. I shall, however, when I come to examine
in detail the current conception of Justice,[68] endeavour to show
that this admission can hardly have any practical effect; since it is
practically impossible to be guided, either in remunerating services
or in punishing mischievous acts, by any other considerations than
those which the Determinist interpretation of desert would include.
For instance, the treatment of legal punishment as deterrent and
reformatory rather than retributive seems to be forced upon us by the
practical exigences of social order and wellbeing--quite apart from
any Determinist philosophy.[69] Moreover, as I shall hereafter show,
if the retributive view of Punishment be strictly taken--abstracting
completely from the preventive view--it brings our conception of
Justice into conflict with Benevolence, as punishment presents itself
as a purely useless evil. Similarly, as regards the sentiments which
prompt to the expression of moral praise and blame--I admit that in
the mind of a convinced Determinist, the desire to encourage good and
prevent bad conduct must take the place of a desire to requite the one
or the other: but again I see no reason why the Determinist species of
moral sentiments should not be as effective in promoting virtue and
social wellbeing as the Libertarian species.
§ 5. It is, however, of obvious practical importance to ascertain how
far the power of the will (whether metaphysically free or not) actually
extends: for this defines the range within which ethical judgments are
in the strictest sense applicable. This inquiry is quite independent of
the question of metaphysical freedom; we might state it in Determinist
terms as an inquiry into the range of effects which it would be
possible to cause by human volition, provided that adequate motives are
not wanting. These effects seem to be mainly of three kinds: first,
changes in the external world consequent upon muscular contractions;
secondly, changes in the train of ideas and feelings that constitutes
our conscious life; and thirdly, changes in the tendencies to act
hereafter in certain ways under certain circumstances.
I. The most obvious and prominent part of the sphere of volitional
causation is constituted by such events as can be produced by muscular
contractions. As regards these, it is sometimes said that it is
properly the muscular contraction that we will, and not the more
remote effects; for these require the concurrence of other causes, and
therefore we can never be absolutely certain that they will follow.
But no more is it certain, strictly speaking, that the muscular
contraction will follow, since our limb may be paralysed, etc. The
immediate consequent of the volition is some molecular change in the
motor nerves. Since, however, we are not conscious in willing of our
motor nerves and their changes,--nor indeed commonly of the muscular
contractions that follow them,--it seems a misuse of terms to describe
either as the normal ‘object’ of the mind in willing: since it is
almost always some more remote effect which we consciously will and
intend. Still of almost all effects of our will on the external world
some contraction of our muscles is an indispensable antecedent; and
when that is over our part in the causation is completed.
II. We can control to some extent our thoughts and feelings. It would
seem, indeed, that an important part of what we commonly call ‘control
of feeling’ comes under the head just discussed. Our control over
our muscles enables us to keep down the expression of the feeling
and to resist its promptings to action: and as the giving free vent
to a feeling tends, generally speaking, to sustain and prolong it,
this muscular control amounts to a certain power over the emotion.
But there is not the same connexion between our muscular system and
our thoughts: and yet experience shows that most men (though some, no
doubt, much more than others) can voluntarily determine the direction
of their thoughts, and pursue at will a given line of meditation. In
such cases, what is effected by the effort of will seems to be the
concentration of our consciousness on a part of its content, so that
this part grows more vivid and clear, while the rest tends to become
obscure and ultimately to vanish. Frequently this voluntary exertion is
only needed to initiate a train of ideas, which is afterwards continued
without effort: as in recalling a series of past events or going
through a familiar train of reasoning. By such concentration we can
free ourselves of many thoughts and feelings upon which we do not wish
to dwell: but our power to do this is very limited, and if the feeling
be strong and its cause persistent, it requires a very unusual effort
of will to banish it thus.
III. The effect of volition, however, to which I especially wish to
direct the reader’s attention is the alteration in men’s tendencies
to future action which must be assumed to be a consequence of general
resolutions as to future conduct, so far as they are effective. Even
a resolution to do a particular act--if it is worth while to make it,
as experience shows it to be--must be supposed to produce a change
of this kind in the person who makes it: it must somehow modify his
present tendencies to act in a certain way on a foreseen future
occasion. But it is in making general resolutions for future conduct
that it is of most practical importance for us to know what is within
the power of the will. Let us take an example. A man has been in the
habit of drinking too much brandy nightly: one morning he resolves
that he will do so no more. In making this resolve he acts under the
belief that by a present volition he can so far alter his habitual
tendency to indulgence in brandy, that some hours hence he will resist
the full force of his habitual craving for the stimulant. Now whether
this belief is well or ill founded is a different question from that
usually discussed between Determinists and Libertarians: at the same
time the two questions are liable to be confused. It is sometimes
vaguely thought that a belief in Free Will requires us to maintain that
at any moment we can alter our habits to any extent by a sufficiently
strong exertion. And no doubt most commonly when we make such efforts,
we believe at the moment that they will be completely effectual: we
will to do something hours or days hence with the same confidence with
which we will to do something immediately. But on reflection, no one, I
think, will maintain that in such cases the future act appears to be
in his power in the same sense as a choice of alternatives that takes
effect immediately. Not only does continual experience show us that
such resolutions as to the future have a limited and too frequently an
inadequate effect: but the common belief is really inconsistent with
the very doctrine of Free Will that is thought to justify it: for if
by a present volition I can fully determine an action that is to take
place some hours hence, when the time comes to do that act I shall
find myself no longer free. We must therefore accept the conclusion
that each such resolve has only a limited effect: and that we cannot
know when making it how far this effect will exhibit itself in the
performance of the act resolved upon. At the same time it can hardly
be denied that such resolves sometimes succeed in breaking old habits:
and even when they fail to do this, they often substitute a painful
struggle for smooth and easy indulgence. Hence it is reasonable to
suppose that they always produce some effect in this direction; whether
they operate by causing new motives to present themselves on the side
of reason, when the time of inner conflict arrives; or whether they
directly weaken the impulsive force of habit in the same manner as an
actual breach of custom does, though in an inferior degree.[70]
If this account of the range of volition be accepted, it will, I
trust, dispel any lingering doubts which the argument of the preceding
section, as to the practical unimportance of the Free Will controversy,
may have left in the reader’s mind. For it may have been vaguely
thought that while on the Determinist theory it would be wrong, in
certain cases, to perform a single act of virtue if we had no ground
for believing that we should hereafter duly follow it up; on the
assumption of Freedom we should boldly do always what would be best
if consistently followed up, being conscious that such consistency is
in our power. But the supposed difference vanishes, if it be admitted
that by any effort of resolution at the present moment we can only
produce a certain limited effect upon our tendencies to action at some
future time, and that immediate consciousness cannot tell us that this
effect will be adequate to the occasion, nor indeed how great it will
really prove to be. For the most extreme Libertarian must then allow
that before pledging ourselves to any future course of action we ought
to estimate carefully, from our experience of ourselves and general
knowledge of human nature, what the probability is of our keeping
present resolutions in the circumstances in which we are likely to
be placed. It is no doubt morally most important that we should not
tranquilly acquiesce in any weakness or want of self-control: but the
fact remains that such weakness is not curable by a single volition:
and whatever we can do towards curing it by any effort of will at any
moment, is as clearly enjoined by reason on the Determinist theory as
it is on the Libertarian. On neither theory is it reasonable that we
should deceive ourselves as to the extent of our weakness, or ignore it
in the forecast of our conduct, or suppose it more easily remediable
than it really is.
FOOTNOTES:
[54] I have thought it expedient to exclude the Kantian conception
of Free Will from the scope of the discussion in this chapter,
partly on account of the confusion mentioned in the text; partly
because it depends on the conception of a causality not subject to
time-conditions, which appears to me altogether untenable, while it
does not fall within the plan of the present treatise to discuss it.
But considering the widespread influence of Kantian theory on current
ethical thought, I have thought it desirable to give a brief discussion
of his conception of Free Will in an Appendix (I.).
[55] _Elements of Morality_, Book i. chap. ii. At the same time, it is
also true--as I afterwards say--that we sometimes identify ourselves
with passion or appetite in conscious conflict with reason: and then
the rule of reason is apt to appear an external constraint, and
obedience to it a servitude, if not a slavery.
[56] The difficulty which Socrates and the Socratic schools had in
conceiving a man to choose deliberately what he knows to be bad for
him--a difficulty which drives Aristotle into real Determinism in his
account of purposed action, even while he is expressly maintaining the
“voluntariness” and “responsibility” of vice--seems to be much reduced
for the modern mind by the distinction between moral and prudential
judgments, and the _prima facie_ conflict between ‘interest’ and
‘duty.’ Being thus familiar with the conception of deliberate choice
consciously opposed _either_ to interest _or_ to duty, we can without
much difficulty conceive of such choice in conscious opposition to
both. See chap. ix. § 3, of this Book.
[57] It is most convenient to regard “intention” as including not only
such results of volition as the agent _desired_ to realise, but also
any that, without desiring, he foresaw as certain or probable. The
question how far we are responsible for all the foreseen consequences
of our acts, or, in the case of acts prescribed by definite moral
rules, only for their results within a certain range, will be
considered when we come to examine the Intuitional Method.
[58] In a subsequent chapter (chap. ix. of this Book) I shall examine
more fully the relation of the antithesis ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ to
the vaguer and wider antithesis ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ in our practical
reasonings.
[59] It is not uncommon for Determinists to conceive of each volition
as connected by uniform laws with our past state of consciousness. But
any uniformities we might trace among a man’s past consciousnesses,
even if we knew them all, would yet give us very imperfect guidance as
to his future action: as there would be left out of account--
(1) All inborn tendencies and susceptibilities, as yet latent or
incompletely exhibited;
(2) All past physical influences, of which the effects had not been
perfectly represented in consciousness.
[60] I do not mean that this is the only view that we take of the
conduct of others: I hold (as will presently appear) that in judging of
their conduct morally, we ordinarily apply the conception of Free Will.
But we do not ordinarily regard it as one kind of causation, limiting
and counteracting the other kind.
[61] It is not the possibility of merely indeterminate choice, of an
“arbitrary freak of unmotived willing,” with which we are concerned
from an ethical point of view, but the possibility of choosing between
rational and irrational motives.
[62] I think that in most cases when a man yields to temptation,
judging that it is “no use trying to resist,” he judges in
semi-conscious self-sophistication, due to the influence of appetite
or passion disturbing the process of reasoning. I do not doubt that
this self-sophistication is likely to take a Determinist form in the
mind of one who has adopted Determinism as a speculative opinion: but
I see no reason for thinking that a Libertarian is not in equal danger
of self-sophistication, though in his case it will take a different
form. _E.g._ where a Determinist would reason “I certainly shall take
my usual glass of brandy to-night, so there is no use resolving not to
take it,” the Libertarian’s reasoning would be “I mean to leave off
that brandy, but it will be just as easy to leave it off to-morrow
as to-day; I will therefore have one more glass, and leave it off
to-morrow.”
[63] There is, however, a special case in which this probability may
be indirectly a reason for not resolving to do what would otherwise be
best; _i.e._ where this resolution would only be right if followed by
subsequent resolutions. The problem thus presented is considered later,
pp. 75, 76.
[64] I should admit, indeed, that the ordinary notion of merit becomes
inapplicable (see pp. 71, 72). But I do not see that Perfection becomes
less an End to be aimed at, because we cease to regard its attainment
as meritorious. The inapplicability of the notion of ‘merit’ to Divine
action has never been felt to detract from the Perfection of the Divine
Nature.
[65] See Book ii. chap. v. and the concluding chapter of the treatise.
[66] I ought, however, to point out that an important section of
theologians who have held the belief in the moral government of the
world in its intensest form have been Determinists.
[67] In order to determine this we should require first to settle
another disputed question, as to the general reasonableness of our
expectation that the future will resemble the past.
[68] See Book iii. chap. v.
[69] Thus we find it necessary to punish negligence, when its effects
were very grave, even when we cannot trace it to wilful disregard of
duty; and to punish rebellion and assassination none the less although
we know that they were prompted by a sincere desire to serve God or to
benefit mankind.
[70] It should be observed that the same kind of change is sometimes
brought about, without volition, by a powerful emotional shock, due
to extraneous causes: and hence it might be inferred that in all
cases it is a powerful impression of an emotional kind that produces
the effect; and that the will is only concerned in concentrating our
attention on the benefits to be gained or evils to be avoided by the
change of habit, and so intensifying the impression of these. But
though this kind of voluntary contemplation is a useful auxiliary to
good resolutions, it does not seem to be this effort of will that
constitutes the resolution: we can clearly distinguish the two. Hence
this third effect of volition cannot be resolved into the second, but
must be stated separately.
CHAPTER VI
ETHICAL PRINCIPLES AND METHODS
§ 1. The results of the three preceding chapters may be briefly stated
as follows:--
The aim of Ethics is to systematise and free from error the apparent
cognitions that most men have of the rightness or reasonableness of
conduct, whether the conduct be considered as right in itself, or as
the means to some end commonly conceived as ultimately reasonable.[71]
These cognitions are normally accompanied by emotions of various
kinds, known as “moral sentiments”: but an ethical judgment cannot be
explained as affirming merely the existence of such a sentiment: indeed
it is an essential characteristic of a moral feeling that it is bound
up with an apparent cognition of something more than mere feeling.
Such cognitions, again, I have called ‘dictates,’ or ‘imperatives’;
because, in so far as they relate to conduct on which any one is
deliberating, they are accompanied by a certain impulse to do the acts
recognised as right, which is liable to conflict with other impulses.
Provided this impulse is effective in producing right volition, it is
not of primary importance for ethical purposes to determine the exact
characteristics of the emotional states that precede such volitions.
And this remains true even if the force actually operating on his will
is mere desire for the pleasures that he foresees will attend right
conduct, or aversion to the pains that will result from doing wrong:
though we observe that in this case his action does not correspond to
our common notion of strictly virtuous conduct; and though there seems
to be no ground for regarding such desires and aversions as the sole,
or even the normal, motives of human volitions. Nor, again, is it
generally important to determine whether we are always, metaphysically
speaking, ‘free’ to do what we clearly see to be right. What I ‘ought’
to do, in the strictest use of the word ‘ought,’ is always ‘in my
power,’ in the sense that there is no obstacle to my doing it except
absence of adequate motive; and it is ordinarily impossible for me,
in deliberation, to regard such absence of motive as a reason for not
doing what I otherwise judge to be reasonable.
What then do we commonly regard as valid ultimate reasons for acting
or abstaining? This, as was said, is the starting-point for the
discussions of the present treatise: which is not primarily concerned
with proving or disproving the validity of any such reasons, but
rather with the critical exposition of the different ‘methods’--or
rational procedures for determining right conduct in any particular
case--which are logically connected with the different ultimate reasons
widely accepted. In the first chapter we found that such reasons were
supplied by the notions of Happiness and Excellence or Perfection
(including Virtue or Moral Perfection as a prominent element),
regarded as ultimate ends, and Duty as prescribed by unconditional
rules. This threefold difference in the conception of the ultimate
reason for conduct corresponds to what seem the most fundamental
distinctions that we apply to human existence; the distinction between
the conscious being and the stream of conscious experience, and the
distinction (within this latter) of Action and Feeling. For Perfection
is put forward as the ideal goal of the development of a human being,
considered as a permanent entity; while by Duty, we mean the kind of
Action that we think ought to be done; and similarly by Happiness or
Pleasure we mean an ultimately desired or desirable kind of Feeling.
It may seem, however, that these notions by no means exhaust the list
of reasons which are widely accepted as ultimate grounds of action.
Many religious persons think that the highest reason for doing anything
is that it is God’s Will: while to others ‘Self-realisation’ or
‘Self-development,’ and to others, again, ‘Life according to nature’
appear the really ultimate ends. And it is not hard to understand why
conceptions such as these are regarded as supplying deeper and more
completely satisfying answers to the fundamental question of Ethics,
than those before named: since they do not merely represent ‘what ought
to be,’ as such; they represent it in an apparently simple relation
to what actually is. God, Nature, Self, are the fundamental facts of
existence; the knowledge of what will accomplish God’s Will, what is,
‘according to Nature,’ what will realise the true Self in each of us,
would seem to solve the deepest problems of Metaphysics as well as
of Ethics. But just because these notions combine the ideal with the
actual, their proper sphere belongs not to Ethics as I define it, but
to Philosophy--the central and supreme study which is concerned with
the relations of all objects of knowledge. The introduction of these
notions into Ethics is liable to bring with it a fundamental confusion
between “what is” and “what ought to be,” destructive of all clearness
in ethical reasoning: and if this confusion is avoided, the strictly
ethical import of such notions, when made explicit, appears always to
lead us to one or other of the methods previously distinguished.
There is least danger of confusion in the case of the theological
conception of ‘God’s Will’; since here the connexion between ‘what
is’ and ‘what ought to be’ is perfectly clear and explicit. The
content of God’s Will we conceive as presently existing, in idea: its
actualisation is the end to be aimed at. There is indeed a difficulty
in understanding how God’s Will can fail to be realised, whether
we do right or wrong: or how, if it cannot fail to be realised in
either case, its realisation can give the ultimate motive for doing
right. But this difficulty it belongs to Theology rather than Ethics
to solve. The practical question is, assuming that God wills in a
special sense what we ought to do, how we are to ascertain this in
any particular case. This must be either by Revelation or by Reason,
or by both combined. If an external Revelation is proposed as the
standard, we are obviously carried beyond the range of our study; on
the other hand, when we try to ascertain by reason the Divine Will,
the conception seems to present itself as a common form under which a
religious mind is disposed to regard whatever method of determining
conduct it apprehends to be rational; since we cannot know any act
to be in accordance with the Divine Will, which we do not also, by
the same exercise of thought, know to be dictated by reason. Thus,
commonly, it is either assumed that God desires the Happiness of men,
in which case our efforts should be concentrated on its production: or
that He desires their Perfection, and that that should be our end: or
that whatever His end may be (into which perhaps we have no right to
inquire) His Laws are immediately cognisable, being in fact the first
principles of Intuitional Morality. Or perhaps it is explained that
God’s Will is to be learnt by examining our own constitution or that
of the world we are in: so that ‘Conformity to God’s Will’ seems to
resolve itself into ‘Self-realisation,’ or ‘Life according to nature.’
In any case, this conception, however important it may be in supplying
new motives for doing what we believe to be right, does not--apart from
Revelation--suggest any special criterion of rightness.
§ 2. Let us pass to consider the notions ‘Nature,’ ‘Natural,’
‘Conformity to Nature.’ I assume--in order to obtain a principle
distinct from ‘Self-realisation,’[72]--that the ‘Nature’ to which we
are to conform is not each one’s own individual nature, but human
nature generally, considered either apart from or in relation to its
environment: that we are to find the standard of right conduct in a
certain type of human existence which we can somehow abstract from
observation of actual human life. Now in a certain sense every rational
man must, of course, “conform to nature”; that is, in aiming at any
ends, he must adapt his efforts to the particular conditions of his
existence, physical and psychical. But if he is to go beyond this, and
conform to ‘Nature’ in the adoption of an ultimate end or paramount
standard of right conduct, it must be on the basis--if not of strictly
Theological assumptions, at any rate--of the more or less definite
recognition of Design exhibited in the empirically known world. If we
find no design in nature, if the complex processes of the world known
to us through experience are conceived as an aimless though orderly
drift of change, the knowledge of these processes and their laws may
indeed limit the aims of rational beings, but I cannot conceive how it
can determine the ends of their action, or be a source of unconditional
rules of duty. And in fact those who use ‘natural’ as an ethical notion
do commonly suppose that by contemplating the actual play of human
impulses, or the physical constitution of man, or his social relations,
we may find principles for determining positively and completely the
kind of life he was designed to live. I think, however, that every
attempt thus to derive ‘what ought to be’ from ‘what is’ palpably
fails, the moment it is freed from fundamental confusions of thought.
For instance, suppose we seek practical guidance in the conception of
human nature regarded as a system of impulses and dispositions, we
must obviously give a special precision to the meaning of “natural”;
since in a sense, as Butler observes, any impulse is natural, but it is
manifestly idle to bid us follow Nature in this sense: for the question
of duty is never raised except when we are conscious of a conflict of
impulses, and wish to know which to follow. Nor does it help us to say
that the supremacy of Reason is Natural, as we have started by assuming
that what Reason prescribes is conformity to Nature, and thus our line
of thought would become circular: the Nature that we are to follow must
be distinguished from our Practical Reason, if it is to become a guide
to it. How then are we to distinguish ‘natural impulses’--in the sense
in which they are to guide rational choice--from the unnatural? Those
who have occupied themselves with this distinction seem generally to
have interpreted the Natural to mean either the _common_ as opposed
to the rare and exceptional, or the _original_ as opposed to what is
later in development; or, negatively, what is not the effect of human
volition. But I have never seen any ground for assuming broadly that
Nature abhors the exceptional, or prefers the earlier in time to the
later; and when we take a retrospective view of the history of the
human race, we find that some impulses which all admire, such as the
love of knowledge and enthusiastic philanthropy, are both rarer and
later in their appearance than others which all judge to be lower.
Again, it is obviously unwarrantable to eschew as unnatural and opposed
to the Divine design all such impulses as have been produced in us
by the institutions of society, or our use of human arrangements and
contrivances, or that result in any way from the deliberate action of
our fellow-men: for this were arbitrarily to exclude society and human
action from the scope of Nature’s purposes. And besides it is clear
that many impulses so generated appear to be either moral or auxiliary
to morality and in other ways beneficial: and though others no doubt
are pernicious and misleading, it seems that we can only distinguish
these latter from the former by taking note of their effects, and
not by any precision that reflection can give to the notion of
‘natural.’ If, again, we fall back upon a more physical view of our
nature and endeavour to ascertain for what end our corporeal frame was
constructed, we find that such contemplation determines very little. We
can infer from our nutritive system that we are intended to take food,
and similarly that we are to exercise our various muscles in some way
or other, and our brain and organs of sense. But this carries us a very
trifling way, for the practical question almost always is, not whether
we are to use our organs or leave them unused, but to what extent or in
what manner we are to use them: and it does not appear that a definite
answer to this question can ever be elicited, by a logical process of
inference, from observations of the human organism, and the actual
physical life of men.
If, finally, we consider man in his social relations--as father, son,
neighbour, citizen--and endeavour to determine the “natural” rights and
obligations that attach to such relations, we find that the conception
‘natural’ presents a problem and not a solution. To an unreflective
mind what is customary in social relations usually appears natural; but
no reflective person is prepared to lay down “conformity to custom” as
a fundamental moral principle: the problem, then, is to find in the
rights and obligations established by custom in a particular society at
a particular time an element that has a binding force beyond what mere
custom can give. And this problem can only be solved by reference to
the ultimate good of social existence--whether conceived as happiness
or as perfection--or by appealing to some intuitively known principle
of social duty, other than the principle of aiming at the happiness or
perfection of society.
Nor, again, does it help us to adopt the more modern view of Nature,
which regards the organic world as exhibiting, not an aggregate of
fixed types, but a continuous and gradual process of changing life. For
granting that this ‘evolution’--as the name implies--is not merely a
process from old to new, but a progress from less to more of certain
definite characteristics; it is surely absurd to maintain that we ought
_therefore_ to take these characteristics as Ultimate Good, and make it
our whole endeavour to accelerate the arrival of an inevitable future.
That whatever is to be will be better than what is, we all hope; but
there seems to be no more reason for summarily identifying ‘what ought
to be’ with ‘what certainly will be,’ than for finding it in ‘what
commonly is,’ or ‘what originally was.’
On the whole, it appears to me that no definition that has ever been
offered of the Natural exhibits this notion as really capable of
furnishing an independent ethical first principle. And no one maintains
that ‘natural’ like ‘beautiful’ is a notion that though indefinable is
yet clear, being derived from a simple unanalysable impression. Hence I
see no way of extracting from it a definite practical criterion of the
rightness of actions.
§ 3. The discussion in the preceding section will have shown that not
all the different views that are taken of the ultimate reason for
doing what is concluded to be right lead to practically different
methods of arriving at this conclusion. Indeed we find that almost
any method may be connected with almost any ultimate reason by means
of some--often plausible--assumption. Hence arises difficulty in the
classification and comparison of ethical systems; since they often
appear to have different affinities according as we consider Method or
Ultimate Reason. In my treatment of the subject, difference of Method
is taken as the paramount consideration: and it is on this account that
I have treated the view in which Perfection is taken to be the Ultimate
End as a variety of the Intuitionism which determines right conduct
by reference to axioms of duty intuitively known; while I have made
as marked a separation as possible between Epicureanism or Egoistic
Hedonism, and the Universalistic or Benthamite[73] Hedonism to which I
propose to restrict the term Utilitarianism.
I am aware that these two latter methods are commonly treated as
closely connected: and it is not difficult to find reasons for this.
In the first place, they agree in prescribing actions as means to an
end distinct from, and lying outside the actions; so that they both
lay down rules which are not absolute but relative, and only valid if
they conduce to the end. Again, the ultimate end is according to both
methods the same in quality, i.e. pleasure; or, more strictly, the
maximum of pleasure attainable, pains being subtracted. Besides, it
is of course to a great extent true that the conduct recommended by
the one principle coincides with that inculcated by the other. Though
it would seem to be only in an ideal polity that ‘self-interest well
understood’ leads to the perfect discharge of all social duties, still,
in a tolerably well-ordered community it prompts to the fulfilment of
most of them, unless under very exceptional circumstances. And, on the
other hand, a Universalistic Hedonist may reasonably hold that his
own happiness is that portion of the universal happiness which it is
most in his power to promote, and which therefore is most especially
entrusted to his charge. And the practical blending of the two systems
is sure to go beyond their theoretical coincidence. It is much
easier for a man to move in a sort of diagonal between Egoistic and
Universalistic Hedonism, than to be practically a consistent adherent
of either. Few men are so completely selfish, whatever their theory of
morals may be, as not occasionally to promote the happiness of others
from natural sympathetic impulse unsupported by Epicurean calculation.
And probably still fewer are so resolutely unselfish as never to find
“all men’s good” in their own with rather too ready conviction.
Further, from Bentham’s psychological doctrine, that every human being
always does aim at his own greatest apparent happiness, it seems to
follow that it is useless to point out to a man the conduct that would
conduce to the general happiness, unless you convince him at the same
time that it would conduce to his own. Hence on this view, egoistic
and universalistic considerations must necessarily be combined in any
practical treatment of morality: and this being so, it was perhaps
to be expected that Bentham[74] or his disciples would go further,
and attempt to base on the Egoism which they accept as inevitable
the Universalistic Hedonism which they approve and inculcate. And
accordingly we find that J. S. Mill does try to establish a logical
connexion between the psychological and ethical principles which he
holds in common with Bentham, and to convince his readers that because
each man naturally seeks his own happiness, therefore he ought to seek
the happiness of other people.[75]
Nevertheless, it seems to me undeniable that the practical affinity
between Utilitarianism and Intuitionism is really much greater than
that between the two forms of Hedonism. My grounds for holding this
will be given at length in subsequent chapters. Here I will only
observe that many moralists who have maintained as practically valid
the judgments of right and wrong which the Common Sense of mankind
seems intuitively to enunciate, have yet regarded General Happiness as
an end to which the rules of morality are the best means, and have held
that a knowledge of these rules was implanted by Nature or revealed by
God for the attainment of this end. Such a belief implies that, though
I am bound to take, as _my_ ultimate standard in acting, conformity to
a rule which is for me absolute, still the natural or Divine reason
for the rule laid down is Utilitarian. On this view, the _method_ of
Utilitarianism is certainly rejected: the connexion between right
action and happiness is not ascertained by a process of reasoning.
But we can hardly say that the Utilitarian principle is altogether
rejected: rather the limitations of the human reason are supposed to
prevent it from apprehending adequately the real connexion between the
true principle and the right rules of conduct. This connexion, however,
has always been to a large extent recognised by all reflective persons.
Indeed, so clear is it that in most cases the observance of the
commonly received moral rules tends to render human life tranquil and
happy, that even moralists (as Whewell) who are most strongly opposed
to Utilitarianism have, in attempting to exhibit the “necessity” of
moral rules, been led to dwell on utilitarian considerations.
And during the first period of ethical controversy in modern England,
after the audacious enunciation of Egoism by Hobbes had roused in
real earnest the search for a philosophical basis of morality,
Utilitarianism appears in friendly alliance with Intuitionism. It was
not to supersede but to support the morality of Common Sense, against
the dangerous innovations of Hobbes, that Cumberland declared “the
common good[76] of all Rationals” to be the end to which moral rules
were the means. We find him quoted with approval by Clarke, who is
commonly taken to represent Intuitionism in an extreme form. Nor does
Shaftesbury, in introducing the theory of a “moral sense,” seem to have
dreamt that it could ever impel us to actions not clearly conducive
to the Good[76] of the Whole: and his disciple Hutcheson expressly
identified its promptings with those of Benevolence. Butler, I think,
was our first influential writer who dwelt on the discrepancies between
Virtue as commonly understood and “conduct likeliest to produce an
overbalance of happiness.”[77] When Hume presented Utilitarianism as
a mode of explaining current morality, it was seen or suspected to
have a partially destructive tendency. But it was not till the time
of Paley and Bentham that it was offered as a method for determining
conduct, which was to overrule all traditional precepts and supersede
all existing moral sentiments. And even this final antagonism relates
rather to theory and method than to practical results: practical
conflict, in ordinary human minds, is mainly between Self-interest and
Social Duty however determined. Indeed, from a practical point of view
the principle of aiming at the “greatest happiness of the greatest
number” is _prima facie_ more definitely opposed to Egoism than the
Common-Sense morality is. For this latter seems to leave a man free to
pursue his own happiness under certain definite limits and conditions:
whereas Utilitarianism seems to require a more comprehensive and
unceasing subordination of self-interest to the common good. And
thus, as Mill remarks, Utilitarianism is sometimes attacked from two
precisely opposite sides: from a confusion with Egoistic Hedonism it is
called base and grovelling; while at the same time it is more plausibly
charged with setting up too high a standard of unselfishness and making
exaggerated demands on human nature.
A good deal remains to be said, in order to make the principle and
method of Utilitarianism perfectly clear and explicit: but it seems
best to defer this till we come to the investigation of its details. It
will be convenient to take this as the final stage of our examination
of methods. For on the one hand it is simpler that the discussion of
Egoistic should precede that of Universalistic Hedonism; and on the
other, it seems desirable that we should obtain in as exact a form as
possible the enunciations of Intuitive Morality, before we compare
these with the results of the more doubtful and difficult calculations
of utilitarian consequences.
In the remaining chapters of this Book I shall endeavour to remove
certain ambiguities as to the general nature and relations of the
other two methods, as designated respectively by the terms Egoism and
Intuitionism, before proceeding to the fuller examination of them in
Books ii. and iii.
NOTE.--I have called the ethical doctrine that takes universal
happiness as the ultimate end and standard of right conduct by the
name of Bentham, because the thinkers who have chiefly taught this
doctrine in England during the present century have referred it to
Bentham as their master. And it certainly seems to me clear--though
Mr. Bain (cf. _Mind_, January 1883, p. 48) appears to doubt it--that
Bentham adopted this doctrine explicitly, in its most comprehensive
scope, at the earliest stage in the formation of his opinions; nor
do I think that he ever consciously abandoned or qualified it. We
find him writing in his common-place book, in 1773-4 (cf. _Works_,
Bowring’s edition, vol. x. p. 70), that Helvetius had “established a
standard of rectitude for actions”;--the standard being that “a sort
of action is a right one, when the tendency of it is to augment the
mass of happiness in the community.” And we find him writing fifty
years later (cf. _Works_, vol. x. p. 79) the following account of his
earliest view, in a passage which contains no hint of later dissent
from it:--“By an early pamphlet of Priestley’s ... light was added
to the warmth. In the phrase ‘the greatest happiness of the greatest
number,’ I then saw delineated, for the first time, a plain as well as
a true standard for whatever is right or wrong ... in human conduct,
_whether in the field of morals or of politics_.”
At the same time I must admit that in other passages Bentham seems
no less explicitly to adopt Egoistic Hedonism as the method of
‘private Ethics,’ as distinct from legislation: and in his posthumous
‘Deontology’ the two principles appear to be reconciled by the
doctrine, that it is always the individual’s true interest, even from
a purely mundane point of view, to act in the manner most conducive
to the general happiness. This latter proposition--which I regard
as erroneous--is not, indeed, definitely put forward in any of the
treatises published by Bentham in his lifetime, or completely prepared
by him for publication: but it may be inferred from his common-place
book that he held it (see his _Works_, vol. x. pp. 560, 561).
FOOTNOTES:
[71] As I have before said, the applicability of a method for
determining right conduct relatively to an ultimate end--whether
Happiness or Perfection--does not necessarily depend on the acceptance
of the end as prescribed by reason: it only requires that it should
be in some way adopted as ultimate and paramount. I have, however,
confined my attention in this treatise to ends which are widely
accepted as reasonable: and I shall afterwards endeavour to exhibit the
self-evident practical axioms which appear to me to be implied in this
acceptance. Cf. _post_, Book iii. chap. xiii.
[72] The notion of ‘Self-realisation’ will be more conveniently
examined in the following chapter: where I shall distinguish different
interpretations of the term ‘Egoism,’ which I have taken to denote one
of the three principal species of ethical method.
[73] See Note at the end of the chapter.
[74] See Note at the end of the chapter.
[75] We shall have occasion to consider Mill’s argument on this point
in a subsequent chapter. Cf. _post_, Book iii. chap. xiii.
[76] It should be observed that neither Cumberland nor Shaftesbury uses
the term “Good” (substantive) in a purely and exclusively hedonistic
sense. But Shaftesbury uses it mainly in this sense: and Cumberland’s
“Good” includes Happiness as well as Perfection.
[77] See Dissertation II. _Of the Nature of Virtue_ appended to the
_Analogy_. It may be interesting to notice a gradual change in Butler’s
view on this important point. In the first of his Sermons on Human
Nature, published some years before the _Analogy_, he does not notice,
any more than Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, any possible want of harmony
between Conscience and Benevolence. A note to Sermon XII., however,
seems to indicate a stage of transition between the view of the first
Sermon and the view of the Dissertation.
CHAPTER VII
EGOISM AND SELF-LOVE
§ 1. In the preceding chapters I have used the term “Egoism,” as it
is most commonly used, to denote a system which prescribes actions
as means to the end of the individual’s happiness or pleasure. The
ruling motive in such a system is commonly said to be “self-love.” But
both terms admit of other interpretations, which it will be well to
distinguish and set aside before proceeding further.
For example, the term “egoistic” is ordinarily and not improperly
applied to the basis on which Hobbes attempted to construct morality;
and on which alone, as he held, the social order could firmly rest, and
escape the storms and convulsions with which it seemed to be menaced
from the vagaries of the unenlightened conscience. But it is not
strictly the end of Egoism as I have defined it--greatest attainable
pleasure for the individual--but rather “self-preservation,” which
determines the first of those precepts of rational egoism which Hobbes
calls “Laws of Nature,” viz., “Seek peace and ensue it.” And in the
development of his system we often find that it is Preservation rather
than Pleasure, or perhaps a compromise between the two,[78] that is
taken as the ultimate end and standard of right conduct.
Again, in Spinoza’s view the principle of rational action is
necessarily egoistic, and is (as with Hobbes) the impulse of
self-preservation. The individual mind, says Spinoza, like everything
else, strives so far as it is able to continue in its state of being:
indeed this effort is its very essence. It is true that the object of
this impulse cannot be separated from pleasure or joy; because pleasure
or joy is “a passion in which the soul passes to higher perfection.”
Still it is not at Pleasure that the impulse primarily aims, but at the
mind’s Perfection or Reality: as we should now say, at Self-realisation
or Self-development. Of this, according to Spinoza, the highest form
consists in a clear comprehension of all things in their necessary
order as modifications of the one Divine Being, and that willing
acceptance of all which springs from this comprehension. In this
state the mind is purely active, without any admixture of passion or
passivity: and thus its essential nature is realised or actualised to
the greatest possible degree.
We perceive that this is the notion of Self-realisation as defined not
only _by_ but _for_ a philosopher: and that it would mean something
quite different in the case of a man of action--such, for example, as
the reflective dramatist of Germany introduces exclaiming:
Ich kann mich nicht
Wie so ein Wortheld, so ein Tugend-Schwätzer
An meinem Willen wärmen, und Gedanken ...
Wenn ich nicht wirke mehr, bin ich vernichtet.[79]
The artist, again, often contemplates his production of the beautiful
as a realisation of self: and moralists of a certain turn of mind, in
all ages, have similarly regarded the sacrifice of inclination to duty
as the highest form of Self-development; and held that true self-love
prompts us always to obey the commands issued by the governing
principle--Reason or Conscience--within us, as in such obedience,
however painful, we shall be realising our truest self.
We see, in short, that the term Egoism, so far as it merely implies
that reference is made to self in laying down first principles of
conduct, does not really indicate in any way the substance of such
principles. For all our impulses, high and low, sensual and moral
alike, are so far similarly related to self, that--except when two
or more impulses come into conscious conflict--we tend to identify
ourselves with each as it arises. Thus self-consciousness may be
prominent in yielding to any impulse: and egoism, in so far as it
merely implies such prominence, is a common form applicable to all
principles of action.
It may be said, however, that we do not, properly speaking, ‘develop’
or ‘realise’ self by yielding to the impulse which happens to be
predominant in us; but by exercising, each in its due place and proper
degree, all the different faculties, capacities, and propensities, of
which our nature is made up. But here there is an important ambiguity.
What do we mean by ‘due proportion and proper degree’? These terms
may imply an ideal, into conformity with which the individual mind
has to be trained, by restraining some of its natural impulses and
strengthening others, and developing its higher faculties rather
than its lower: or they may merely refer to the original combination
and proportion of tendencies in the character with which each is
born; to this, it may be meant, we ought to adapt as far as possible
the circumstances in which we place ourselves and the functions
which we choose to exercise, in order that we may “be ourselves,”
“live our own life,” etc. According to the former interpretation
rational Self-development is merely another term for the pursuit of
Perfection for oneself: while in the latter sense it hardly appears
that Self-development (when clearly distinguished) is really put
forward as an absolute end, but rather as a means to happiness; for
supposing a man to have inherited propensities clearly tending to
his own unhappiness, no one would recommend him to develop these as
fully as possible, instead of modifying or subduing them in some way.
Whether actually the best way of seeking happiness is to give free
play to one’s nature, we will hereafter consider in the course of our
examination of Hedonism.
On the whole, then, I conclude that the notion of Self-realisation
is to be avoided in a treatise on ethical method, on account of its
indefiniteness: and for a similar reason we must discard a common
account of Egoism which describes its ultimate end as the ‘good’ of
the individual; for the term ‘good’ may cover all possible views of
the ultimate end of rational conduct. Indeed it may be said that
Egoism in this sense was assumed in the whole ethical controversy of
ancient Greece; that is, it was assumed on all sides that a rational
individual[80] would make the pursuit of his own good his supreme
aim: the controverted question was whether this Good was rightly
conceived as Pleasure or Virtue, or any _tertium quid_. Nor is the
ambiguity removed if we follow Aristotle in confining our attention to
the Good attainable in human life, and call this Well-being
(Εὐδαιμονία). For we may still argue with the Stoics, that virtuous or
excellent activities and not pleasures are the elements of which true
human Well-being is composed. Indeed Aristotle himself adopts this
view, so far as to determine the details of Well-being accordingly:
though he does not, with the Stoics, regard the pursuit of Virtue and
that of Pleasure as competing alternatives, holding rather that the
“best pleasure” is an inseparable concomitant of the most excellent
action. Even the English term Happiness is not free from a similar
ambiguity.[81] It seems, indeed, to be commonly used in Bentham’s way
as convertible with Pleasure,--or rather as denoting that of which the
constituents are pleasures;--and it is in this sense that I think it
most convenient to use it. Sometimes, however, in ordinary discourse,
the term is rather employed to denote a particular kind of agreeable
consciousness, which is distinguished from and even contrasted with
definite specific pleasures--such as the gratifications of sensual
appetite or other keen and vehement desires--as being at once calmer
and more indefinite: we may characterise it as the feeling which
accompanies the normal activity of a “healthy mind in a healthy body,”
and of which specific pleasures seem to be rather stimulants than
elements. Sometimes, again--though, I think, with a more manifest
divergence from common usage--“happiness” or “true happiness” is
understood in a definitely non-hedonistic sense, as denoting results
other than agreeable feelings of any kind.[82]
§ 2. To be clear, then, we must particularise as the object of
Self-love, and End of the method which I have distinguished as Egoistic
Hedonism, Pleasure, taken in its widest sense, as including every
species of “delight,” “enjoyment,” or “satisfaction”; except so far
as any particular species may be excluded by its incompatibility with
some greater pleasures, or as necessarily involving concomitant or
subsequent pains. It is thus that Self-love seems to be understood
by Butler[83] and other English moralists after him; as a desire
of one’s own pleasure generally, and of the greatest amount of it
obtainable, from whatever source it may be obtained. In fact, it
is upon this generality and comprehensiveness that the ‘authority’
and ‘reasonableness’ attributed to Self-love in Butler’s system are
founded. For satisfaction or pleasure of some kind results from
gratifying any impulse; thus when antagonistic impulses compete for
the determination of the Will, we are prompted by the desire for
pleasure in general to compare the pleasures which we foresee will
respectively attend the gratification of either impulse, and when we
have ascertained which set of pleasures is the greatest, Self-love
or the desire for pleasure in general reinforces the corresponding
impulse. It is thus called into play whenever impulses conflict, and
is therefore naturally regulative and directive (as Butler argues) of
other springs of action. On this view, so far as Self-love operates,
we merely consider the _amount_ of pleasure or satisfaction: to use
Bentham’s illustration, “quantity of pleasure being equal, push-pin is
as good as poetry.”
This position, however, seems to many offensively paradoxical; and
J. S. Mill[84] in his development of Bentham’s doctrine thought it
desirable to abandon it and to take into account differences in quality
among pleasures as well as differences in degree. Now here we may
observe, first, that it is quite consistent with the view quoted as
Bentham’s to describe some kinds of pleasure as inferior in quality to
others, if by ‘a pleasure’ we mean (as is often meant) a whole state of
consciousness which is only partly pleasurable; and still more if we
take into view subsequent states. For many pleasures are not free from
pain even while enjoyed; and many more have painful consequences. Such
pleasures are, in Bentham’s phrase, “impure”: and as the pain has to be
set off as a drawback in valuing the pleasure, it is in accordance with
strictly quantitative measurement of pleasure to call them inferior
in kind. And again, we must be careful not to confound intensity of
_pleasure_ with intensity of _sensation_: as a pleasant feeling may be
strong and absorbing, and yet not so pleasant as another that is more
subtle and delicate. With these explanations, it seems to me that in
order to work out consistently the method that takes pleasure as the
sole ultimate end of rational conduct, Bentham’s proposition must be
accepted, and all _qualitative_ comparison of pleasures must really
resolve itself into quantitative. For all pleasures are understood
to be so called because they have a common property of pleasantness,
and may therefore be compared in respect of this common property. If,
then, what we are seeking is pleasure as such, and pleasure alone, we
must evidently always prefer the more pleasant pleasure to the less
pleasant: no other choice seems reasonable, unless we are aiming at
something besides pleasure. And often when we say that one kind of
pleasure is better than another--as (_e.g._) that the pleasures of
reciprocated affection are superior in quality to the pleasures of
gratified appetite--we mean that they are more pleasant. No doubt we
may mean something else: we may mean, for instance, that they are
nobler and more elevated, although less pleasant. But then we are
clearly introducing a non-hedonistic ground of preference: and if this
is done, the method adopted is a perplexing mixture of Intuitionism and
Hedonism.
To sum up: Egoism, if we merely understand by it a method that aims
at Self-realisation, seems to be a form into which almost any ethical
system may be thrown, without modifying its essential characteristics.
And even when further defined Egoistic Hedonism, it is still
imperfectly distinguishable from Intuitionism if quality of pleasures
is admitted as a consideration distinct from and overruling quantity.
There remains then Pure or Quantitative Egoistic Hedonism, which, as
a method essentially distinct from all others and widely maintained
to be rational, seems to deserve a detailed examination. According to
this the rational agent regards quantity of consequent pleasure and
pain to himself as alone important in choosing between alternatives of
action; and seeks always the greatest attainable surplus of pleasure
over pain--which, without violation of usage, we may designate as
his ‘greatest happiness.’ It seems to be this view and attitude of
mind which is most commonly intended by the vaguer terms ‘egoism,’
‘egoistic’: and therefore I shall allow myself to use these terms in
this more precise signification.
FOOTNOTES:
[78] Thus the end for which an individual is supposed to renounce the
unlimited rights of the State of Nature is said (_Leviathan_, chap.
xiv.) to be “nothing else but the security of a man’s person in this
life, and the means of preserving life so as not to be weary of it.”
[79] Schiller’s _Wallenstein_.
[80] I shall afterwards try to explain how it comes about that, in
modern thought, the proposition ‘My own Good is my only reasonable
ultimate end’ is not a mere tautology, even though we define ‘Good’ as
that at which it is ultimately reasonable to aim. Cf. _post_, chap. ix.
and Book iii. chaps. xiii. xiv.
[81] Aristotle’s selection of εὐδαιμονία to denote what he
elsewhere calls “Human” or “Practicable” good, and the fact that,
after all, we have no better rendering for εὐδαιμονία than
“Happiness” or “Felicity,” has caused no little misunderstanding of his
system. Thus when Stewart (_Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers_,
Book ii. chap. ii.) says that “by many of the best of the ancient
moralists ... the whole of ethics was reduced to this question ... What
is most conducive on the whole to our happiness?” the remark, if not
exactly false, is certain to mislead his readers; since by Stewart,
as by most English writers, “Happiness” is definitely conceived as
consisting of “Pleasures” or “Enjoyments.”
[82] Thus Green (_Prolegomena to Ethics_, Book iii. chap. iv. § 228)
says, “It is the realisation of those objects in which we are mainly
interested, _not the succession of enjoyments which we shall experience
in realising them_, that forms the definite content of our idea of
true happiness, so far as it has such content at all.” Cf. also § 238.
It is more remarkable to find J. S. Mill (_Utilitarianism_, chap.
iv.) declaring that “money”--no less than “power” or “fame”--comes by
association of ideas to be “a part of happiness,” an “ingredient in
the individual’s conception of happiness.” But this seems to be a mere
looseness of phraseology, venial in a treatise aiming at a popular
style; since Mill has expressly said that “by happiness is intended
pleasure and the absence of pain,” and he cannot mean that money is
either the one or the other. In fact he uses in the same passage--as
an alternative phrase for “parts of happiness”--the phrases “sources
of happiness” and “sources of pleasure”: and his real meaning is more
precisely expressed by these latter terms. That is, the distinction
which he is really concerned to emphasise is that between the state
of mind in which money is valued solely as a means of buying other
things, and the state of mind--such as the miser’s--in which the mere
consciousness of possessing it gives pleasure, apart from any idea of
spending it.
[83] See Sermon XI. “... the cool principle of self-love or general
desire of our own happiness.”
[84] _Utilitarianism_, chap. ii.
CHAPTER VIII
INTUITIONISM
§ 1. I have used the term ‘Intuitional’ to denote the view of ethics
which regards as the practically ultimate end of moral actions their
conformity to certain rules or dictates[85] of Duty unconditionally
prescribed. There is, however, considerable ambiguity as to the exact
antithesis implied by the terms ‘intuition,’ ‘intuitive,’ and their
congeners, as currently used in ethical discussion, which we must now
endeavour to remove. Writers who maintain that we have ‘intuitive
knowledge’ of the rightness of actions usually mean that this rightness
is ascertained by simply “looking at” the actions themselves, without
considering their ulterior consequences. This view, indeed, can hardly
be extended to the whole range of duty; since no morality ever existed
which did not consider ulterior consequences to some extent. Prudence
or Forethought has commonly been reckoned a virtue: and all modern
lists of Virtues have included Rational Benevolence, which aims at the
happiness of other human beings generally, and therefore necessarily
takes into consideration even remote effects of actions. It must be
observed, too, that it is difficult to draw the line between an act and
its consequences: as the effects consequent on each of our volitions
form a continuous series of indefinite extension, and we seem to be
conscious of causing all these effects, so far as at the moment of
volition we foresee them to be probable. However, we find that in the
common notions of different kinds of actions, a line is actually drawn
between the results included in the notion and regarded as forming part
of the act, and those considered as its consequences. For example,
in speaking truth to a jury, I may possibly foresee that my words,
operating along with other statements and indications, will unavoidably
lead them to a wrong conclusion as to the guilt or innocence of
the accused, as certainly as I foresee that they will produce a
right impression as to the particular matter of fact to which I am
testifying: still, we should commonly consider the latter foresight or
intention to determine the nature of the act as an act of veracity,
while the former merely relates to a consequence. We must understand
then that the disregard of consequences, which the Intuitional view is
here taken to imply, only relates to certain determinate classes of
action (such as Truth-speaking) where common usage of terms adequately
defines what events are to be included in the general notions of the
acts, and what regarded as their consequences.
But again: we have to observe that men may and do judge remote as well
as immediate results to be in themselves good, and such as we ought to
seek to realise, without considering them in relation to the feelings
of sentient beings. I have already assumed this to be the view of those
who adopt the general Perfection, as distinct from the Happiness, of
human society as their ultimate end; and it would seem to be the view
of many who concentrate their efforts on some more particular results,
other than morality, such as the promotion of Art or Knowledge. Such
a view, if expressly distinguished from Hedonism, might properly be
classed as Intuitional, but in a sense wider than that defined in
the preceding paragraph: _i.e._ it would be meant that the results in
question are judged to be good _immediately_, and not by inference from
experience of the pleasures which they produce. We have, therefore,
to admit a wider use of ‘Intuition,’ as equivalent to ‘immediate
judgment as to what ought to be done or aimed at.’ It should, however,
be observed that the current contrast between ‘intuitive’ or ‘_a
priori_’ and ‘inductive’ or ‘_a posteriori_’ morality commonly involves
a certain confusion of thought. For what the ‘inductive’ moralist
professes to know by induction, is commonly not the same thing as what
the ‘intuitive’ moralist professes to know by intuition. In the former
case it is the conduciveness to pleasure of certain kinds of action
that is methodically ascertained: in the latter case, their rightness:
there is therefore no proper opposition. If Hedonism claims to give
authoritative guidance, this can only be in virtue of the principle
that pleasure is the only reasonable ultimate end of human action: and
this principle cannot be known by induction from experience. Experience
can at most tell us that all men always do seek pleasure as their
ultimate end (that it does not support this conclusion I have already
tried to show): it cannot tell us that any one ought so to seek it.
If this latter proposition is legitimately affirmed in respect either
of private or of general happiness, it must either be immediately
known to be true,--and therefore, we may say, a moral intuition--or be
inferred ultimately from premises which include at least one such moral
intuition; hence either species of Hedonism, regarded from the point
of view primarily[86] taken in this treatise, might be legitimately
said to be in a certain sense ‘intuitional.’ It seems, however, to be
the prevailing opinion of ordinary moral persons, and of most of the
writers who have maintained the existence of moral intuitions, that
certain kinds of actions are unconditionally prescribed without regard
to ulterior consequences: and I have accordingly treated this doctrine
as a distinguishing characteristic of the Intuitional method, during
the main[87] part of the detailed examination of that method which I
attempt in Book iii.
§ 2. Further; the common antithesis between ‘intuitive’ and ‘inductive’
morality is misleading in another way: since a moralist may hold the
rightness of actions to be cognisable apart from the pleasure produced
by them, while yet his method may be properly called Inductive. For he
may hold that, just as the generalisations of physical science rest
on particular observations, so in ethics general truths can only be
reached by induction from judgments or perceptions relating to the
rightness or wrongness of particular acts.
For example, when Socrates is said by Aristotle to have applied
inductive reasoning to ethical questions, it is this kind of induction
which is meant.[88] He discovered, as we are told, the latent ignorance
of himself and other men: that is, that they used general terms
confidently, without being able, when called upon, to explain the
meaning of those terms. His plan for remedying this ignorance was
to work towards the true definition of each term, by examining and
comparing different instances of its application. Thus the definition
of Justice would be sought by comparing different actions commonly
judged to be just, and framing a general proposition that would
harmonise with all these particular judgments.
So again, in the popular view of Conscience it seems to be often
implied that particular judgments are the most trustworthy.
‘Conscience’ is the accepted popular term for the faculty of moral
judgment, as applied to the acts and motives of the person judging;
and we most commonly think of the dictates of conscience as relating
to particular actions. Thus when a man is bidden, in any particular
case, to ‘trust to his conscience,’ it commonly seems to be meant
that he should exercise a faculty of judging morally this particular
case without reference to general rules, and even in opposition to
conclusions obtained by systematic deduction from such rules. And
it is on this view of Conscience that the contempt often expressed
for ‘Casuistry’ may be most easily justified: for if the particular
case can be satisfactorily settled by conscience without reference
to general rules, ‘Casuistry,’ which consists in the application
of general rules to particular cases, is at best superfluous. But
then, on this view, we shall have no practical need of any such
general rules, or of scientific Ethics at all. We may of course form
general propositions by induction from these particular conscientious
judgments, and arrange them systematically: but any interest which
such a system may have will be purely speculative. And this accounts,
perhaps, for the indifference or hostility to systematic morality
shown by some conscientious persons. For they feel that they can at
any rate do without it: and they fear that the cultivation of it may
place the mind in a wrong attitude in relation to practice, and prove
rather unfavourable than otherwise to the proper development of the
practically important faculty manifested or exercised in particular
moral judgments.
The view above described may be called, in a sense,
‘ultra-intuitional,’ since, in its most extreme form, it recognises
simple immediate intuitions alone and discards as superfluous all modes
of reasoning to moral conclusions: and we may find in it one phase or
variety of the Intuitional method,--if we may extend the term ‘method’
to include a procedure that is completed in a single judgment.
§ 3. But though probably all moral agents have experience of such
particular intuitions, and though they constitute a great part of the
moral phenomena of most minds, comparatively few are so thoroughly
satisfied with them, as not to feel a need of some further moral
knowledge even from a strictly practical point of view. For these
particular intuitions do not, to reflective persons, present themselves
as quite indubitable and irrefragable: nor do they always find when
they have put an ethical question to themselves with all sincerity,
that they are conscious of clear immediate insight in respect of
it. Again, when a man compares the utterances of his conscience at
different times, he often finds it difficult to make them altogether
consistent: the same conduct will wear a different moral aspect at one
time from that which it wore at another, although our knowledge of
its circumstances and conditions is not materially changed. Further,
we become aware that the moral perceptions of different minds, to
all appearance equally competent to judge, frequently conflict: one
condemns what another approves. In this way serious doubts are aroused
as to the validity of each man’s particular moral judgments: and we are
led to endeavour to set these doubts at rest by appealing to general
rules, more firmly established on a basis of common consent.
And in fact, though the view of conscience above discussed is one
which much popular language seems to suggest, it is not that which
Christian and other moralists have usually given. They have rather
represented the process of conscience as analogous to one of jural
reasoning, such as is conducted in a Court of Law. Here we have always
a system of universal rules given, and any particular action has to be
brought under one of these rules before it can be pronounced lawful or
unlawful. Now the rules of positive law are usually not discoverable
by the individual’s reason: this may teach him that law ought to be
obeyed, but what law is must, in the main, be communicated to him
from some external authority. And this is not unfrequently the case
with the conscientious reasoning of ordinary persons when any dispute
or difficulty forces them to reason: they have a genuine impulse to
conform to the right rules of conduct, but they are not conscious, in
difficult or doubtful cases, of seeing for themselves what these are:
they have to inquire of their priest, or their sacred books, or perhaps
the common opinion of the society to which they belong. In so far as
this is the case we cannot strictly call their method Intuitional.
They follow rules generally received, not intuitively apprehended.
Other persons, however (or perhaps all to some extent), do seem to
see for themselves the truth[89] and bindingness of all or most of
these current rules. They may still put forward ‘common consent’ as an
argument for the validity of these rules: but only as supporting the
individual’s intuition, not as a substitute for it or as superseding it.
Here then we have a second Intuitional Method: of which the fundamental
assumption is that we can discern certain general rules with really
clear and finally valid intuition. It is held that such general rules
are implicit in the moral reasoning of ordinary men, who apprehend
them adequately for most practical purposes, and are able to enunciate
them roughly; but that to state them with proper precision requires
a special habit of contemplating clearly and steadily abstract moral
notions. It is held that the moralist’s function then is to perform
this process of abstract contemplation, to arrange the results as
systematically as possible, and by proper definitions and explanations
to remove vagueness and prevent conflict. It is such a system as this
which seems to be generally intended when Intuitive or _a priori_
morality is mentioned, and which will chiefly occupy us in Book iii.
§ 4. By philosophic minds, however, the ‘Morality of Common Sense’ (as
I have ventured to call it), even when made as precise and orderly as
possible, is often found unsatisfactory as a system, although they have
no disposition to question its general authority. It is found difficult
to accept as scientific first principles the moral generalities that
we obtain by reflection on the ordinary thought of mankind, even
though we share this thought. Even granting that these rules can be so
defined as perfectly to fit together and cover the whole field of human
conduct, without coming into conflict and without leaving any practical
questions unanswered,--still the resulting code seems an accidental
aggregate of precepts, which stands in need of some rational synthesis.
In short, without being disposed to deny that conduct commonly
judged to be right is so, we may yet require some deeper explanation
_why_ it is so. From this demand springs a third species or phase of
Intuitionism, which, while accepting the morality of common sense as in
the main sound, still attempts to find for it a philosophic basis which
it does not itself offer: to get one or more principles more absolutely
and undeniably true and evident, from which the current rules might
be deduced, either just as they are commonly received or with slight
modifications and rectifications.[90]
The three phases of Intuitionism just described may be treated as
three stages in the formal development of Intuitive Morality: we may
term them respectively Perceptional, Dogmatic, and Philosophical. The
last-mentioned I have only defined in the vaguest way: in fact, as
yet I have presented it only as a problem, of which it is impossible
to foresee how many solutions may be attempted: but it does not seem
desirable to investigate it further at present, as it will be more
satisfactorily studied after examining in detail the Morality of Common
Sense.
It must not be thought that these three phases are sharply
distinguished in the moral reasoning of ordinary men: but then no more
is Intuitionism of any sort sharply distinguished from either species
of Hedonism. A loose combination or confusion of methods is the most
common type of actual moral reasoning. Probably most moral men believe
that their moral sense or instinct in any case will guide them fairly
right, but also that there are general rules for determining right
action in different departments of conduct: and that for these again
it is possible to find a philosophical explanation, by which they may
be deduced from a smaller number of fundamental principles. Still for
systematic direction of conduct, we require to know on what judgments
we are to rely as ultimately valid.
So far I have been mainly concerned with differences in intuitional
method due to difference of generality in the intuitive beliefs
recognised as ultimately valid. There is, however, another class of
differences arising from a variation of view as to the precise quality
immediately apprehended in the moral intuition. These are peculiarly
subtle and difficult to fix in clear and precise language, and I
therefore reserve them for a separate chapter.
NOTE.--Intuitional moralists have not always taken sufficient
care in expounding their system to make clear whether they regard
as ultimately valid, moral judgments on single acts, or general
rules prescribing particular kinds of acts, or more universal and
fundamental principles. For example, Dugald Stewart uses the term
“perception” to denote the immediate operation of the moral faculty;
at the same time, in describing what is thus perceived, he always
seems to have in view general rules.
Still we can tolerably well distinguish among English ethical writers
those who have confined themselves mainly to the definition and
arrangement of the Morality of Common Sense, from those who have
aimed at a more philosophical treatment of the content of moral
intuition. And we find that the distinction corresponds in the main
to a difference of periods: and that--what perhaps we should hardly
have expected--the more philosophical school is the earlier. The
explanation of this may be partly found by referring to the doctrines
in antagonism to which, in the respective periods, the Intuitional
method asserted and developed itself. In the first period all orthodox
moralists were occupied in refuting Hobbism. But this system, though
based on Materialism and Egoism, was yet intended as ethically
constructive. Accepting in the main the commonly received rules of
social morality, it explained them as the conditions of peaceful
existence which enlightened self-interest directed each individual to
obey; provided only the social order to which they belonged was not
merely ideal, but made actual by a strong government. Now no doubt
this view renders the theoretical basis of duty seriously unstable;
still, assuming a decently good government, Hobbism may claim to at
once explain and establish, instead of undermining, the morality
of Common Sense. And therefore, though some of Hobbes’ antagonists
(as Cudworth) contented themselves with simply reaffirming the
absoluteness of morality, the more thoughtful felt that system must
be met by system and explanation by explanation, and that they must
penetrate beyond the dogmas of common sense to some more irrefragable
certainty. And so, while Cumberland found this deeper basis in the
notion of “the common good of all Rationals” as an ultimate end,
Clarke sought to exhibit the more fundamental of the received rules
as axioms of perfect self-evidence, necessarily forced upon the
mind in contemplating human beings and their relations. Clarke’s
results, however, were not found satisfactory: and by degrees the
attempt to exhibit morality as a body of scientific truth fell into
discredit, and the disposition to dwell on the emotional side of the
moral consciousness became prevalent. But when ethical discussion
thus passed over into psychological analysis and classification, the
conception of the objectivity of duty, on which the authority of moral
sentiment depends, fell gradually out of view: for example, we find
Hutcheson asking why the moral sense should not vary in different
human beings, as the palate does, without dreaming that there is any
peril to morality in admitting such variations as legitimate. When,
however, the new doctrine was endorsed by the dreaded name of Hume,
its dangerous nature, and the need of bringing again into prominence
the cognitive element of moral consciousness, were clearly seen: and
this work was undertaken as a part of the general philosophic protest
of the Scottish School against the Empiricism that had culminated
in Hume. But this school claimed as its characteristic merit that
it met Empiricism on its own ground, and showed among the facts of
psychological experience which the Empiricist professed to observe,
the assumptions which he repudiated. And thus in Ethics it was led
rather to expound and reaffirm the morality of Common Sense, than to
offer any profounder principles which could not be so easily supported
by an appeal to common experience.
FOOTNOTES:
[85] I use the term “dictates” to include the view afterwards mentioned
(§ 2) in which the ultimately valid moral imperatives are conceived as
relating to particular acts.
[86] I have explained in the concluding paragraph of chap. iii. that a
different view of hedonistic systems is admissible.
[87] The wider of the two meanings of ‘Intuition’ here distinguished is
required in treating of Philosophical Intuitionism. See Book iii. chap.
xiii.
[88] It must, however, be remembered that Aristotle regarded the
general proposition obtained by induction as really more certain (and
in a higher sense knowledge) than the particulars through which the
mind is led up to it.
[89] Strictly speaking, the attributes of truth and falsehood only
belong formally to Rules when they are changed from the imperative mood
(“Do _X_”) into the indicative (“_X_ ought to be done”).
[90] It should be observed that such principles will not necessarily
be “intuitional” in the narrower sense that excludes consequences; but
only in the wider sense as being self-evident principles relating to
‘what ought to be.’
CHAPTER IX
GOOD
§ 1. We have hitherto spoken of the quality of conduct discerned by
our moral faculty as ‘rightness,’ which is the term commonly used by
English moralists. We have regarded this term, and its equivalents in
ordinary use, as implying the existence of a dictate or imperative of
reason, which prescribes certain actions either unconditionally, or
with reference to some ulterior end.
It is, however, possible to take a view of virtuous action in which,
though the validity of moral intuitions is not disputed, this notion
of rule or dictate is at any rate only latent or implicit, the moral
ideal being presented as attractive rather than imperative. Such a view
seems to be taken when the action to which we are morally prompted,
or the quality of character manifested in it, is judged to be ‘good’
in itself (and not merely as a means to some ulterior Good). This,
as was before noticed, was the fundamental ethical conception in
the Greek schools of Moral Philosophy generally; including even the
Stoics, though their system, from the prominence that it gives to the
conception of Natural Law, forms a transitional link between ancient
and modern ethics. And this historical illustration may serve to
exhibit one important result of substituting the idea of ‘goodness’ for
that of ‘rightness’ of conduct, which at first sight might be thought
a merely verbal change. For the chief characteristics of ancient
ethical controversy as distinguished from modern may be traced to the
employment of a generic notion instead of a specific one in expressing
the common moral judgments on actions. Virtue or Right action is
commonly regarded as only a species of the Good: and so, on this view
of the moral intuition, the first question that offers itself, when we
endeavour to systematise conduct, is how to determine the relation of
this species of good to the rest of the genus. It was on this question
that the Greek thinkers argued, from first to last. Their speculations
can scarcely be understood by us unless with a certain effort we throw
the quasi-jural notions of modern ethics aside, and ask (as they did)
not “What is Duty and what is its ground?” but “Which of the objects
that men think good is truly Good or the Highest Good?” or, in the more
specialised form of the question which the moral intuition introduces,
“What is the relation of the kind of Good we call Virtue, the qualities
of conduct and character which men commend and admire, to other good
things?”
This, then, is the first difference to be noticed between the two
forms of the intuitive judgment. In the recognition of conduct as
‘right’ is involved an authoritative prescription to do it: but when we
have judged conduct to be good, it is not yet clear that we ought to
prefer this kind of good to all other good things: some standard for
estimating the relative values of different ‘goods’ has still to be
sought.
I propose, then, to examine the import of the notion ‘Good’ in the
whole range of its application;--premising that, as it is for the
constituents of Ultimate Good that we require a standard of comparison,
we are not directly concerned with anything that is clearly only good
as a means to the attainment of some ulterior end. If, indeed, we had
only this latter case to consider, it would be plausible to interpret
‘good’ without reference to human desire or choice, as meaning merely
‘fit’ or ‘adapted’ for the production of certain effects--a good horse
for riding, a good gun for shooting, etc. But as we apply the notion
also to ultimate ends, we must seek a meaning for it which will cover
both applications.
§ 2. There is, however, a simple interpretation of the term--which is
widely maintained to be the true one--according to which everything
which we judge to be good is implicitly conceived as a means to
the end of pleasure, even when we do not make in our judgment any
explicit reference to this or any other ulterior end. On this view,
any comparison of things in respect of their ‘goodness’ would seem
to be really a comparison of them as sources of pleasure; so that any
attempt to systematise our intuitions of goodness, whether in conduct
and character or in other things, must reasonably lead us straight to
Hedonism. And no doubt, if we consider the application of the term,
outside the sphere of character and conduct, to things that are not
definitely regarded as means to the attainment of some ulterior object
of desire, we find a close correspondence between our apprehension
of pleasure derived from an object, and our recognition that the
object is in itself ‘good.’ The good things of life are things which
give pleasure, whether sensual or emotional: as good dinners, wines,
poems, pictures, music: and this gives a _prima facie_ support to the
interpretation of ‘good’ as equivalent to ‘pleasant.’ I think, however,
that if we reflect on the application of the term to the cases most
analogous to that of conduct--_i.e._ to what we may call ‘objects of
taste’--we shall find that this interpretation of it has not clearly
the support of common sense. In the first place, allowing that the
judgment that any object is good of its kind is closely connected with
the apprehension of pleasure derived from it, we must observe that
it is generally to a specific kind of pleasure that the affirmation
of goodness corresponds; and that if the object happens to give us
pleasure of a different kind, we do not therefore call it good--at
least without qualification. For instance, we should not call a wine
good solely because it was very wholesome; nor a poem on account of
its moral lessons. And hence when we come to consider the meaning of
the term ‘good’ as applied to conduct, there is no reason, so far,
to suppose that it has any reference or correspondence to _all_ the
pleasures that may result from the conduct. Rather the perception
of goodness or virtue in actions would seem to be analogous to the
perception of beauty[91] in material things: which is normally
accompanied with a specific pleasure which we call ‘æsthetic,’ but
has often no discoverable relation to the general usefulness or
agreeableness of the thing discerned to be beautiful: indeed, we often
recognise this kind of excellence in things hurtful and dangerous.
But further: as regards æsthetic pleasures, and the sources of such
pleasures that we commonly judge to be good, it is the received opinion
that some persons have more and others less ‘good taste’: and it is
only the judgment of persons of good taste that we recognise as valid
in respect of the real goodness of the things enjoyed. We think that of
his own pleasure each individual is the final judge, and there is no
appeal from his decision,--at least so far as he is comparing pleasures
within his actual experience; but the affirmation of goodness in any
object involves the assumption of a universally valid standard, which,
as we believe, the judgment of persons to whom we attribute good taste
approximately represents. And it seems clear that the term ‘good’ as
applied to ‘taste’ does not mean ‘pleasant’; it merely imports the
conformity of the æsthetic judgment so characterised to the supposed
ideal, deviation from which implies error and defect. Nor does it
appear to be always the person of best taste who derives the greatest
enjoyment from any kind of good and pleasant things. We are familiar
with the fact that connoisseurs of wines, pictures, etc., often retain
their intellectual faculty of appraising the merits of the objects
which they criticise, and deciding on their respective places in the
scale of excellence, even when their susceptibilities to pleasure
from these objects are comparatively blunted and exhausted. And more
generally we see that freshness and fulness of feeling by no means go
along with taste and judgment: and that a person who possesses the
former may derive more pleasure from inferior objects than another may
from the best.
To sum up: the general admission that things which are called ‘good’
are productive of pleasure, and that the former quality is inseparable
in thought from the latter, does not involve the inference that the
common estimates of the goodness of conduct may be fairly taken as
estimates of the amount of pleasure resulting from it. For (1) analogy
would lead us to conclude that the attribution of goodness, in the case
of conduct as of objects of taste generally, may correspond not to all
the pleasure that is caused by the conduct, but to a specific pleasure,
in this case the contemplative satisfaction which the conduct causes to
a disinterested spectator: and (2) it may not excite even this specific
pleasure generally in proportion to its goodness, but only (at most) in
persons of good moral taste: and even in their case we can distinguish
the intellectual apprehension of goodness--which involves the
conception of an ideal objective standard--from the pleasurable emotion
which commonly accompanies it; and may suppose the latter element of
consciousness diminished almost indefinitely.
Finally, when we pass from the _adjective_ to the _substantive_
‘good,’ it is at once evident that this latter cannot be understood as
equivalent to ‘pleasure’ or ‘happiness’ by any persons who affirm--as
a significant proposition and not as a mere tautology--that the
Pleasure or Happiness of human beings is their Good or Ultimate
Good. Such affirmation, which would, I think, be ordinarily made by
Hedonists, obviously implies that the _meaning_ of the two terms is
different, however closely their denotation may coincide. And it does
not seem that any fundamental difference of meaning is implied by the
grammatical variation from adjective to substantive.
§ 3. What then can we state as the general meaning of the term ‘good’?
Shall we say--with Hobbes, and many since Hobbes--that ‘whatsoever
is the object of any man’s Desire, that it is which he for his part
calleth Good, and the object of his aversion, Evil’? To simplify the
discussion, we will consider only what a man desires for itself--not
as a means to an ulterior result,--and for himself--not benevolently
for others: his own Good[92] and ultimate Good. We have first to meet
the obvious objection that a man often desires what he knows is on the
whole bad for him: the pleasure of drinking champagne which is sure
to disagree with him, the gratification of revenge when he knows that
his true interest lies in reconciliation. The answer is that in such
cases the desired result is accompanied or followed by other effects
which when they come excite aversion stronger than the desire for the
desired effect: but that these bad effects, though fore-_seen_ are not
fore-_felt_: the representation of them does not adequately modify
the predominant direction of desire as a present fact. But, granting
this, and fixing attention solely on the result desired, apart from
its concomitants and consequences--it would still seem that what is
desired at any time is, as such, merely apparent Good, which may not
be found good when fruition comes, or at any rate not so good as it
appeared. It may turn out a ‘Dead Sea apple,’ mere dust and ashes in
the eating: more often, fruition will partly correspond to expectation,
but may still fall short of it in a marked degree. And sometimes--even
while yielding to the desire--we are aware of the illusoriness of this
expectation of ‘good’ which the desire carries with it. I conclude,
therefore, that if we are to conceive of the elements of ultimate
Good as capable of quantitative comparison--as we do when we speak of
preferring a ‘greater’ good to a ‘lesser,’--we cannot identify the
object of desire with ‘good’ simply, or ‘true good,’ but only with
‘apparent good.’
But further: a prudent man is accustomed to suppress, with more or less
success, desires for what he regards as out of his power to attain
by voluntary action--as fine weather, perfect health, great wealth
or fame, etc.; but any success he may have in diminishing the actual
intensity of such desires has no effect in leading him to judge the
objects desired less ‘good.’
It would seem then, that if we interpret the notion ‘good’ in relation
to ‘desire,’ we must identify it not with the actually _desired_, but
rather with the _desirable_:--meaning by ‘desirable’ not necessarily
‘what _ought_ to be desired’ but what would be desired, with strength
proportioned to the degree of desirability, if it were judged
attainable by voluntary action, supposing the desirer to possess a
perfect forecast, emotional as well as intellectual, of the state of
attainment or fruition.
It still remains possible that the choice of any particular good, thus
defined as an object of pursuit, may be on the whole bad, on account
of its concomitants and consequences; even though the particular
result when attained is not found other than it was imagined in the
condition of previous desire. If, therefore, in seeking a definition
of ‘ultimate Good’ we mean ‘good on the whole,’ we have--following the
line of thought of the preceding paragraph--to express its relation to
Desire differently. In the first place we have to limit our view to
desire which becomes practical in volition; as I may still regard as
desirable results which I judge it on the whole imprudent to aim at.
But, even with this limitation, the relation of my ‘good on the whole’
to my desire is very complicated. For it is not even sufficient to say
that my Good on the whole is what I should actually desire and seek if
all the consequences of seeking it could be foreknown and adequately
realised by me in imagination at the time of making my choice. No doubt
an equal regard for all the moments of our conscious experience--so
far, at least, as the mere difference of their position in time is
concerned--is an essential characteristic of rational conduct. But the
mere fact, that a man does not afterwards feel for the consequences of
an action aversion strong enough to cause him to regret it, cannot be
accepted as a complete proof that he has acted for his ‘good on the
whole.’ Indeed, we commonly reckon it among the worst consequences
of some kinds of conduct that they alter men’s tendencies to desire,
and make them desire their lesser good more than their greater: and
we think it all the worse for a man--even in this world--if he is
never roused out of such a condition and lives till death the life of
a contented pig, when he might have been something better. To avoid
this objection, it would have to be said that a man’s future good on
the whole is what he would now desire and seek on the whole if all
the consequences of all the different lines of conduct open to him
were accurately foreseen and adequately realised in imagination at the
present point of time.
This hypothetical composition of impulsive forces involves so
elaborate and complex a conception, that it is somewhat paradoxical
to say that this is what we commonly _mean_ when we talk of a man’s
‘good on the whole.’ Still, I cannot deny that this hypothetical
object of a resultant desire supplies an intelligible and admissible
interpretation of the terms ‘good’ (substantive) and ‘desirable,’
as giving philosophical precision to the vaguer meaning with which
they are used in ordinary discourse: and it would seem that a calm
comprehensive desire for ‘good’ conceived somewhat in this way, though
more vaguely, is normally produced by intellectual comparison and
experience in a reflective mind. The notion of ‘Good’ thus attained
has an ideal element: it is something that _is_ not always actually
desired and aimed at by human beings: but the ideal element is entirely
interpretable in terms of _fact_, actual or hypothetical, and does not
introduce any judgment of value, fundamentally distinct from judgments
relating to existence;--still less any ‘dictate of Reason.’[93]
It seems to me, however, more in accordance with common sense to
recognise--as Butler does--that the calm desire for my ‘good on the
whole’ is _authoritative_; and therefore carries with it implicitly
a rational dictate to aim at this end, if in any case a conflicting
desire urges the will in an opposite direction. Still we may keep the
notion of ‘dictate’ or ‘imperative’ merely implicit and latent,--as it
seems to be in ordinary judgments as to ‘my good’ and its opposite--by
interpreting ‘ultimate good on the whole for me’ to mean what I should
practically desire if my desires were in harmony with reason, assuming
my own existence alone to be considered. On this view, “ultimate good
on the whole,” unqualified by reference to a particular subject, must
be taken to mean what as a rational being I should desire and seek to
realise, assuming myself to have an equal concern for _all_ existence.
When conduct is judged to be ‘good’ or ‘desirable’ in itself,
independently of its consequences, it is, I conceive, this latter point
of view that is taken. Such a judgment differs, as I have said, from
the judgment that conduct is ‘right,’ in so far as it does not involve
a definite precept to perform it; since it still leaves it an open
question whether this particular kind of good is the greatest good that
we can under the circumstances obtain. It differs further, as we may
now observe, in so far as good or excellent actions are not implied to
be in our power in the same strict sense as ‘right’ actions--any more
than any other good things: and in fact there are many excellences
of behaviour which we cannot attain by any effort of will, at least
directly and at the moment: hence we often feel that the recognition
of goodness in the conduct of others does not carry with it a clear
precept to do likewise, but rather
the vague desire
That stirs an imitative will.
In so far as this is the case Goodness of Conduct becomes an ulterior
end, the attainment of which lies outside and beyond the range of
immediate volition.
§ 4. It remains to consider by what standard the value of conduct or
character,[94] thus intuitively judged to be good in itself, is to be
co-ordinated and compared with that of other good things. I shall not
now attempt to establish such a standard; but a little reflection may
enable us to limit considerably the range of comparison for which it
is required. For I think that if we consider carefully such permanent
results as are commonly judged to be good, other than qualities of
human beings, we can find nothing that, on reflection, appears to
possess this quality of goodness out of relation to human existence, or
at least to some consciousness or feeling.[95]
For example, we commonly judge some inanimate objects, scenes, etc. to
be good as possessing beauty, and others bad from ugliness: still no
one would consider it rational to aim at the production of beauty in
external nature, apart from any possible contemplation of it by human
beings. In fact when beauty is maintained to be objective, it is not
commonly meant that it exists as beauty out of relation to any mind
whatsoever: but only that there is some standard of beauty valid for
all minds.
It may, however, be said that beauty and other results commonly judged
to be good, though we do not conceive them to exist out of relation to
human beings (or at least minds of some kind), are yet so far separable
as ends from the human beings on whom their existence depends, that
their realisation may conceivably come into competition with the
perfection or happiness of these beings. Thus, though beautiful
things cannot be thought worth producing except as possible objects
of contemplation, still a man may devote himself to their production
without any consideration of the persons who are to contemplate them.
Similarly knowledge is a good which cannot exist except in minds; and
yet one may be more interested in the development of knowledge than in
its possession by any particular minds; and may take the former as an
ultimate end without regarding the latter.
Still, as soon as the alternatives are clearly apprehended, it will, I
think, be generally held that beauty, knowledge, and other ideal goods,
as well as all external material things, are only reasonably to be
sought by men in so far as they conduce either (1) to Happiness or (2)
to the Perfection or Excellence of human existence. I say “human,” for
though most utilitarians consider the pleasure (and freedom from pain)
of the inferior animals to be included in the Happiness which they take
as the right and proper end of conduct, no one seems to contend that we
ought to aim at perfecting brutes, except as a means to our ends, or
at least as objects of scientific or æsthetic contemplation for us.
Nor, again, can we include, as a practical end, the existence of beings
above the human. We certainly apply the idea of Good to the Divine
Existence, just as we do to His work, and indeed in a pre-eminent
manner: and when it is said that “we should do all things to the glory
of God,” it may seem to be implied that the existence of God is made
better by our glorifying Him. Still this inference when explicitly
drawn appears somewhat impious; and theologians generally recoil from
it, and refrain from using the notion of a possible addition to the
Goodness of the Divine Existence as a ground of human duty. Nor can the
influence of our actions on other extra-human intelligences besides the
Divine be at present made matter of scientific discussion.
I shall therefore confidently lay down, that if there be any Good other
than Happiness to be sought by man, as an ultimate practical end, it
can only be the Goodness, Perfection, or Excellence of Human Existence.
How far this notion includes more than Virtue, what its precise
relation to Pleasure is, and to what method we shall be logically led
if we accept it as fundamental, are questions which we shall more
conveniently discuss after the detailed examination of these two other
notions, Pleasure and Virtue, in which we shall be engaged in the two
following Books.
FOOTNOTES:
[91] It is, however, necessary to distinguish between the ideas of
_Moral Goodness_ and _Beauty_ as applied to human actions: although
there is much affinity between them, and they have frequently been
identified, especially by the Greek thinkers. No doubt both the ideas
themselves and the corresponding pleasurable emotions, arising on the
contemplation of conduct, are often indistinguishable: a noble action
affects us like a scene, a picture, or a strain of music: and the
delineation of human virtue is an important part of the means which
the artist has at his disposal for producing his peculiar effects.
Still, on looking closer, we see not only that there is much good
conduct which is not beautiful, or at least does not sensibly impress
us as such; but even that certain kinds of crime and wickedness have
a splendour and sublimity of their own. For example, such a career as
Cæsar Borgia’s, as Renan says, is “beau comme une tempête, comme un
abîme.” It is true, I think, that in all such cases the beauty depends
upon the exhibition in the criminal’s conduct of striking gifts and
excellences mingled with the wickedness: but it does not seem that we
can abstract the latter without impairing the æsthetic effect. And
hence I conceive, we have to distinguish the sense of beauty in conduct
from the sense of moral goodness.
[92] It would seem that, according to the common view of ‘good,’ there
are occasions in which an individual’s sacrifice of his own good on
the whole, according to the most rational conception of it that he
can form, would apparently realise greater good for others. Whether,
indeed, such a sacrifice is ever really required, and whether, if so,
it is truly reasonable for the individual to sacrifice his own good
on the whole, are among the profoundest questions of ethics: and I
shall carefully consider them in subsequent chapters (especially Book
iii. chap. xiv.). I here only desire to avoid any prejudgment of these
questions in my definition of ‘my own good.’
[93] As before said (chap. iii. § 4), so far as my ‘good on the whole’
is adopted as an end of action, the notion of ‘ought’--implying a
dictate or imperative of Reason--becomes applicable to the necessary or
fittest means to the attainment of the adopted end.
[94] Character is only known to us through its manifestation in
conduct; and I conceive that in our common recognition of Virtue as
having value in itself, we do not ordinarily distinguish character from
conduct: we do not raise the question whether character is to be valued
for the sake of the conduct in which it is manifested, or conduct for
the sake of the character that it exhibits and develops. How this
question should be answered when it is raised will be more conveniently
considered at a later stage of the discussion. See Book iii. chap. ii.
§ 2, and chap. xiv. § 1.
[95] No doubt there is a point of view, sometimes adopted with great
earnestness, from which the whole universe and not merely a certain
condition of rational or sentient beings is contemplated as ‘very
good’: just as the Creator in Genesis is described as contemplating it.
But such a view can scarcely be developed into a method of Ethics. For
practical purposes, we require to conceive some parts of the universe
as at least less good than they might be. And we do not seem to have
any ground for drawing such a distinction between different portions of
the non-sentient universe, considered in themselves and out of relation
to conscious or sentient beings.
BOOK II
EGOISTIC HEDONISM
CHAPTER I
THE PRINCIPLE AND METHOD OF EGOISM
§ 1. The object of the present Book is to examine the method of
determining reasonable conduct which has been already defined in
outline under the name of Egoism: taking this term as equivalent to
Egoistic Hedonism, and as implying the adoption of his own greatest
happiness as the ultimate end of each individual’s actions. It may be
doubted whether this ought to be included among received “methods of
_Ethics_”; since there are strong grounds for holding that a system
of morality, satisfactory to the moral consciousness of mankind in
general, cannot be constructed on the basis of simple Egoism. In
subsequent chapters[96] I shall carefully discuss these reasons: at
present it seems sufficient to point to the wide acceptance of the
principle that it is reasonable for a man to act in the manner most
conducive to his own happiness. We find it expressly admitted by
leading representatives both of Intuitionism and of that Universalistic
Hedonism to which I propose to restrict the name of Utilitarianism.
I have already noticed that Bentham, although he puts forward the
greatest happiness of the greatest number as the “true standard of
right and wrong,” yet regards it as “right and proper” that each
individual should aim at his own greatest happiness. And Butler is
equally prepared to grant “that our ideas of happiness and misery
are of all our ideas the nearest and most important to us ... that,
though virtue or moral rectitude does indeed consist in affection to
and pursuit of what is right and good as such; yet, when we sit down
in a cool hour, we can neither justify to ourselves this or any other
pursuit till we are convinced that it will be for our happiness, or at
least not contrary to it.”[97]
And even Clarke[98]--notwithstanding the emphatic terms in which he has
maintained that “Virtue truly deserves to be chosen for its own sake
and Vice to be avoided”--yet admits that it is “not truly reasonable
that men by adhering to Virtue should part with their lives, if thereby
they eternally deprived themselves of all possibility of receiving any
advantage from that adherence.”
And, generally, in the ages of Christian faith, it has been obvious
and natural to hold that the realisation of virtue is essentially an
enlightened and far-seeing pursuit of Happiness for the agent. Nor
has this doctrine been held only by persons of a cold and calculating
turn of mind: we find it urged with emphasis by so chivalrous and
high-minded a preacher as Bishop Berkeley. No doubt this is only one
side or element of the Christian view: the opposite doctrine, that an
action done from motives of self-interest is not properly virtuous,
has continually asserted itself as either openly conflicting or in
some manner reconciled with the former. Still the former, though less
refined and elevated, seems to have been the commoner view. Indeed,
it is hardly going too far to say that common sense assumes that
‘interested’ actions, tending to promote the agent’s happiness, are
_prima facie_ reasonable: and that the _onus probandi_ lies with those
who maintain that disinterested conduct, as such, is reasonable.
But, as has been before said, in the common notions of ‘interest,’
‘happiness,’ etc., there is a certain amount of vagueness and
ambiguity: so that in order to fit these terms for the purposes
of scientific discussion, we must, while retaining the main part
of their signification, endeavour to make it more precise. In my
judgment this result is attained if by ‘greatest possible Happiness’
we understand the greatest attainable surplus of pleasure over pain;
the two terms being used, with equally comprehensive meanings, to
include respectively all kinds of agreeable and disagreeable feelings.
Further, if this quantitative definition of the end be accepted,
consistency requires that pleasures should be sought in proportion
to their pleasantness; and therefore the less pleasant consciousness
must not be preferred to the more pleasant, on the ground of any other
qualities that it may possess. The distinctions of _quality_ that Mill
and others urge may still be admitted as grounds of preference, but
only in so far as they can be resolved into distinctions of quantity.
This is the type to which the practical reasoning that is commonly
called ‘Egoistic’ tends to conform, when we rigorously exclude all
ambiguities and inconsistencies: and it is only in this more precise
form that it seems worth while to subject such reasoning to a detailed
examination. We must therefore understand by an Egoist a man who when
two or more courses of action are open to him, ascertains as accurately
as he can the amounts of pleasure and pain that are likely to result
from each, and chooses the one which he thinks will yield him the
greatest surplus of pleasure over pain.
§ 2. It must, however, be pointed out that the adoption of the
fundamental _principle_ of Egoism, as just explained, by no means
necessarily implies the ordinary empirical method of seeking one’s own
pleasure or happiness. A man may aim at the greatest happiness within
his reach, and yet not attempt to ascertain empirically what amount
of pleasure and pain is likely to attend any given course of action;
believing that he has some surer, deductive method for determining
the conduct which will make him most happy in the long-run. He may
believe this on grounds of Positive Religion, because God has promised
happiness as a reward for obedience to certain definite commands: or
on grounds of Natural Religion, because God being just and benevolent
must have so ordered the world that Happiness will in the long-run be
distributed in proportion to Virtue. It is (_e.g._) by a combination of
both these arguments that Paley connects the Universalistic Hedonism
that he adopts as a method for determining duties, with the Egoism
which seems to him self-evident as a fundamental principle of rational
conduct. Or again, a man may connect virtue with happiness by a process
of _a priori_ reasoning, purely ethical; as Aristotle seems to do by
the assumption that the ‘best’ activity will be always attended by
the greatest pleasure as its inseparable concomitant; ‘best’ being
determined by a reference to moral intuition, or to the common moral
opinions of men generally, or of well-bred and well-educated men. Or
the deduction by which Maximum Pleasure is inferred to be the result of
a particular kind of action may be psychological or physiological: we
may have some general theory as to the connexion of pleasure with some
other physical or psychical fact, according to which we can deduce the
amount of pleasure that will attend any particular kind of behaviour:
as (_e.g._) it is widely held that a perfectly healthy and harmonious
exercise of our different bodily and mental functions is the course of
life most conducive to pleasure in the long-run. In this latter case,
though accepting unreservedly the Hedonistic principle, we shall not be
called upon to estimate and compare particular pleasures, but rather to
define the notions of ‘perfect health’ and ‘harmony of functions’ and
consider how these ends may be attained. Still those who advocate such
deductive methods commonly appeal to ordinary experience, at least as
supplying confirmation or verification; and admit that the pleasantness
and painfulness of pleasures and pains are only directly known to the
individual who experiences them. It would seem, therefore, that--at
any rate--the obvious method of Egoistic Hedonism is that which we may
call Empirical-reflective: and it is this I conceive that is commonly
used in egoistic deliberation. It will be well, therefore, to examine
this method in the first instance; to ascertain clearly the assumptions
which it involves, and estimate the exactness of its results.
FOOTNOTES:
[96] See chap. iii. § 2, and chap. v. of this Book.
[97] Butler, Serm. xi.
[98] _Boyle Lectures_ (1705). Prop. i. p. 116.
CHAPTER II
EMPIRICAL HEDONISM
§ 1. The first and most fundamental assumption, involved not only in
the empirical method of Egoistic Hedonism, but in the very conception
of ‘Greatest Happiness’ as an end of action, is the commensurability of
Pleasures and Pains. By this I mean that we must assume the pleasures
sought and the pains shunned to have determinate quantitative relations
to each other; for otherwise they cannot be conceived as possible
elements of a total which we are to seek to make as great as possible.
It is not absolutely necessary to exclude the supposition that there
are some kinds of pleasure so much more pleasant than others, that the
smallest conceivable amount of the former would outweigh the greatest
conceivable amount of the latter; since, if this were ascertained to
be the case, the only result would be that any hedonistic calculation
involving pleasures of the former class might be simplified by
treating those of the latter class as practically non-existent.[99]
I think, however, that in all ordinary prudential reasoning, at any
rate, the assumption is implicitly made that all the pleasures and
pains that man can experience bear a finite ratio to each other in
respect of pleasantness and its opposite. So far as this ratio can be
made definite the Intensity of a pleasure (or pain) can be balanced
against its Duration:[100] for if we conceive one pleasure (or pain),
finite in duration, to be intensively greater than another in some
definite ratio, it seems to be implied in this conception that the
latter if continuously increased in extent--without change in its
intensity--would at a certain point just balance the former in amount.
If pleasures, then, can be arranged in a scale, as greater or less
in some finite degree; we are led to the assumption of a hedonistic
zero, or perfectly neutral feeling, as a point from which the positive
quantity of pleasures may be measured. And this latter assumption
emerges still more clearly when we consider the comparison and
balancing of pleasures with pains, which Hedonism necessarily involves.
For pain must be reckoned as the negative quantity of pleasure, to
be balanced against and subtracted from the positive in estimating
happiness on the whole; we must therefore conceive, as at least ideally
possible, a point of transition in consciousness at which we pass
from the positive to the negative. It is not absolutely necessary to
assume that this strictly indifferent or neutral feeling ever actually
occurs. Still experience seems to show that a state at any rate very
nearly approximating to it is even common: and we certainly experience
continual transitions from pleasure to pain and _vice versa_, and thus
(unless we conceive all such transitions to be abrupt) we must exist at
least momentarily in this neutral state.
In what I have just said, I have by implication denied the paradox
of Epicurus[101] that the state of painlessness is equivalent to
the highest possible pleasure; so that if we can obtain absolute
freedom from pain, the goal of Hedonism is reached, after which
we may vary, but cannot increase, our pleasure. This doctrine is
opposed to common sense and common experience. But it would, I think,
be equally erroneous, on the other hand, to regard this neutral
feeling--hedonistic zero, as I have called it--as the normal condition
of our consciousness, out of which we occasionally sink into pain, and
occasionally rise into pleasure. Nature has not been so niggardly to
man as this: so long as health is retained, and pain and irksome toil
banished, the mere performance of the ordinary habitual functions of
life is, according to my experience, a frequent source of moderate
pleasures, alternating rapidly with states nearly or quite indifferent.
Thus we may venture to say that the ‘apathy’ which so large a
proportion of Greek moralists in the post-Aristotelian period regarded
as the ideal state of existence, was not really conceived by them as
“without one pleasure and without one pain”; but rather as a state of
placid intellectual contemplation, which in philosophic minds might
easily reach a high degree of pleasure.
§ 2. We have yet to give to the notions of pleasure and pain the
precision required for quantitative comparison. In dealing with this
point, and in the rest of the hedonistic discussion, it will be
convenient for the most part to speak of pleasure only, assuming that
pain may be regarded as the negative quantity of pleasure, and that
accordingly any statements made with respect to pleasure may be at once
applied, by obvious changes of phrase, to pain.
The equivalent phrase for Pleasure, according to Mr. Spencer,[102]
is “a feeling which we seek to bring into consciousness and retain
there”; and similarly, Mr. Bain says that “pleasure and pain, in the
actual or real experience, are to be held as identical with motive
power.” But--granting that pleasures normally excite desire--it still
does not seem to me that I judge pleasures to be greater and less
exactly in proportion as they stimulate the will to actions tending
to sustain them. Of course neither Mr. Bain nor Mr. Spencer must be
understood to lay down that all pleasures when actually felt actually
stimulate to exertion of some kind; since this is obviously not true of
the pleasures of repose, a warm bath, etc. The stimulus must in such
cases be understood to be latent and potential; only becoming actual
when action is required to prevent the cessation or diminution of the
pleasure. Thus a man enjoying rest after fatigue is vaguely conscious
of a strong clinging to his actual condition, and of a latent readiness
to resist any impulse to change it. Further, the stimulus of moderate
pleasures and pains may become unfelt through habitual repression.
For instance, in a habitually temperate man the stimulus to prolong
the pleasure of eating or drinking usually ceases before the pleasure
ceases: it is only occasionally that he feels the need of controlling
an impulse to eat or drink up to the point of satiety. So again, a
protracted pain of moderate intensity and free from alarm--such as a
dull prolonged toothache--seems sometimes to lose its felt stimulus to
action without losing its character as pain. Here again the stimulus
may be properly conceived as latent: since if asked whether we should
like to get rid of even a mild toothache, we should certainly answer
yes.
But even if we confine our attention to cases where the stimulus is
palpable and strong, Mr. Bain’s identification of “pleasure and pain”
with motive power does not appear to me to accord exactly with our
common empirical judgments. He himself contrasts the “disproportionate
strain of active powers in one direction,” to which “any sudden and
great delight may give rise,” with the “proper frame of mind under
delight,” which is “to inspire no endeavours except what the charm
of the moment justifies.”[103] And he elsewhere explains that “our
pleasurable emotions are all liable to detain the mind unduly,” through
the “atmosphere of excitement” with which they are surrounded, carrying
the mind “beyond the estimate of pleasure and pain, to the state
named ‘passion,’” in which a man is not “moved solely by the strict
value of the pleasure,” but also by “the engrossing power of the
excitement.”[104] It is true that in such cases Mr. Bain seems to hold
that these “disturbances and anomalies of the will _scarcely_ begin
to tell in the actual feeling,”[105] but it seems to me clear that
exciting pleasures are liable to exercise, even when actually felt, a
volitional stimulus out of proportion to their intensity as pleasures;
and Mr. Bain himself seems to recognise this in a passage where he
says that “acute pleasures and pains stimulate the will perhaps more
strongly than an equivalent stimulation of the massive kind.”[106] I
also find that some feelings which stimulate strongly to their own
removal are either not painful at all or only slightly painful:--_e.g._
ordinarily the sensation of being tickled. If this be so, it is
obviously inexact to define pleasure, _for purposes of measurement_,
as the kind of feeling that we seek to retain in consciousness. Shall
we then say that there is a measurable quality of feeling expressed by
the word “pleasure,” which is independent of its relation to volition,
and strictly undefinable from its simplicity?--like the quality of
feeling expressed by “sweet,” of which also we are conscious in varying
degrees of intensity. This seems to be the view of some writers: but,
for my own part, when I reflect on the notion of pleasure,--using the
term in the comprehensive sense which I have adopted, to include the
most refined and subtle intellectual and emotional gratifications, no
less than the coarser and more definite sensual enjoyments,--the only
common quality that I can find in the feelings so designated seems to
be that relation to desire and volition expressed by the general term
“desirable,” in the sense previously explained. I propose therefore
to define Pleasure--when we are considering its “strict value”
for purposes of quantitative comparison--as a feeling which, when
experienced by intelligent beings, is at least implicitly apprehended
as desirable or--in cases of comparison--preferable.
Here, however, a new question comes into view. When I stated in the
preceding chapter, as a fundamental assumption of Hedonism, that it is
reasonable to prefer pleasures in proportion to their intensity, and
not to allow this ground of preference to be outweighed by any merely
qualitative difference, I implied that the preference of pleasures on
grounds of quality as opposed to quantity--as ‘higher’ or ‘nobler’--is
actually possible: and indeed such non-hedonistic preference is
commonly thought to be of frequent occurrence. But if we take the
definition of pleasure just given--that it is the kind of feeling
which we apprehend to be desirable or preferable--it seems to be a
contradiction in terms to say that the less pleasant feeling can ever
be thought preferable to the more pleasant.
This contradiction may be avoided as follows. It will be generally
admitted that the pleasantness of a feeling is only directly cognisable
by the individual who feels it at the time of feeling it. Thus,
though (as I shall presently argue), in so far as any estimate of
pleasantness involves comparison with feelings only represented in
idea, it is liable to be erroneous through imperfections in the
representation--still, no one is in a position to controvert the
preference of the sentient individual, so far as the quality of the
present feeling alone is concerned. When, however, we judge of the
preferable quality (as ‘elevation’ or ‘refinement’) of a state of
consciousness as distinct from its pleasantness,[107] we seem to appeal
to some common standard which others can apply as well as the sentient
individual. Hence I should conclude that when one kind of pleasure is
judged to be qualitatively superior to another, although less pleasant,
it is not really the feeling itself that is preferred, but something in
the mental or physical conditions or relations under which it arises,
regarded as cognisable objects of our common thought. For certainly
if I in thought distinguish any feeling from all its conditions and
concomitants--and also from all its effects on the subsequent feelings
of the same individual or of others--and contemplate it merely as the
transient feeling of a single subject; it seems to me impossible to
find in it any other preferable quality than that which we call its
pleasantness, the degree of which is only cognisable directly by the
sentient individual.
It should be observed that if this definition of pleasure be accepted,
and if, as before proposed, ‘Ultimate Good’ be taken as equivalent
to ‘what is ultimately desirable,’ the fundamental proposition of
ethical Hedonism has chiefly a negative significance; for the statement
that ‘Pleasure is the Ultimate Good’ will only mean that nothing is
ultimately desirable except desirable feeling, apprehended as desirable
by the sentient individual at the time of feeling it. This being so, it
may be urged against the definition that it could not be accepted by
a moralist of stoical turn, who while recognising pleasure as a fact
refused to recognise it as in any degree ultimately desirable. But I
think such a moralist ought to admit an implied judgment that a feeling
is _per se_ desirable to be inseparably connected with its recognition
as pleasure; while holding that sound philosophy shows the illusoriness
of such judgments. This, in fact, seems to have been substantially the
view of the Stoic school.
However this may be, I conceive that the preference which pure Hedonism
regards as ultimately rational, should be defined as the preference of
feeling valued merely as feeling, according to the estimate implicitly
or explicitly made by the sentient individual at the time of feeling
it; without any regard to the conditions and relations under which
it arises. Accordingly we may state as the fundamental assumption of
what I have called Quantitative Hedonism,--implied in the adoption of
“greatest surplus of pleasure over pain” as the ultimate end,--that
all pleasures and pains, estimated merely as feelings, have for the
sentient individual cognisable degrees of desirability, positive or
negative; observing further, that the empirical method of Hedonism can
only be applied so far as we assume that these degrees of desirability
are definitely given in experience.
There is one more assumption of a fundamental kind, which is not
perhaps involved in the acceptance of the Hedonistic calculus
considered as purely theoretical, but is certainly implied if it be
put forward as a practical method for determining right conduct: the
assumption, namely, that we can by foresight and calculation increase
our pleasures and decrease our pains. It may perhaps be thought
pedantic to state it formally: and in fact no one will deny that the
conditions upon which our pleasures and pains depend are to some
extent cognisable by us and within our own control. But, as we shall
see, it has been maintained that the practice of Hedonistic observation
and calculation has an inevitable tendency to decrease our pleasures
generally, or the most important of them: so that it becomes a question
whether we can gain our greatest happiness by seeking it, or at any
rate by trying to seek it with scientific exactness.
NOTE.--It is sometimes thought to be a necessary assumption of
Hedonists that a surplus of pleasure over pain is actually attainable
by human beings: a proposition which an extreme pessimist would deny.
But the conclusion that life is always on the whole painful would not
prove it to be unreasonable for a man to aim ultimately at minimising
pain, if this is still admitted to be possible; though it would, no
doubt, render immediate suicide, by some painless process, the only
reasonable course for a perfect egoist--unless he looked forward to
another life.
FOOTNOTES:
[99] We find it sometimes asserted by persons of enthusiastic and
passionate temperament, that there are feelings so exquisitely
delightful, that one moment of their rapture is preferable to an
eternity of agreeable consciousness of an inferior kind. These
assertions, however, are perhaps consciously hyperbolical, and not
intended to be taken as scientific statements: but in the case of
pain, it has been deliberately maintained by a thoughtful and subtle
writer, with a view to important practical conclusions, that “torture”
so extreme as to be “incommensurable with moderate pain” is an actual
fact of experience. (See “A Chapter in the Ethics of Pain,” by the late
Edmund Gurney, in a volume of essays entitled _Tertium Quid_.) This
doctrine, however, does not correspond to my own experience; nor does
it appear to me to be supported by the common sense of mankind:--at
least I do not find, in the practical forethought of persons noted for
caution, any recognition of the danger of agony such that, in order to
avoid the smallest extra risk of it, the greatest conceivable amount of
moderate pain should reasonably be incurred.
[100] Bentham gives four qualities of any pleasure or pain (taken
singly) as important for purposes of Hedonistic calculation: (1)
Intensity, (2) Duration, (3) Certainty, (4) Proximity. If we assume
(as above argued) that Intensity must be commensurable with Duration,
the influence of the other qualities on the comparative value of
pleasures and pains is not difficult to determine: for we are
accustomed to estimate the value of chances numerically, and by this
method we can tell exactly (in so far as the degree of uncertainty
can be exactly determined) how much the doubtfulness of a pleasure
detracts from its value: and _proximity_ is a property which it is
reasonable to disregard except in so far as it diminishes uncertainty.
For my feelings a year hence should be just as important to me as my
feelings next minute, if only I could make an equally sure forecast of
them. Indeed this equal and impartial concern for all parts of one’s
conscious life is perhaps the most prominent element in the common
notion of the _rational_--as opposed to the merely _impulsive_--pursuit
of pleasure.
[101] Cf. Cic. _de Fin._ Book i. chap. xi. § 38.
[102] _Principles of Psychology_, Part ii. chap. ix. § 125.
[103] _The Emotions and the Will_, 3rd Edition, p. 392.
[104] _Mental and Moral Science_, Book iv. chap. iv. § 4.
[105] _Ibid._ Book iv. chap. v. § 4.
[106] _Ibid._ Book iii. chap. i. § 8.
[107] It was before observed that by saying that one pleasure is
superior in _quality_ to another we may mean that it is preferable
when considered merely as pleasant: in which case difference in kind
resolves itself into difference in degree.
CHAPTER III
EMPIRICAL HEDONISM--_Continued_
§ 1. Let, then, pleasure be defined as feeling which the sentient
individual at the time of feeling it implicitly or explicitly
apprehends to be desirable;--desirable, that is, when considered
merely as feeling, and not in respect of its objective conditions or
consequences, or of any facts that come directly within the cognisance
and judgment of others besides the sentient individual. And let it be
provisionally assumed that feelings generally can be compared from this
point of view, with sufficient definiteness for practical purposes,
and empirically known to be more or less pleasant in some definite
degree. Then the empirical-reflective method of Egoistic Hedonism will
be, to represent beforehand the different series of feelings that
our knowledge of physical and psychical causes leads us to expect
from the different lines of conduct that lie open to us; judge which
series, as thus represented, appears on the whole preferable, taking
all probabilities into account; and adopt the corresponding line of
conduct. It may be objected that the calculation is too complex for
practice; since any complete forecast of the future would involve a
vast number of contingencies of varying degrees of probability, and
to calculate the Hedonistic value of each of these chances of feeling
would be interminable. Still we may perhaps reduce the calculation
within manageable limits, without serious loss of accuracy, by
discarding all manifestly imprudent conduct, and neglecting the less
probable and less important contingencies; as we do in some of the
arts that have more definite ends, such as strategy and medicine. For
if the general in ordering a march, or the physician in recommending
a change of abode, took into consideration all the circumstances that
were at all relevant to the end sought, their calculations would
become impracticable; accordingly they confine themselves to the most
important; and we may deal similarly with the Hedonistic art of life.
There are, however, objections urged against the Hedonistic method
which go much deeper; and by some writers are pressed to the extreme
of rejecting the method altogether. A careful examination of these
objections seems to be the most convenient way of obtaining a clear
view, both of the method itself and of the results that may reasonably
be expected from it.
I should, however, point out that we are now only concerned with what
may be called _intrinsic_ objections to Egoistic Hedonism; arguments,
that is, against the possibility of obtaining by it the results at
which it aims. We are not now to consider whether it is reasonable for
an individual to take his own happiness as his ultimate end; or how far
the rules of action deduced from the adoption of this end, and from the
actual conditions of the individual’s existence, will coincide with
current opinions as to what is right. These questions, according to the
plan of my work, are postponed for future consideration:[108] our sole
concern at present is with objections tending to show the intrinsic
impracticability of Hedonism as a rational method.
We are met, in the first place, by an objection which, if valid at
all, must be admitted to be decisive. It has been affirmed[109] by
Green that “pleasure as feeling, in distinction from its conditions
that are not feelings, cannot be conceived.” If so, Rational Hedonism
would certainly be impossible: but the proposition seems equally
opposed to common sense, and to the universal assumption of empirical
psychologists; who, in investigating elaborately and systematically
the conditions, mental and physical, of pleasure and pain, necessarily
assume that these feelings can be distinguished in thought from their
“conditions which are not feelings.” I also find that the writer
himself from whom I have quoted, in a later treatise,[110] conducts
long arguments respecting pleasure which are only intelligible if the
distinction between pleasure and its conditions is thoroughly grasped
and steadily contemplated. Indeed he carries a distinction of this
kind to an extreme point of subtlety; as he requires us to distinguish
the “self-satisfaction sought in all desire that amounts to will” from
the “pleasure” that “there is in all self-satisfaction if attained”:
whereas other moralists regard self-satisfaction as a species of
pleasure.[111] To maintain that we can distinguish pleasure from
self-satisfaction, and cannot distinguish it from its conditions, seems
to me too violent a paradox to need refutation. It is possible that
Green may only mean that pleasure cannot be thought to exist apart from
conditions which are not feelings, and that it necessarily varies with
any variation in its conditions. The statement thus interpreted I do
not deny: but it is quite irrelevant to the question whether pleasure
can be _estimated_ separately from its conditions, or whether pleasures
received under different conditions can be quantitatively compared.
I cannot have the pleasure of witnessing a tragedy or the pleasure
of witnessing a farce, without having along with either a complex of
innumerable thoughts and images, very diverse in quality in the two
cases: but this does not prevent me from deciding confidently whether
the tragedy or the farce will afford me most pleasure on the whole.
I pass to another objection made by the same writer to the Hedonistic
conception of the supreme end of action as “the greatest possible
sum of pleasures.” (It should be “the greatest possible surplus of
pleasure over pain”: but the difference is unimportant for the present
argument.) The phrase, he says, is “intrinsically unmeaning”: but his
justification for this statement appears to be different in different
treatises. At first he boldly affirmed that “pleasant feelings are not
quantities that can be added,”[112] apparently because “each is over
before the other begins.” The latter statement, however, is equally
true of the parts of time: but it would be obviously absurd to say that
hours, days, years are “not quantities that can be added.” Possibly
this consideration occurred to Green before writing the _Prolegomena
to Ethics_: at any rate in the latter treatise he admits that states
“of pleasant feeling” can be added together in “thought,” only denying
that they can be added “in enjoyment or imagination of enjoyment.”[113]
But this concedes all that is required for the Hedonistic valuation
of future feelings; no Hedonist ever supposed that the happiness he
aims at making as great as possible was something to be enjoyed all
at once, or ever wanted to imagine it as so enjoyed. And unless the
transiency of pleasure diminishes its pleasantness--a point which I
will presently consider--I cannot see that the possibility of realising
the Hedonistic end is at all affected by the necessity of realising
it in successive parts. Green, in another passage,[114] appears to
lay down that “an end” which is “to serve the purpose of a criterion”
must “enable us to distinguish actions that bring men nearer to it
from those which do not.” This, however, would only be the case if by
an “end” is necessarily meant a goal or consummation, which, after
gradually drawing nearer to it, we reach all at once: but this is not,
I conceive, the sense in which the word is ordinarily understood by
ethical writers: and certainly all that I mean by it is an object of
rational aim--whether attained in successive parts or not--which is
not sought as a means to the attainment of any ulterior object, but
for itself. And so long as any one’s prospective balance of pleasure
over pain admits of being made greater or less by immediate action in
one way or another,[115] there seems no reason why ‘Maximum Happiness’
should not provide as serviceable a criterion of conduct as any
‘chief good’ capable of being possessed all at once, or in some way
independent of the condition of time.
§ 2. If, however, it be maintained, that the consciousness of the
transiency of pleasure either makes it less pleasant at the time or
causes a subsequent pain, and that the deliberate and systematic
pursuit of pleasure tends to intensify this consciousness; the
proposition, if borne out by experience, would certainly constitute
a relevant objection to the method of Egoistic Hedonism. And this
view would seem to be in the mind of the writer above quoted (though
it is nowhere clearly put forward): since he affirms that it is
“impossible that self-satisfaction should be found in any succession
of pleasures”;[116] as self-satisfaction being “satisfaction for a
self that abides and contemplates itself as abiding” must be at least
relatively permanent:[117] and it is, I suppose, implied that the
disappointment of the Hedonist, who fails to find self-satisfaction
where he seeks for it, is attended with pain or loss of pleasure.[118]
If this be so, and if the self-satisfaction thus missed can be obtained
by the resolute adoption of some other principle of action, it would
certainly seem that the systematic pursuit of pleasure is in some
danger of defeating itself: it is therefore important to consider
carefully how far this is really the case.
So far as my own experience goes, it does not appear to me that the
mere transiency of pleasures is a serious source of discontent, so
long as one has a fair prospect of having as valuable pleasures in
the future as in the past--or even so long as the life before one has
any substantial amount of pleasure to offer. But I do not doubt that
an important element of happiness, for all or most men, is derived
from the consciousness of possessing “relatively permanent” sources
of pleasure--whether external, as wealth, social position, family,
friends; or internal, as knowledge, culture, strong and lively interest
in the wellbeing of fairly prosperous persons or institutions. This,
however, does not, in my opinion, constitute an objection to Hedonism:
it rather seems obvious, from the hedonistic point of view, that “as
soon as intelligence discovers that there are fixed objects, permanent
sources of pleasure, and large groups of enduring interests, which
yield a variety of recurring enjoyments, the rational will, preferring
the greater to the less, will unfailingly devote its energies to the
pursuit of these.”[119] It may be replied that if these permanent
sources of pleasure are consciously sought merely as a means to the
hedonistic end, they will not afford the happiness for which they
are sought. With this I to some extent agree; but I think that if
the normal complexity of our impulses be duly taken into account,
this statement will be found not to militate against the adoption of
Hedonism, but merely to signalise a danger against which the Hedonist
has to guard. In a previous chapter[120] I have, after Butler, laid
stress on the difference between impulses that are, strictly speaking,
directed towards pleasure, and ‘extra-regarding’ impulses which do not
aim at pleasure,--though much, perhaps most, of our pleasure consists
in the gratification of these latter, and therefore depends upon
their existence. I there argued that in many cases the two kinds of
impulse are so far incompatible that they do not easily coexist in the
same moment of consciousness. I added, however, that in the ordinary
condition of our activity the incompatibility is only momentary, and
does not prevent a real harmony from being attained by a sort of
alternating rhythm of the two impulses in consciousness. Still it
seems undeniable that this harmony is liable to be disturbed; and that
while on the one hand individuals may and do sacrifice their greatest
apparent happiness to the gratification of some imperious particular
desire, so, on the other hand, self-love is liable to engross the mind
to a degree incompatible with a healthy and vigorous outflow of those
‘disinterested’ impulses towards particular objects, the pre-existence
of which is necessary to the attainment, in any high degree, of the
happiness at which self-love aims. I should not, however, infer from
this that the pursuit of pleasure is necessarily self-defeating
and futile; but merely that the principle of Egoistic Hedonism,
when applied with a due knowledge of the laws of human nature, is
practically self-limiting; _i.e._ that a rational method of attaining
the end at which it aims requires that we should to some extent put
it out of sight and not directly aim at it. I have before spoken of
this conclusion as the ‘Fundamental Paradox of Egoistic Hedonism’;
but though it presents itself as a paradox, there does not seem to
be any difficulty in its practical realisation, when once the danger
indicated is clearly seen. For it is an experience only too common
among men, in whatever pursuit they may be engaged, that they let the
original object and goal of their efforts pass out of view, and come
to regard the means to this end as ends in themselves: so that they
at last even sacrifice the original end to the attainment of what is
only secondarily and derivatively desirable. And if it be thus easy and
common to forget the end in the means overmuch, there seems no reason
why it should be difficult to do it to the extent that Rational Egoism
prescribes: and, in fact, it seems to be continually done by ordinary
persons in the case of amusements and pastimes of all kinds.
It is true that, as our desires cannot ordinarily be produced by an
effort of will--though they can to some extent be repressed by it--if
we started with no impulse except the desire of pleasure, it might
seem difficult to execute the practical paradox of attaining pleasure
by aiming at something else. Yet even in this hypothetical case the
difficulty is less than it appears. For the reaction of our activities
upon our emotional nature is such that we may commonly bring ourselves
to take an interest in any end by concentrating our efforts upon its
attainment. So that, even supposing a man to begin with absolute
indifference to everything except his own pleasure, it does not follow
that if he were convinced that the possession of other desires and
impulses were necessary to the attainment of the greatest possible
pleasure, he could not succeed in producing these. But this supposition
is never actually realised. Every man, when he commences the task of
systematising his conduct, whether on egoistic principles or any other,
is conscious of a number of different impulses and tendencies within
him, other than the mere desire for pleasure, which urge his will in
particular directions, to the attainment of particular results: so that
he has only to place himself under certain external influences, and
these desires and impulses will begin to operate without any effort of
will.
It is sometimes thought, however, that there is an important class of
refined and elevated impulses with which the supremacy of self-love is
in a peculiar way incompatible, such as the love of virtue, or personal
affection, or the religious impulse to love and obey God. But at any
rate in the common view of these impulses, this difficulty does not
seem to be recognised. None of the school of moralists that followed
Shaftesbury in contending that it is a man’s true interest to foster
in himself strictly disinterested social affections, has noted any
inherent incompatibility between the existence of these affections and
the supremacy of rational self-love. And similarly Christian preachers
who have commended the religious life as really the happiest, have not
thought genuine religion irreconcilable with the conviction that each
man’s own happiness is his most near and intimate concern.
Other persons, however, seem to carry the religious consciousness
and the feeling of human affection to a higher stage of refinement,
at which a stricter disinterestedness is exacted. They maintain
that the essence of either feeling, in its best form, is absolute
self-renunciation and self-sacrifice. And certainly these seem
incompatible with self-love, however cautiously self-limiting. A man
cannot both wish to secure his own happiness and be willing to lose it.
And yet how if willingness to lose it is the true means of securing
it? Can self-love not merely reduce indirectly its prominence in
consciousness, but directly and unreservedly annihilate itself?
This emotional feat does not seem to me possible: and therefore I
must admit that a man who embraces the principle of Rational Egoism
cuts himself off from the special pleasure that attends this absolute
sacrifice and abnegation of self. But however exquisite this may be,
the pitch of emotional exaltation and refinement necessary to attain it
is comparatively so rare, that it is scarcely included in men’s common
estimate of happiness. I do not therefore think that an important
objection to Rational Egoism can be based upon its incompatibility
with this particular consciousness: nor that the common experience
of mankind really sustains the view that the desire of one’s own
happiness, if accepted as supreme and regulative, inevitably defeats
its own aim through the consequent diminution and desiccation of the
impulses and emotional capacities necessary to the attainment of
happiness in a high degree; though it certainly shows a serious and
subtle danger in this direction.
§ 3. There is, however, another way in which the habit of mind
necessarily resulting from the continual practice of hedonistic
comparison is sometimes thought to be unfavourable to the attainment
of the hedonistic end: from a supposed incompatibility between the
habit of reflectively observing and examining pleasure, and the
capacity for experiencing pleasure in normal fulness and intensity.
And it certainly seems important to consider what effect the continual
attention to our pleasures, in order to observe their different
degrees, is likely to have on these feelings themselves. The inquiry
at first sight seems to lead to irreconcilable contradiction in our
view of pleasure. For if pleasure only exists as it is felt, the more
conscious we are of it, the more pleasure we have: and it would seem
that the more our attention is directed towards it, the more fully we
shall be conscious of it. On the other hand Hamilton’s statement that
“knowledge and feeling” (cognition and pleasure or pain) are always
“in a certain inverse proportion to each other,” corresponds _prima
facie_ to our common experience: for the purely cognitive element of
consciousness seems to be neither pleasurable nor painful, so that the
more our consciousness is occupied with cognition, the less room there
seems to be for feeling.
This view, however, rests on the assumption that the total intensity
of our consciousness is a constant quantity; so that when one element
of it positively increases, the rest must positively--as well as
relatively--diminish. And it does not appear to me that experience
gives us any valid ground for making this general assumption: it rather
seems that at certain times in our life intellect and feeling are
simultaneously feeble; so that the same mental excitement may intensify
both simultaneously.
Still it seems to be a fact that any very powerful feeling, reaching to
the full intensity of which our consciousness is normally capable, is
commonly diminished by a contemporaneous stroke of cognitive effort:
hence it is a general difficulty in the way of exact observation of
our emotions that the object cognised seems to shrink and dwindle in
proportion as the cognitive regard grows keen and eager. How then
are we to reconcile this with the proposition first laid down, that
pleasure only exists as we are conscious of it? The answer seems to
be that the mere consciousness of a present feeling--apart from any
distinct representative elements--cannot diminish the feeling of which
it is an indispensable and inseparable condition: but in introspective
cognition we go beyond the present feeling, comparing and classifying
it with remembered or imagined feelings; and the effort of representing
and comparing these other feelings tends to decrease the mere
presentative consciousness of the actual pleasure.
I conclude, then, that there is a real danger of diminishing pleasure
by the attempt to observe and estimate it. But the danger seems only to
arise in the case of very intense pleasures, and only if the attempt is
made at the moment of actual enjoyment; and since the most delightful
periods of life have frequently recurring intervals of nearly neutral
feeling, in which the pleasures immediately past may be compared and
estimated without any such detriment, I do not regard the objection
founded on this danger as particularly important.
§ 4. More serious, in my opinion, are the objections urged against the
possibility of performing, with definite and trustworthy results, the
comprehensive and methodical comparison of pleasures and pains which
the adoption of the Hedonistic standard involves. I cannot indeed
doubt that men habitually compare pleasures and pains in respect
of their intensity: that (_e.g._) when we pass from one state of
consciousness to another, or when in any way we are led to recall a
state long past, we often unhesitatingly declare the present state
to be more or less pleasant than the past: or that we declare some
pleasant experiences to have been ‘worth,’ and others ‘not worth,’ the
trouble it took to obtain them, or the pain that followed them. But,
granting this, it may still be maintained (1) that this comparison as
ordinarily made is both occasional and very rough, and that it can
never be extended as systematic Hedonism requires, nor applied, with
any accuracy, to all possible states however differing in quality; and
(2) that as commonly practised it is liable to illusion, of which we
can never measure the precise amount, while we are continually forced
to recognise its existence. This illusion was even urged by Plato as
a ground for distrusting the apparent affirmation of consciousness
in respect of _present_ pleasure. Plato thought that the apparent
intensity of the coarser bodily pleasures was illusory; because these
states of consciousness, being preceded by pain, were really only
states of relief from pain, and so properly neutral, neither pleasant
nor painful--examples of what I have called the hedonistic zero--only
appearing pleasant from contrast with the preceding pain.
To this, however, it has been answered, that in estimating pleasure
there is no conceivable appeal from the immediate decision of
consciousness: that here the Phenomenal is the Real--there is no other
real that we can distinguish from it. And this seems to me true, in so
far as we are concerned only with the present state. But then--apart
from the difficulty just noticed of observing a pleasure while it is
felt without thereby diminishing it--it is obvious that in any estimate
of its intensity we are necessarily comparing it with some other state.
And this latter must generally be a representation, not an actual
feeling: for though we can sometimes experience two or perhaps more
pleasures at once, we are rarely in such cases able to compare them
satisfactorily: for either the causes of the two mutually interfere, so
that neither reaches its normal degree of intensity; or, more often,
the two blend into one state of pleasant consciousness the elements of
which we cannot estimate separately. But if it is therefore inevitable
that one term at least in our comparison should be an imagined
pleasure, we see that there is a possibility of error in any such
comparison; for the imagined feeling may not adequately represent the
pleasantness of the corresponding actual feeling. And in the egoistic
comparison, the validity of which we are now discussing, the objects
primarily to be compared are all represented elements of consciousness:
for we are desiring to choose between two or more possible courses of
conduct, and therefore to forecast future feelings.
Let us then examine more closely the manner in which this comparison is
ordinarily performed, that we may see what positive grounds we have for
mistrusting it.
In estimating for practical purposes the value of different pleasures
open to us, we commonly trust most to our prospective imagination:
we project ourselves into the future, and imagine what such and
such a pleasure will amount to under hypothetical conditions. This
imagination, so far as it involves conscious inference, seems to be
chiefly determined by our own experience of past pleasures, which are
usually recalled generically, or in large aggregates, though sometimes
particular instances of important single pleasures occur to us as
definitely remembered: but partly, too, we are influenced by the
experience of others sympathetically appropriated: and here again we
sometimes definitely refer to particular experiences which have been
communicated to us by individuals, and sometimes to the traditional
generalisations which are thought to represent the common experience of
mankind.
Now it does not seem that such a process as this is likely to be free
from error: and, indeed, no one pretends that it is. In fact there is
scarcely any point upon which moralisers have dwelt with more emphasis
than this, that man’s forecast of pleasure is continually erroneous.
Each of us frequently recognises his own mistakes: and each still more
often attributes to others errors unseen by themselves, arising either
from misinterpretation of their own experience, or from ignorance or
neglect of that of others.
How then are these errors to be eliminated? The obvious answer is that
we must substitute for the instinctive, largely implicit, inference
just described a more scientific process of reasoning: by deducing
the probable degree of our future pleasure or pain in any given
circumstances from inductive generalisations based on a sufficient
number of careful observations of our own and others’ experience. We
have then to ask, first, how far can each of us estimate accurately his
own past experience of pleasures and pains? secondly, how far can this
knowledge of the past enable him to forecast, with any certainty, the
greatest happiness within his reach in the future? thirdly, how far can
he appropriate, for the purposes of such forecasts, the past experience
of others?
As regards the first of these questions, it must be remembered that
it is not sufficient to know generally that we derive pleasures and
pains from such and such sources; we require to know approximately
the positive or negative degree of each feeling; unless we can form
some quantitative estimate of them, it is futile to try to attain our
_greatest possible_ happiness--at least by an empirical method. We
have therefore to compare quantitatively each pleasure as it occurs,
or as recalled in imagination, with other imagined pleasures: and the
question is, how far such comparisons can be regarded as trustworthy.
Now for my own part, when I reflect on my pleasures and pains, and
endeavour to compare them in respect of intensity, it is only to
a very limited extent that I can obtain clear and definite results
from such comparisons, even taking each separately in its simplest
form:--whether the comparison is made at the moment of experiencing
one of the pleasures, or between two states of consciousness recalled
in imagination. This is true even when I compare feelings of the same
kind: and the vagueness and uncertainty increases, in proportion as
the feelings differ in kind. Let us begin with sensual gratifications,
which are thought to be especially definite and palpable. Suppose I
am enjoying a good dinner: if I ask myself whether one kind of dish
or wine gives me more pleasure than another, sometimes I can decide,
but very often not. So if I reflect upon two modes of bodily exercise
that I may have taken: if one has been in a marked degree agreeable or
tedious, I take note of it naturally; but it is not natural to me to go
further than this in judging of their pleasurableness or painfulness,
and the attempt to do so does not seem to lead to any clear
affirmation. And similarly of intellectual exercises and states of
consciousness predominantly emotional: even when the causes and quality
of the feelings compared are similar, it is only when the differences
in pleasantness are great, that hedonistic comparison seems to yield
any definite result. But when I try to arrange in a scale pleasures
differing in kind; to compare (_e.g._) labour with rest, excitement
with tranquillity, intellectual exercise with emotional effusion, the
pleasure of scientific apprehension with that of beneficent action, the
delight of social expansion with the delight of æsthetic reception; my
judgment wavers and fluctuates far more, and in the majority of cases
I cannot give any confident decision. And if this is the case with
what Bentham calls ‘pure’--_i.e._ painless--pleasures, it is still
more true of those even commoner states of consciousness, where a
certain amount of pain or discomfort is mixed with pleasure, although
the latter preponderates. If it is hard to say which of two different
states of contentment was the greater pleasure, it seems still harder
to compare a state of placid satisfaction with one of eager but hopeful
suspense, or with triumphant conquest of painful obstacles. And perhaps
it is still more difficult to compare pure pleasures with pure pains,
and to say how much of the one kind of feeling we consider to be
exactly balanced by a given amount of the other when they do not occur
simultaneously: while an estimate of simultaneous feelings is, as we
have seen, generally unsatisfactory from the mutual interference of
their respective causes.
§ 5. But again, if these judgments are not clear and definite, still
less are they consistent. I do not now mean that one man’s estimate
of the value of any kind of pleasures differs from another’s: for we
have assumed each sentient individual to be the final judge of the
pleasantness and painfulness of his own feelings, and therefore this
kind of discrepancy does not affect the validity of the judgments,
and creates no difficulty until any one tries to appropriate the
experience of others. But I mean that each individual’s judgment of
the comparative value of his own pleasures is apt to be different at
different times, though it relates to the same past experiences; and
that this variation is a legitimate ground for distrusting the validity
of any particular comparison.
The causes of this variation seem to be partly due to the nature of
the represented feeling, and partly to the general state of the mind
at the time of making the representation. To begin with the former: we
find that different kinds of past pleasures and pains do not equally
admit of being revived in imagination. Thus, generally speaking, our
more emotional and more representative pains are more easily revived
than the more sensational and presentative: for example, it is at this
moment much more easy for me to imagine the discomfort of expectancy
which preceded a past sea-sickness than the pain of the actual nausea:
although I infer--from the recollection of judgments passed at the
time--that the former pain was trifling compared with the latter. To
this cause it seems due that past hardships, toils, and anxieties often
appear pleasurable when we look back upon them, after some interval;
for the excitement, the heightened sense of life that accompanied the
painful struggle, would have been pleasurable if taken by itself; and
it is this that we recall rather than the pain. In estimating pleasures
the other cause of variation is more conspicuous; we are conscious of
changes occasional or periodic in our estimate of them, depending upon
changes in our mental or bodily condition. _E.g._ it is a matter of
common remark with respect to the gratifications of appetite that we
cannot estimate them adequately in the state of satiety, and that we
are apt to exaggerate them in the state of desire. (I do not deny that
intensity of antecedent desire intensifies the pleasure of fruition; so
that this pleasure not only _appears_, as Plato thought, but actually
is greater owing to the strength of the desire that has preceded. Still
it is a matter of common experience that pleasures which have been
intensely desired are often found to disappoint expectation.)
There seem to be no special states of aversion, determined by bodily
causes, and related to certain pains as our appetites to their
correspondent pleasures; but most persons are liable to be thrown by
the prospect of certain pains into the state of passionate aversion
which we call fear, and to be thereby led to estimate such pains as
worse than they would be judged to be in a calmer mood.
Further, when feeling any kind of pain or uneasiness we seem liable
to underrate pain of a very dissimilar kind: thus in danger we value
repose, overlooking its _ennui_, while the tedium of security makes
us imagine the mingled excitement of past danger as almost purely
pleasurable. And again when we are absorbed in any particular pleasant
activity, the pleasures attending dissimilar activities are apt to be
contemned: they appear coarse or thin, as the case may be: and this
constitutes a fundamental objection to noting the exact degree of
a pleasure at the time of experiencing it. The eager desire, which
often seems an indispensable element of the whole state of pleasurable
activity, generally involves a similar bias: indeed any strong
excitement, in which our thought is concentrated on a single result or
group of results--whether it be the excitement of aversion, fear, hope,
or suspense--tends to make us inappreciative of alien pleasures and
pains alike. And, speaking more generally, we cannot imagine as very
intense a pleasure of a kind that at the time of imagining it we are
incapable of experiencing: as (_e.g._) the pleasures of intellectual
or bodily exercise at the close of a wearying day; or any emotional
pleasure when our susceptibility to the special emotion is temporarily
exhausted. On the other hand, it is not easy to guard against error, as
philosophers have often thought, by making our estimate in a cool and
passionless state. For there are many pleasures which require precedent
desire, and even enthusiasm and highly wrought excitement, in order to
be experienced in their full intensity; and it is not likely that we
should appreciate these adequately in a state of perfect tranquillity.
§ 6. These considerations make clearer the extent of the assumptions
of Empirical Quantitative Hedonism, stated in the preceding chapter:
viz. (1) that our pleasures and pains have each a definite degree, and
(2) that this degree is empirically cognisable. Firstly, if pleasure
only exists as it is felt, the belief that every pleasure and pain
has a definite intensive quantity or degree must remain an _a priori_
assumption, incapable of positive empirical verification. For the
pleasure can only have the degree as compared with other feelings, of
the same or some different kind; but, generally speaking, since this
comparison can only be made in imagination, it can only yield the
hypothetical result that if certain feelings could be felt together,
precisely as they have been felt separately, one would be found more
desirable than the other in some definite ratio. If, then, we are asked
what ground we have for regarding this imaginary result as a valid
representation of reality, we cannot say more than that the belief
in its general validity is irresistibly suggested in reflection on
experience, and remains at any rate uncontradicted by experience.
But secondly, granting that each of our pleasures and pains has
really a definite degree of pleasantness or painfulness, the question
still remains whether we have any means of accurately measuring
these degrees. Is there any reason to suppose that the mind is ever
in such a state as to be a perfectly neutral and colourless medium
for imagining all kinds of pleasures? Experience certainly shows us
the frequent occurrence of moods in which we have an apparent bias
for or against a particular kind of feeling. Is it not probable that
there is always some bias of this kind? that we are always more in
tune for some pleasures, more sensitive to some pains, than we are to
others? It must, I think, be admitted that the exact cognition of the
place of each kind of feeling in a scale of desirability, measured
positively and negatively from a zero of perfect indifference, is at
best an ideal to which we can never tell how closely we approximate.
Still in the variations of our judgment and the disappointment of our
expectations we have experience of errors of which we can trace the
causes and allow for them, at least roughly; correcting in thought
the defects of imagination. And since what we require for practical
guidance is to estimate not individual past experiences, but the value
of a kind of pleasure or pain, as obtained under certain circumstances
or conditions; we can to some extent diminish the chance of error
in this estimate by making a number of observations and imaginative
comparisons, at different times and in different moods. In so far
as these agree we may legitimately feel an increased confidence in
the result: and in so far as they differ, we can at least reduce our
possible error by striking an average of the different estimates. It
will be evident, however, that such a method as this cannot be expected
to yield more than a rough approximation to the supposed truth.
§ 7. We must conclude then that our estimate of the hedonistic value
of any past pleasure or pain, is liable to an amount of error which
we cannot calculate exactly; because the represented pleasantness of
different feelings fluctuates and varies indefinitely with changes in
the actual condition of the representing mind. We have now to observe
that, for similar reasons, even supposing we could adequately allow
for, and so exclude, this source of error in our comparison of past
pleasures, it is liable to intrude again in arguing from the past to
the future. For our capacity for particular pleasures may be about
to change, or may have actually changed since the experiences that
form the data of our calculation. We may have reached the point of
satiety in respect of some of our past pleasures, or otherwise lost our
susceptibility to them, owing to latent changes in our constitution: or
we may have increased our susceptibility to pains inevitably connected
with them: or altered conditions of life may have generated in us new
desires and aversions, and given relative importance to new sources of
happiness. Or any or all of these changes may be expected to occur,
before the completion of the course of conduct upon which we are now
deciding. The most careful estimate of a girl’s pleasures (supposing
a girl gifted with the abnormal habit of reflection that would be
necessary) would not much profit a young woman: and the hedonistic
calculations of youth require modification as we advance in years.
It may be said, however, that no one, in making such a forecast, can
or does rely entirely on his own experience: when endeavouring to
estimate the probable effect upon his happiness of new circumstances
and influences, untried rules of conduct and fashions of life, he
always argues partly from the experience of others. This is, I
think, generally true: but by including inferences from other men’s
experience we inevitably introduce a new possibility of error; for
such inference proceeds on the assumption of a similarity of nature
among human beings, which is never exactly true, while we can never
exactly know how much it falls short of the truth; though we have
sufficient evidence of the striking differences between the feelings
produced in different men by similar causes, to convince us that the
assumption would in many cases be wholly misleading. On this ground
Plato’s reason for claiming that the life of the Philosopher has more
pleasure than that of the Sensualist is palpably inadequate. The
philosopher, he argues, has tried both kinds of pleasure, sensual as
well as intellectual, and prefers the delights of philosophic life;
the sensualist ought therefore to trust his decision and follow his
example. But who can tell that the philosopher’s constitution is
not such as to render the enjoyments of the senses, in his case,
comparatively feeble? while on the other hand the sensualist’s mind
may not be able to attain more than a thin shadow of the philosopher’s
delight. And so, generally speaking, if we are to be guided by
another’s experience, we require to be convinced not only that he
is generally accurate in observing, analysing, and comparing his
sensations, but also that his relative susceptibility to the different
kinds of pleasure and pain in question coincides with our own. If he
is unpractised in introspective observation, it is possible that he
may mistake even the external conditions of his own happiness; and so
the communication of his experience may be altogether misleading. But
however accurately he has analysed and determined the causes of his
feelings, that similar causes would produce similar effects in us must
always be uncertain. And the uncertainty is increased indefinitely if
our adviser has to recall in memory out of a distant past some of the
pleasures or pains to be compared. Thus in the ever-renewed controversy
between Age and Youth, wisdom is not after all so clearly on the side
of maturer counsels as it seems to be at first sight. When a youth is
warned by his senior to abstain from some pleasure, on the ground of
prudence, because it is not worth the possible pleasures that must
be sacrificed for it and the future pains that it will entail; it is
difficult for him to know how far the elder man can recall--even if he
could once feel--the full rapture of the delight that he is asking the
younger to renounce.
And further, this source of error besets us in a more extended and
more subtle manner than has yet been noticed. For our sympathetic
apprehension of alien experiences of pleasure and pain has been so
continually exercised, in so many ways, during the whole of our life,
both by actual observation and oral communication with other human
beings, and through books and other modes of symbolic suggestion; that
it is impossible to say how far it has unconsciously blended with our
own experience, so as to colour and modify it when represented in
memory. Thus we may easily overlook the discrepancy between our own
experience and that of others, in respect of the importance of certain
sources of pleasure and pain, if no sudden and striking disappointment
of expectations forces it on our notice. Only with considerable care
and attention can sympathetic persons separate their own real likes and
dislikes from those of their associates: and we can never tell whether
this separation has been completely effected.
But again: the practical inference from the past to the future is
further complicated by the fact that we can alter ourselves. For it
may be that our past experience has been greatly affected by our being
not properly attuned to certain pleasures, as (_e.g._) those of art,
or study, or muscular exercise, or society, or beneficent action;
or not duly hardened against certain sources of pain, such as toil,
or anxiety, or abstinence from luxuries: and there may be within
our power some process of training or hardening ourselves which may
profoundly modify our susceptibilities. And this consideration is
especially important,--and at the same time especially difficult to
deal with,--when we attempt to appropriate the experience of another.
For we may find that he estimates highly pleasures which we not only
have never experienced at all, but cannot possibly experience without
a considerable alteration of our nature. For example, the pleasures of
the religious life, the raptures of prayer and praise and the devotion
of the soul to God, are commonly thought to require Conversion or
complete change of nature before they can be experienced. And in the
same way the sacrifice of sensual inclination to duty is disagreeable
to the non-moral man when he at first attempts it, but affords to the
truly virtuous man a deep and strong delight. And similarly almost all
the more refined intellectual and emotional pleasures require training
and culture in order to be enjoyed; and since this training does not
always succeed in producing any considerable degree of susceptibility,
it may always be a matter of doubt for one from whom it would require
the sacrifice of other pleasures, whether such sacrifice is worth
making.
The foregoing considerations must, I think, seriously reduce our
confidence in what I have called the Empirical-reflective method
of Egoistic Hedonism. I do not conclude that we should reject it
altogether: I am conscious that, in spite of all the difficulties that
I have urged, I continue to make comparisons between pleasures and
pains with practical reliance on their results. But I conclude that
it would be at least highly desirable, with a view to the systematic
direction of conduct, to control and supplement the results of such
comparisons by the assistance of some other method: if we can find any
on which we see reason to rely.
FOOTNOTES:
[108] See chap. v. of this Book, chap. xiv. of Book iii., and the
concluding chapter of the treatise.
[109] See Green’s Introduction to vol. ii. of Hume’s _Treatise on Human
Nature_, § 7. The statement is substantially repeated in the same
writer’s _Prolegomena to Ethics_.
[110] _Prolegomena to Ethics_, § 158.
[111] _E.g._ Butler, _Sermon_ xi. says, “Every man hath a desire for
his own happiness ... the object [desired] is our own happiness,
enjoyment, satisfaction.”
[112] Introduction to Hume, _l.c._
[113] _Prolegomena to Ethics_, § 221.
[114] _Ibid._ § 359.
[115] This Green in several passages seems expressly to admit _e.g._
(§ 332) he says that certain measures “needed in order to supply
conditions favourable to good character, tend also to make life more
pleasant on the whole”: and, elsewhere, that “it is easy to show that
an overbalance of pain would result to those capable of being affected
by it” from the neglect of certain duties.
[116] _Prolegomena to Ethics_, § 176.
[117] _Op. cit._ § 232.
[118] I cannot state this positively, because--as I have said--Green
expressly distinguishes self-satisfaction from pleasure, and does not
expressly affirm that its absence is attended by pain.
[119] Sully, _Pessimism_, chap. xi. p. 282.
[120] Book i. chap. iv.
CHAPTER IV
OBJECTIVE HEDONISM AND COMMON SENSE
§ 1. Before we examine those methods of seeking one’s own happiness
which are more remote from the empirical, it will be well to consider
how far we may reasonably avoid the difficulties and uncertainties of
the method of reflective comparison, by relying on the current opinions
and accepted estimates of the value of different objects commonly
sought as sources of pleasure.
It certainly seems more natural to men, at least in the main plan and
ordering of their lives, to seek and consciously estimate the objective
conditions and sources of happiness, rather than happiness itself;
and it may plausibly be said that by relying on such estimates of
objects we avoid the difficulties that beset the introspective method
of comparing feelings: and that the common opinions as to the value of
different sources of pleasure express the net result of the combined
experience of mankind from generation to generation: in which the
divergences due to the limitations of each individual’s experience, and
to the differently tinged moods in which different estimates have been
taken, have balanced and neutralised each other and so disappeared.
I do not wish to undervalue the guidance of common sense in our pursuit
of happiness. I think, however, that when we consider these common
opinions as premises for the deductions of systematic egoism, they must
be admitted to be open to the following grave objections.
In the first place, Common Sense gives us only, at the best, an
estimate true for an average or typical human being: and, as we have
already seen, it is probable that any particular individual will be
more or less divergent from this type. In any case, therefore, each
person will have to correct the estimate of common opinion by the
results of his own experience in order to obtain from it trustworthy
guidance for his own conduct: and this process of correction, it
would seem, must be involved in all the difficulties from which we
are trying to escape. But, secondly, the experience of the mass of
mankind is confined within limits too narrow for its results to be of
much avail in the present inquiry. The majority of human beings spend
most of their time in labouring to avert starvation and severe bodily
discomfort: and the brief leisure that remains to them, after supplying
the bodily needs of food, sleep, etc., is spent in ways determined
rather by impulse, routine, and habit, than by a deliberate estimate of
probable pleasure. It would seem, then, that the common sense to which
we have here to refer can only be that of a minority of comparatively
rich and leisured persons.
But again, we cannot tell that the mass of mankind, or any section of
the mass, is not generally and normally under the influence of some
of the causes of mal-observation previously noticed. We avoid the
“idols of the cave” by trusting Common Sense, but what is to guard us
against the “idols of the tribe”? Moreover, the common estimate of
different sources of happiness seems to involve all the confusion of
ideas and points of view, which in defining the empirical method of
Hedonism we have taken some pains to eliminate. In the first place it
does not distinguish between objects of natural desire and sources
of experienced pleasure. Now we have seen (Book i. chap. iv.) that
these two are not exactly coincident--indeed we find numerous examples
of men who continue not only to feel but to indulge desires, the
gratification of which they know by ample experience to be attended
with more pain than pleasure. And therefore the current estimate of
the desirability of objects of pursuit cannot be taken to express
simply men’s experience of pleasure and pain: for men are apt to think
desirable what they strongly desire, whether or not they have found it
conducive to happiness on the whole: and so the common opinion will
tend to represent a compromise between the average force of desires and
the average experience of the consequences of gratifying them.
We must allow again for the intermingling of moral with purely
hedonistic preferences in the estimate of common sense. For even when
men definitely expect greater happiness from the course of conduct
which they choose than from any other, it is often because they think
it the right, or more excellent, or more noble course; making, more
or less unconsciously, the assumption (which we shall presently have
to consider) that the morally best action will prove to be also the
most conducive to the agent’s happiness. And a similar assumption
seems to be made--without adequate warrant--as regards merely æsthetic
preferences.
Again, the introduction of the moral and æsthetic points of view
suggests the following doubt:--Are we to be guided by the preferences
which men avow, or by those which their actions would lead us to infer?
On the one hand, we cannot doubt that men often, from weakness of
character, fail to seek what they sincerely believe will give them most
pleasure in the long-run: on the other hand, as a genuine preference
for virtuous or refined pleasure is a mark of genuine virtue or refined
taste, men who do not really feel such preference are unconsciously or
consciously influenced by a desire to gain credit for it, and their
express estimate of pleasures is thus modified and coloured.
§ 2. But, even if we had no doubt on general grounds that Common Sense
would prove our best guide in the pursuit of happiness, we should still
be perplexed by finding its utterances on this topic very deficient in
clearness and consistency. I do not merely mean that they are different
in different ages and countries--that we might explain as due to
variations in the general conditions of human life--: but that serious
conflicts and ambiguities are found if we consider only the current
common sense of our own age and country. We can make a list of sources
of happiness apparently recommended by an overwhelming _consensus_ of
current opinion: as health, wealth, friendship and family affections,
fame and social position, power, interesting and congenial occupation
and amusement,--including the gratification, in some form, of the love
of knowledge, and of those refined, partly sensual, partly emotional,
susceptibilities which we call æsthetic.[121] But if we inquire
into the relative value of these objects of common pursuit, we seem
to get no clear answer from Common Sense--unless, perhaps, it would
be generally agreed that health ought to be paramount to all other
secondary ends: though even on this point we could not infer general
agreement from observation of the actual conduct of mankind. Nay,
even as regards the positive estimate of these sources of happiness,
we find on closer examination that the supposed _consensus_ is much
less clear than it seemed at first. Not only are there numerous and
important bodies of dissidents from the current opinions: but the very
same majority, the same Common Sense of Mankind that maintains these
opinions, is found in a singular and unexpected manner to welcome and
approve the paradoxes of these dissidents. Men show a really startling
readiness to admit that the estimates of happiness which guide them in
their ordinary habits and pursuits are erroneous and illusory; and that
from time to time the veil is, as it were, lifted, and the error and
illusion made manifest.
For, first, men seem to attach great value to the ample gratification
of bodily appetites and needs: the wealthier part of mankind spend
a considerable amount of money and forethought upon the means of
satisfying these in a luxurious manner: and though they do not often
deliberately sacrifice health to this gratification--common sense
condemns that as irrational--still one may say that they are habitually
courageous in pressing forward to the very verge of this imprudence.
And yet the same people are fond of saying that “hunger is the best
sauce,” and that “temperance and labour will make plain food more
delightful than the most exquisite products of the culinary art.” And
they often argue with perfect sincerity that the rich have really no
advantage, or scarcely any advantage, over the comparatively poor, in
respect of these pleasures; for habit soon renders the more luxurious
provision for the satisfaction of their acquired needs no more pleasant
to the rich than the appeasing of his more primitive appetites is
to the poor man. And the same argument is often extended to all the
material comforts that wealth can purchase. It is often contended that
habit at once renders us indifferent to these while they are enjoyed,
and yet unable to dispense with them without annoyance: so that the
pleasures of the merely animal life are no greater to the rich than to
the poor, but only more insecure. And from this there is but a short
step to the conclusion, that wealth, in the pursuit of which most men
agree in concentrating their efforts, and on the attainment of which
all congratulate each other,--wealth, for which so many risk their
health, shorten their lives, reduce their enjoyments of domestic life,
and sacrifice the more refined pleasures of curiosity and art,--is
really a very doubtful gain, in the majority of cases; because the
cares and anxieties which it entails balance, for most men, the slight
advantage of the luxuries which it purchases.[122]
And similarly, although social rank and status is, in England, an
object of passionate pursuit, yet it is continually said, with general
approval, that it is of no intrinsic value as a means of happiness;
that though the process of ascending from a lower grade to a higher
is perhaps generally agreeable, and the process of descending from a
higher to a lower certainly painful, yet permanent existence on the
loftier level is no more pleasant than on the humbler; that happiness
is to be found as easily in a cottage as in a palace (if not, indeed,
more easily in the cottage): and so forth.
Still more trite are the commonplaces as to the emptiness and vanity
of the satisfaction to be derived from Fame and Reputation. The case
of posthumous fame, indeed, is a striking instance of the general
proposition before laid down, that the commonly accepted ends of action
are determined partly by the average force of desires that are not
directed towards pleasure, nor conformed to experiences of pleasure.
For posthumous fame seems to rank pretty high among the objects that
common opinion regards as good or desirable for the individual:
and the pursuit of it is not ordinarily stigmatised as contrary to
prudence, even if it leads a man to sacrifice other important sources
of happiness to a result of which he never expects to be actually
conscious. Yet the slightest reflection shows such a pursuit to be
_prima facie_ irrational,[123] from an egoistic point of view; and
every moraliser has found this an obvious and popular topic. The actual
consciousness of present fame is no doubt very delightful to most
persons: still the moraliser does not find it difficult to maintain
that even this is attended with such counterbalancing disadvantages as
render its hedonistic value very doubtful.
Again, the current estimate of the desirability of Power is tolerably
high, and perhaps the more closely and analytically we examine the
actual motives of men, the more widespread and predominant its pursuit
will appear: for many men seem to seek wealth, knowledge, even
reputation, as a means to the attainment of power, rather than for
their own sakes or with a view to other pleasures. And yet men assent
willingly when they are told that the pursuit of power, as of fame,
is prompted by a vain ambition, never satisfied, but only rendered
more uneasy by such success as is possible for it: that the anxieties
which attend not only the pursuit but the possession of power, and the
jealousies and dangers inseparable from the latter, far outweigh its
pleasures.
Society of some sort no one can deny to be necessary to human
happiness: but still the kind and degree of social intercourse which
is actually sought by the more wealthy and leisured portion of the
community, with no little expenditure of time, trouble, and means, is
often declared to yield a most thin and meagre result of pleasure.
We find, no doubt, great agreement among modern moralisers as to the
importance of the exercise of the domestic affections as a means of
happiness: and this certainly seems to have a prominent place in the
plan of life of the majority of mankind. And yet it may fairly be
doubted whether men in general do value domestic life very highly,
apart from the gratification of sexual passion. Certainly whenever
any part of civilised society is in such a state that men can freely
indulge this passion and at the same time avoid the burden of a
family, without any serious fear of social disapprobation, celibacy
tends to become common: it has even become so common as to excite
the grave anxiety of legislators. And though such conduct has always
been disapproved by common sense, it seems to be rather condemned as
anti-social than as imprudent.
Thus our examination shows great instability and uncertainty in the
most decisive judgments of common sense; since, as I have said, bodily
comfort and luxury, wealth, fame, power, society are the objects which
common opinion seems most clearly and confidently to recommend as
sources of pleasure. For though the pleasures derived from Art and the
contemplation of the beautiful in Nature, and those of curiosity and
the exercise of the intellect generally, are highly praised, it is
difficult to formulate a “common opinion” in respect of them, since the
high estimates often set upon them seem to express the real experience
of only small minorities. And though these have persuaded the mass
of mankind, or that portion of it which is possessed of leisure, to
let Culture be regarded as an important source of happiness; they can
scarcely be said to have produced any generally accepted opinion as to
its importance in comparison with the other sources before mentioned,
the pleasures of which are more genuinely appreciated by the majority;
still less as to the relative value of different elements of this
culture.
But even supposing the _consensus_, in respect of sources of happiness,
were far more complete and clear than impartial reflection seems to
show, its value would still be considerably impaired by the dissent of
important minorities, which we have not yet noticed. For example, many
religious persons regard all mundane pleasures as mean and trifling;
so full of vanity and emptiness that the eager pursuit of them is
only possible through ever-renewed illusion, leading to ever-repeated
disappointment. And this view is shared by not a few reflective persons
who have no religious bias: as is evident from the numerous adherents
that Pessimism has won in recent times. Indeed a somewhat similar
judgment, on the value of the ordinary objects of human pursuit, has
been passed by many philosophers who have not been pessimists: and
when we consider that it is the philosopher’s especial business to
reflect with care and precision on the facts of consciousness, we
shall hesitate, in any dispute between philosophers and the mass of
mankind, to let our conclusion be determined by merely counting heads.
On the other hand, as has been already observed, the philosopher’s
susceptibilities and capacities of feeling do not fairly represent
those of humanity in general: and hence if he ventures to erect the
results of his individual experience into a universal standard, he is
likely to overrate some pleasures and underrate others. Perhaps the
most convincing illustrations of this are furnished by thinkers not
of the idealist or transcendental type, but professed Hedonists, such
as Epicurus and Hobbes. We cannot accept as fair expressions of the
ordinary experience of the human race either Epicurus’s identification
of painlessness with the highest degree of pleasure, or Hobbes’s
asseveration that the gratifications of curiosity “far exceed in
intensity all carnal delights.” Thus we seem to be in this dilemma:
the mass of mankind, to whose common opinion we are naturally referred
for catholically authoritative beliefs respecting the conditions of
happiness, are deficient in the faculty or the habit of observing and
recording their experience: and usually, in proportion as a man is, by
nature and practice, a better observer, the phenomena that he has to
observe are more and more divergent from the ordinary type.
§ 3. On the whole, it must, I think, be admitted that the Hedonistic
method cannot be freed from inexactness and uncertainty by appealing
to the judgments of common sense respecting the sources of happiness.
At the same time I would not exaggerate the difficulty of combining
these into a tolerably coherent body of probable doctrine, not
useless for practical guidance. For first, it must be observed, that
it is only occasionally and to a limited extent that these commonly
commended sources of happiness come into competition with one
another and are presented as alternatives. For example, the pursuit
of wealth often leads also to power (besides the power that lies in
wealth) and to reputation: and again, these objects of desire can
usually be best attained--as far as it is in our power to attain
them at all--by employment which in itself gives the pleasure that
normally attends energetic exercise of one’s best faculties: and this
congenial employment is not incompatible with adequate exercise of
the affections, social and domestic; nor with cultivated amusement
(which must always be carefully limited in amount if it is to be
really amusing). And no one doubts that to carry either employment
or amusement to a degree that injures health involves generally a
sacrifice of happiness, no less than over-indulgence in sensual
gratifications.
And as for the philosophical or quasi-philosophical paradoxes as to
the illusoriness of sensual enjoyments, wealth, power, fame, etc., we
may explain the widespread acceptance which these find by admitting
a certain general tendency to exaggeration in the common estimates
of such objects of desire, which from time to time causes a reaction
and an equally excessive temporary depreciation of them. As we saw
(chap. iii.) it is natural for men to value too highly the absent
pleasures for which they hope and long: power and fame, for example,
are certainly attended with anxieties and disgusts which are not
foreseen when they are represented in longing imagination: yet it may
still be true that they bring to most men a clear balance of happiness
on the whole. It seems clear, again, that luxury adds _less_ to the
ordinary enjoyment of life than most men struggling with penury
suppose: there are special delights attending the hard-earned meal,
and the rarely-recurring amusement, which must be weighed against the
profuser pleasures that the rich can command: so that we may fairly
conclude that increase of happiness is very far from keeping pace
with increase of wealth. On the other hand, when we take into account
all the pleasures of Culture, Power, Fame, and Beneficence, and still
more the security that wealth gives against the pains of privation
and the anxieties of penury--for the owner himself and those whom
he loves--we can hardly doubt that increase of wealth brings on the
average _some_ increase of happiness: at least until a man reaches an
income beyond that of the great majority in any actual community. Thus
on the whole it would seem to be a reasonable conclusion that, while
it is extravagant to affirm that happiness is “equally distributed
through all ranks and callings,” it is yet _more_ equally distributed
than the aspect of men’s external circumstances would lead us to infer:
especially considering the importance of the pleasures that attend the
exercise of the affections. Again, common sense is quite prepared to
recognise that there are persons of peculiar temperament to whom the
ordinary pleasures of life are really quite trifling in comparison with
more refined enjoyments: and also that men generally are liable to
fall, for certain periods, under the sway of absorbing impulses, which
take them out of the range within which the judgments of common sense
are even broadly and generally valid. No one (_e.g._) expects a lover
to care much for anything except the enjoyments of love; nor considers
that an enthusiast sacrifices happiness in making everything give way
to his hobby.
In fact we may say that common sense scarcely claims to provide more
than rather indefinite general rules, which no prudent man should
neglect without giving himself a reason for doing so. Such reasons
may either be drawn from one’s knowledge of some peculiarities in
one’s nature, or from the experience of others whom one has ground
for believing to be more like oneself than the average of mankind
are. Still, as we saw, there is considerable risk of error in thus
appropriating the special experience of other individuals: and, in
short, it does not appear that by any process of this kind,--either
by appealing to the common opinion of the many, or to that of
cultivated persons, or to that of those whom we judge most to resemble
ourselves,--we can hope to solve with precision or certainty the
problems of egoistic conduct.
The question then remains, whether any general theory can be attained
of the causes of pleasure and pain so certain and practically
applicable that we may by its aid rise above the ambiguities and
inconsistencies of common or sectarian opinion, no less than the
shortcomings of the empirical-reflective method, and establish the
Hedonistic art of life on a thoroughly scientific basis. To the
consideration of this question I shall proceed in the last chapter of
this book: but before entering upon it, I wish to examine carefully
a common belief as to the means of attaining happiness which--though
it hardly claims to rest upon a scientific basis--is yet generally
conceived by those who hold it to have a higher degree of certainty
than most of the current opinions that we have been examining. This
is the belief that a man will attain the greatest happiness open
to him by the performance of his Duty as commonly recognised and
prescribed--except so far as he may deviate from this standard in
obedience to a truer conception of the conduct by which universal good
is to be realised or promoted.[124] The special importance of this
opinion to a writer on Morals renders it desirable to reserve our
discussion of it for a separate chapter.
FOOTNOTES:
[121] The consideration of the importance of Morality as a source of
happiness is reserved for the next chapter.
[122] It is striking to find the author of the _Wealth of Nations_, the
founder of a long line of plutologists who are commonly believed to
exalt the material means of happiness above all other, declaring that
“wealth and greatness are mere trinkets of frivolous utility,” and that
“in ease of body and peace of mind, all the different ranks of life are
nearly upon a level, and the beggar who suns himself by the side of the
highway possesses that security which kings are fighting for.” Adam
Smith, _Moral Sentiments_, Part iv. chap. i.
[123] No doubt such a pursuit may be justified to self-love by dwelling
on the pleasures of hope and anticipation which attend it. But this is
obviously an after-thought. It is not for the sake of these originally
that posthumous fame is sought by him whom it spurs
“To scorn delights and live laborious days.”
[124] In the following chapter I have not entered into any particular
consideration of the case in which the individual’s conscience is
definitely in conflict with the general moral consciousness of his
age and country: because, though it is commonly held to be a man’s
duty always to obey the dictates of his own conscience, even at the
risk of error, it can hardly be said to be a current opinion that he
will always attain the greatest happiness open to him by conforming to
the dictates of his conscience even when it conflicts with received
morality.
CHAPTER V
HAPPINESS AND DUTY
§ 1. The belief in the connexion of Happiness with Duty is one to
which we find a general tendency among civilised men, at least after
a certain stage in civilisation has been reached. But it is doubtful
whether it would be affirmed, among ourselves, as a generalisation from
experience, and not rather as a matter of direct Divine Revelation, or
an inevitable inference from the belief that the world is governed by a
perfectly Good and Omnipotent Being. To examine thoroughly the validity
of the latter belief is one of the most important tasks that human
reason can attempt: but involving as it does an exhaustive inquiry
into the evidences of Natural and Revealed Religion, it could hardly
be included within the scope of the present treatise.[125] Here, then,
I shall only consider the coincidence of Duty and Happiness in so far
as it is maintained by arguments drawn from experience and supposed to
be realised in our present earthly life. Perhaps, as so restricted,
the coincidence can hardly be said to be “currently believed”: indeed
it may be suggested that the opposite belief is implied in the general
admission of the necessity of rewards and punishments in a future
state, in order to exhibit and realise completely the moral government
of the world. But reflection will show that this implication is not
necessary; for it is possible to hold that even here virtue is always
rewarded and vice punished, so far as to make the virtuous course of
action always the most prudent; while yet the rewards and punishments
are not sufficient to satisfy our sense of justice. Admitting that
the virtuous man is often placed on earth in circumstances so
adverse that his life is not as happy as that of many less virtuous;
it is still possible to maintain that by virtue he will gain the
maximum of happiness that can be gained under these circumstances,
all appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. And this view has
certainly been held by moralists of reputation on grounds drawn from
actual experience of human life; and seems often to be confidently put
forward on similar grounds by popular preachers and moralisers. It
appears therefore desirable to subject this opinion to a careful and
impartial examination. In conducting this examination, at the present
stage of our inquiry, we shall have to use the received notions of Duty
without further definition or analysis: but it is commonly assumed
by those whose view we are to examine that these conceptions--as
they are found in the moral consciousness of ordinary well-meaning
persons--are at least approximately valid and trustworthy; and the
preceding chapters will have fully shown that the generalisations of
Hedonism must be established, if at all, by large considerations and
decisive preponderances, and that it would be idle in considering a
question of this kind to take account of slight differences, and to
pretend to weigh in our mental scales comparatively small portions of
happiness.[126]
§ 2. Accepting, then, the common division[127] of duties into
self-regarding and social, it may be conceded that as far as the first
are concerned the view that we are examining is not likely to provoke
any controversy: for by ‘duties towards oneself’ are commonly meant
acts that tend directly or indirectly to promote one’s happiness. We
may therefore confine our attention to the social department of Duty,
and consider whether by observing the moral rules that prescribe
certain modes of behaviour towards others we shall always tend to
secure the greatest balance of happiness to ourselves.
Here it will be convenient to adopt with some modification the
terminology of Bentham; and to regard the pleasures consequent on
conformity to moral rules, and the pains consequent on their violation,
as the ‘sanctions’ of these rules. These ‘sanctions’ we may classify
as External and Internal. The former class will include both ‘Legal
Sanctions,’ or penalties inflicted by the authority, direct or
indirect, of the sovereign; and ‘Social Sanctions,’ which are either
the pleasures that may be expected from the approval and goodwill of
our fellow-men generally, and the services that they will be prompted
to render both by this goodwill and by their appreciation of the
usefulness of good conduct, or the annoyance and losses that are to
be feared from their distrust and dislike. The internal sanctions
of duty--so far as it diverges from the conduct which self-interest
apart from morality would dictate--will lie in the pleasurable emotion
attending virtuous action, or in the absence of remorse, or will
result more indirectly from some effect on the mental constitution of
the agent produced by the maintenance of virtuous dispositions and
habits. This classification is important for our present purpose,
chiefly because the systems of rules to which these different sanctions
are respectively attached may be mutually conflicting. The Positive
Morality of any community undergoes development, and is thus subject
to changes which affect the consciences of the few before they are
accepted by the many; so that the rules at any time sustained by the
strongest social sanctions may not only fall short of, but even clash
with, the intuitions of those members of the community who have most
moral insight. For similar reasons Law and Positive Morality may be
at variance, in details. For though a law could not long exist, which
it was universally thought wrong to obey; there may easily be laws
commanding conduct that is considered immoral by some more or less
enlightened fraction of the community, especially by some sect or party
that has a public opinion of its own: and any individual may be so much
more closely connected with this fraction than with the rest of the
community, that the social sanction may in his case practically operate
against the legal.
This conflict of sanctions is of great importance in considering
whether these sanctions, as at present capable of being foreseen,
are sufficient in all cases to determine a rational egoist to the
performance of social duty: for the more stress we lay on either the
legal or the social sanctions of moral conduct, the greater difficulty
we shall have in proving the coincidence of duty and self-interest in
the exceptional cases in which we find these sanctions arrayed against
what we conceive to be duty.
But even if we put these cases out of sight, it still seems clear that
the external sanctions of morality alone are not always sufficient to
render immoral conduct also imprudent. We must indeed admit that in an
even tolerably well-ordered society--_i.e._ in an ordinary civilised
community in its normal condition--all serious open violation of law is
contrary to prudence, unless it is an incident in a successful process
of violent revolution: and further, that violent revolutions would
very rarely--perhaps never--be made by a combination of persons, all
perfectly under the control of enlightened self-love; on account of
the general and widespread destruction of security and of other means
of happiness which such disturbances inevitably involve. Still, so
long as actual human beings are not all rational egoists, such times
of disorder will be liable to occur: and we cannot say that _under
existing circumstances_ it is a clear universal precept of Rational
Self-love that a man should “seek peace and ensue it”; since the
disturbance of political order may offer to a cool and skilful person,
who has the art of fishing in troubled waters, opportunities of gaining
wealth, fame, and power, far beyond what he could hope for in peaceful
times. In short, though we may admit that a society composed entirely
of rational egoists would, when once organised, tend to remain in a
stable and orderly condition, it does not follow that any individual
rational egoist will always be on the side of order in any existing
community.[128]
But at any rate, in the most orderly societies with which we are
acquainted, the administration of law and justice is never in so
perfect a state as to render _secret_ crimes always acts of folly, on
the score of the legal penalties attached to them. For however much
these may outweigh the advantages of crime, cases must inevitably
occur in which the risk of discovery is so small, that on a sober
calculation the almost certain gain will more than compensate for the
slight chance of the penalty. And finally, in no community is the law
actually in so perfect a state that there are not certain kinds of
flagrantly anti-social conduct which slip through its meshes and escape
legal penalties altogether, or incur only such legal penalties as are
outweighed by the profit of law-breaking.
§ 3. Let us proceed, then, to consider how far the social sanction in
such cases supplies the defects of the legal. No doubt the hope of
praise and liking and services from one’s fellow-men, and the fear
of forfeiting these and incurring instead aversion, refusal of aid,
and social exclusion, are considerations often important enough to
determine the rational egoist to law-observance, even in default of
adequate legal penalties. Still these sanctions are liable to fail
just where the legal penalties are defective; social no less than
legal penalties are evaded by secret crimes; and in cases of criminal
revolutionary violence, the efficacy of the social sanction is apt
to be seriously impaired by the party spirit enlisted on the side of
the criminal. For it has to be observed that the force of the social
sanction diminishes very rapidly, in proportion to the number of
dissidents from the common opinion that awards it. Disapprobation that
is at once intense and quite universal would be so severe a penalty
as perhaps to outweigh any imaginable advantages; since it seems
impossible for a human being to live happily, whatever other goods
he may enjoy, without the kindly regards of some of his fellows: and
so, in contemplating the conventional portrait of the tyrant, who is
represented as necessarily suspicious of those nearest him, even of
the members of his own family, we feel prepared to admit that such
a life must involve the extreme of unhappiness. But when we turn
to contemplate the actual tyrannical usurpers, wicked statesmen,
successful leaders of unwarranted rebellion, and, speaking generally,
the great criminals whose position raises them out of the reach of
legal penalties, it does not appear that the moral odium under which
they lie must necessarily count for much in an egoistic calculation of
the gain and loss resulting from their conduct. For this disesteem
is only expressed by a portion of the community: and its utterance
is often drowned in the loud-voiced applause of the multitude whose
admiration is largely independent of moral considerations. Nor are
there wanting philosophers and historians whose judgment manifests a
similar independence.
It seems, then, impossible to affirm that the external sanctions of
men’s legal duties will always be sufficient to identify duty with
interest. And a corresponding assertion would be still more unwarranted
in respect of moral duties not included within the sphere of Law. In
saying this, I am fully sensible of the force of what may be called
the Principle of Reciprocity, by which certain utilitarians have
endeavoured to prove the coincidence of any individual’s interest with
his social duties. Virtues (they say) are qualities either useful or
directly agreeable to others: thus they either increase the market
value of the virtuous man’s services, and cause others to purchase them
at a higher rate and to allot to him more dignified and interesting
functions; or they dispose men to please him, both out of gratitude
and in order to enjoy the pleasures of his society in return: and
again--since man is an imitative animal--the exhibition of these
qualities is naturally rewarded by a reciprocal manifestation of them
on the part of others, through the mere influence of example. I do
not doubt that the prospect of these advantages is an adequate motive
for cultivating many virtues and avoiding much vice. Thus on such
grounds a rational egoist will generally be strict and punctual in the
fulfilment of all his engagements, and truthful in his assertions,
in order to win the confidence of other men; and he will be zealous
and industrious in his work, in order to obtain gradually more
important and therefore more honourable and lucrative employment; and
he will control such of his passions and appetites as are likely to
interfere with his efficiency; and will not exhibit violent anger or
use unnecessary harshness even towards servants and subordinates; and
towards his equals and superiors in rank he will be generally polite
and complaisant and good-humoured, and prompt to show them all such
kindness as costs but little in proportion to the pleasure it gives.
Still, reflection seems to show that the conduct recommended by this
line of reasoning does not really coincide with moral duty. For, first,
what one requires for social success is that one should _appear_,
rather than _be_, useful to others: and hence this motive will not
restrain one from doing secret harm to others, or even from acting
openly in a way that is really harmful, though not perceived to be
so. And again, a man is not useful to others by his virtue only, but
sometimes rather by his vice; or more often by a certain admixture
of unscrupulousness with his good and useful qualities. And further,
morality prescribes the performance of duties equally towards all, and
that we should abstain as far as possible from harming any: but on the
principle of Reciprocity we should exhibit our useful qualities chiefly
towards the rich and powerful, and abstain from injuring those who can
retaliate; while we may reasonably omit our duties to the poor and
feeble, if we find a material advantage in so doing, unless they are
able to excite the sympathy of persons who can harm us. Moreover, some
vices (as for example, many kinds of sensuality and extravagant luxury)
do not inflict any immediate or obvious injury on any individual,
though they tend in the long-run to impair the general happiness: hence
few persons find themselves strongly moved to check or punish this kind
of mischief.
Doubtless in the last-mentioned cases the mere disrepute inevitably
attaching to open immorality is an important consideration. But I do
not think that this will be seriously maintained to be sufficient
always to turn the scales of prudence against vice--at least by
any one who has duly analysed the turbid and fluctuating streams
of social opinion upon which the good or ill repute of individuals
mainly depends, and considered the conflicting and divergent elements
that they contain. Many moralists have noticed the discrepancy in
modern Europe between the Law of Honour (or the more important rules
maintained by the social sanction of polite persons) and the morality
professed in society at large. This is, however, by no means the only
instance of a special code, divergent in certain points from the
moral rules generally accepted in the community where it exists. Most
religious sects and parties, and probably the majority of trades and
professions, exhibit this phenomenon in some degree. I do not mean
merely that special rules of behaviour are imposed upon members of
each profession, corresponding to their special social functions and
relations: I mean that a peculiar moral opinion is apt to grow up,
conflicting to a certain extent with the opinion of the general public.
The most striking part of this divergence consists generally in the
approval or excusal of practices disapproved by the current morality:
as (_e.g._) licence among soldiers, bribery among politicians in
certain ages and countries, unveracity of various degrees among priests
and advocates, fraud in different forms among tradesmen. In such cases
there are generally strong natural inducements to disobey the stricter
rule (in fact it would seem to be to the continual pressure of these
inducements that the relaxation of the rule has been due): while at the
same time the social sanction is weakened to such an extent that it
is sometimes hard to say whether it outweighs a similar force on the
other side. For a man who, under these circumstances, conforms to the
stricter rule, if he does not actually meet with contempt and aversion
from those of his calling, is at least liable to be called eccentric
and fantastic: and this is still more the case if by such conformity
he foregoes advantages not only to himself but to his relatives or
friends or party. Very often this professional or sectarian excusal of
immorality of which we are speaking is not so clear and explicit as to
amount to the establishment of a rule, conflicting with the generally
received rule: but is still sufficient to weaken indefinitely the
social sanction in favour of the latter. And, apart from these special
divergences, we may say generally that in most civilised societies
there are two different degrees of positive morality, both maintained
in some sort by common consent; a stricter code being publicly taught
and avowed, while a laxer set of rules is privately admitted as the
only code which can be supported by social sanctions of any great
force. By refusing to conform to the stricter code a man is often not
liable to incur exclusion from social intercourse, or any material
hindrance to professional advancement, or even serious dislike on the
part of any of the persons whose society he will most naturally seek;
and under such circumstances the mere loss of a certain amount of
reputation is not likely to be felt as a very grave evil, except by
persons peculiarly sensitive to the pleasures and pains of reputation.
And there would seem to be many men whose happiness does not depend
on the approbation or disapprobation of the moralist--and of mankind
in general in so far as they support the moralist--to such an extent
as to make it prudent for them to purchase this praise by any great
sacrifice of other goods.
§ 4. We must conclude, then, that if the conduct prescribed to the
individual by the avowedly accepted morality of the community of which
he is a member, can be shown to coincide with that to which Rational
Self-love would prompt, it must be, in many cases, solely or chiefly on
the score of the internal sanctions. In considering the force of these
sanctions, I shall eliminate those pleasures and pains which lie in the
anticipation of rewards and punishments in a future life: for as we
are now supposing the calculations of Rational Egoism to be performed
without taking into account any feelings that are beyond the range of
experience, it will be more consistent to exclude also the pleasurable
or painful anticipations of such feelings.
Let us, then, contemplate by itself the satisfaction that attends the
performance of duty as such (without taking into consideration any
ulterior consequences), and the pain that follows on its violation.
After the discussions of the two preceding chapters I shall not of
course attempt to weigh exactly these pleasures and pains against
others; but I see no empirical grounds for believing that such feelings
are always sufficiently intense to turn the balance of prospective
happiness in favour of morality. This will hardly be denied if the
question is raised in respect of isolated acts of duty. Let us take
an extreme case, which is yet quite within the limits of experience.
The call of duty has often impelled a soldier or other public servant,
or the adherent of a persecuted religion, to face certain and painful
death, under circumstances where it might be avoided with little or
no loss even of reputation. To prove such conduct always reasonable
from an egoistic point of view, we have to assume that, in all cases
where such a duty could exist and be recognised, the mere pain[129]
that would follow on evasion of duty would be so great as to render
the whole remainder of life hedonistically worthless. Surely such an
assumption would be paradoxical and extravagant. Nothing that we know
of the majority of persons in any society would lead us to conclude
that their moral feelings taken alone form so preponderant an element
of their happiness. And a similar conclusion seems irresistible even in
more ordinary cases, where a man is called on to give up, for virtue’s
sake, not life, but a considerable share of the ordinary sources
of human happiness. Can we say that all, or even most, men are so
constituted that the satisfactions of a good conscience are certain to
repay them for such sacrifices, or that the pain and loss involved in
them would certainly be outweighed by the remorse that would follow the
refusal to make them?[130]
Perhaps, however, so much as this has scarcely ever been expressly
maintained. What Plato in his _Republic_ and other writers on the same
side have rather tried to prove, is not that at any particular moment
duty will be, to every one on whom it may devolve, productive of more
happiness than any other course of conduct; but rather that it is every
one’s interest on the whole to choose the life of the virtuous man. But
even this it is very difficult even to render probable: as will appear,
I think, if we examine the lines of reasoning by which it is commonly
supported.
To begin with Plato’s argument. He represents the soul of the virtuous
man as a well-ordered polity of impulses, in which every passion and
appetite is duly obedient to the rightful sovereignty of reason, and
operates only within the limits laid down by the latter. He then
contrasts the tranquil peace of such a mind with the disorder of
one where a succession of baser impulses, or some ruling passion,
lords it over reason: and asks which is the happiest, even apart from
external rewards and punishments. But we may grant all that Plato
claims, and yet be no further advanced towards the solution of the
question before us. For here the issue does not lie between Reason and
Passion, but rather--in Butler’s language--between Rational Self-love
and Conscience. We are supposing the Egoist to have all his impulses
under control, and are only asking how this control is to be exercised.
Now we have seen that the regulation and organisation of life best
calculated to attain the end of self-interest appears _prima facie_
divergent at certain points from that to which men in general are
prompted by a sense of duty. In order to maintain Plato’s position it
has to be shown that this appearance is false; and that a system of
self-government, which under certain circumstances leads us to pain,
loss, and death, is still that which self-interest requires. It can
scarcely be said that our nature is such that only this anti-egoistic
kind of regulation is possible; that the choice lies between this
and none at all. It is easy to imagine a rational egoist, strictly
controlling each of his passions and impulses--including his social
sentiments--within such limits that its indulgence should not involve
the sacrifice of some greater gratification: and experience seems to
show us many examples of persons who at least approximate as closely to
this type as any one else does to the ideal of the orthodox moralist.
Hence if the regulation of Conscience be demonstrably the best means
to the individual’s happiness, it must be because the order kept by
Self-love involves a sacrifice of pleasure on the whole, as compared
with the order kept by Conscience. And if this is the case, it would
seem that it can only be on account of the special emotional pleasure
attending the satisfaction of the moral sentiments, or special pain or
loss of happiness consequent on their repression and violation.
Before, however, we proceed further, a fundamental difficulty must be
removed which has probably some time since suggested itself to the
reader. If a man thinks it reasonable to seek his own interest, it
is clear that he cannot himself disapprove of any conduct that comes
under this principle or approve of the opposite. And hence it may
appear that the pleasures and pains of conscience cannot enter into
the calculation whether a certain course of conduct is or is not in
accordance with Rational Egoism, because they cannot attach themselves
in the egoist’s mind to any modes of action which have not been already
decided, on other grounds, to be reasonable or the reverse. And this
is to a certain extent true; but we must here recur to the distinction
(indicated in Book i. chap. iii. § 1) between the general impulse
to do what we believe to be reasonable, and special sentiments of
liking or aversion for special kinds of conduct, independent of their
reasonableness. In the moral sentiments as they exist in ordinary men,
these two kinds of feeling are indistinguishably blended; because it
is commonly believed that the rules of conduct to which the common
moral sentiments are attached are in some way or other reasonable. We
can, however, conceive the two separated: and in fact, as was before
said, we have experience of such separation whenever a man is led by a
process of thought to adopt a different view of morality from that in
which he has been trained; for in such a case there will always remain
in his mind some quasi-moral likings and aversions, no longer sustained
by his deliberate judgment of right and wrong. And thus there is every
reason to believe that most men, however firmly they might adopt the
principles of Egoistic Hedonism, would still feel sentiments prompting
to the performance of social duty, as commonly recognised in their
society, independently of any conclusion that the actions prompted by
such sentiments were reasonable and right. For such sentiments would
always be powerfully supported by the sympathy of others, and their
expressions of praise and blame, liking and aversion: and since it is
agreed that the conduct commonly recognised as virtuous is _generally_
coincident with that which enlightened self-love would dictate, a
rational egoist’s habits of conduct will be such as naturally to
foster these (for him) ‘quasi-moral’ feelings. The question therefore
arises--not whether the egoist should cherish and indulge these
sentiments up to a certain point, which all would admit--but whether he
can consistently encourage them to grow to such a pitch that they will
always prevail over the strongest opposing considerations; or, to put
it otherwise, whether prudence requires him to give them the rein and
let them carry him whither they will. We have already seen ground for
believing that Rational Self-love will best attain its end by limiting
its conscious operation and allowing free play to disinterested
impulses: can we accept the further paradox that it is reasonable for
it to abdicate altogether its supremacy over some of these impulses?
On a careful consideration of the matter, it will appear, I think,
that this abdication of self-love is not really a possible occurrence
in the mind of a sane person, who still regards his own interest as
the reasonable ultimate end of his actions. Such a man may, no doubt,
resolve that he will devote himself unreservedly to the practice of
virtue, without any particular consideration of what appears to him
to be his interest: he may perform a series of acts in accordance
with this resolution, and these may gradually form in him strong
habitual tendencies to acts of a similar kind. But it does not seem
that these habits of virtue can ever become so strong as to gain
irresistible control over a sane and reasonable will. When the
occasion comes on which virtue demands from such a man an extreme
sacrifice--the imprudence of which must force itself upon his notice,
however little he may be in the habit of weighing his own pleasures
and pains--he must always be able to deliberate afresh, and to act (as
far as the control of his will extends) without reference to his past
actions. It may, however, be said that, though an egoist retaining
his belief in rational egoism cannot thus abandon his will to the
sway of moral enthusiasm, still, supposing it possible for him to
change his conviction and prefer duty to interest,--or supposing we
compare him with another man who makes this choice,--we shall find
that a gain in happiness on the whole results from this preference.
It may be held that the pleasurable emotions attendant upon such
virtuous or quasi-virtuous habits as are compatible with adhesion
to egoistic principles are so inferior to the raptures that attend
the unreserved and passionate surrender of the soul to virtue, that
it is really a man’s interest--even with a view to the present life
only--to obtain, if he can, the convictions that render this surrender
possible; although under certain circumstances it must necessarily
lead him to act in a manner which, considered by itself, would be
undoubtedly imprudent. This is certainly a tenable proposition, and
I am quite disposed to think it true of persons with specially
refined moral sensibilities. But--though from the imperfections of the
hedonistic calculus the proposition cannot in any case be conclusively
disproved--it seems, as I have said, to be opposed to the broad results
of experience, so far as the great majority of mankind are concerned.
Observation would lead me to suppose that most men are so constituted
as to feel far more keenly pleasures (and pains) arising from some
other source than the conscience; either from the gratifications of
sense, or from the possession of power and fame, or from strong human
affections, or from the pursuit of science, art, etc.; so that in many
cases perhaps not even early training could have succeeded in giving
to the moral feelings the requisite predominance: and certainly where
this training has been wanting, it seems highly improbable that a mere
change of ethical conviction could develop their moral susceptibilities
so far as to make it clearly their earthly interest to resolve on
facing all sacrifices for the fulfilment of duty.
To sum up: although the performance of duties towards others and
the exercise of social virtue seem to be _generally_ the best means
to the attainment of the individual’s happiness, and it is easy to
exhibit this coincidence between Virtue and Happiness rhetorically
and popularly; still, when we carefully analyse and estimate the
consequences of Virtue to the virtuous agent, it appears improbable
that this coincidence is complete and universal. We may conceive
the coincidence becoming perfect in a Utopia where men were as much
in accord on moral as they are now on mathematical questions, where
Law was in perfect harmony with Moral Opinion, and all offences were
discovered and duly punished: or we may conceive the same result
attained by intensifying the moral sentiments of all members of the
community, without any external changes (which indeed would then be
unnecessary). But just in proportion as existing societies and existing
men fall short of this ideal, rules of conduct based on the principles
of Egoistic Hedonism seem liable to diverge from those which most men
are accustomed to recognise as prescribed by Duty and Virtue.
FOOTNOTES:
[125] Such discussion of the question as seemed desirable in a work
like this will be found in the concluding chapter of the treatise.
[126] For a similar reason I shall here treat the notions of ‘Duty’
and ‘Virtuous action’ as practically coincident; reserving for future
discussion the divergences between the two which reflection on the
common usage of the terms appears to indicate. See Book iii. chap. ii.
[127] Whatever modifications of this division may afterwards appear to
be necessary (cf. Book iii. chap. ii. § 1, and chap. vii. § 1) will
not, I think, tend to invalidate the conclusions of the present chapter.
[128] I do not here consider the case of revolutionists aiming
sincerely at the general wellbeing; since the morality of such
revolutions will generally be so dubious, that these cases cannot
furnish any clear argument on either side of the question here
discussed.
[129] Under the notion of ‘moral pain’ (or pleasure) I intend to
include, in this argument, all pain (or pleasure) that is due to
sympathy with the feelings of others. It is not convenient to enter, at
this stage of the discussion, into a full discussion of the relation
of Sympathy to Moral Sensibility; but I may say that it seems to me
certain, on the one hand, that these two emotional susceptibilities
are actually distinct in most minds, whatever they may have been
originally; and on the other hand that sympathetic and strictly
moral feelings are almost inextricably blended in the ordinary moral
consciousness: so that, for the purposes of the present argument it is
not of fundamental importance to draw a distinction between them. I
have, however, thought it desirable to undertake a further examination
of sympathy--as the internal sanction on which Utilitarians specially
lay stress--in the concluding chapter of this treatise: to which,
accordingly, the reader may refer.
[130] A striking confirmation of this is furnished by those Christian
writers of the last century who treat the _moral_ unbeliever as a fool
who sacrifices his happiness both here and hereafter. These men were,
for the most part, earnestly engaged in the practice of virtue, and yet
this practice had not made them love virtue so much as to prefer it,
even under ordinary circumstances, to the sensual and other enjoyments
that it excludes. It seems then absurd to suppose that, in the case of
persons who have not developed and strengthened by habit their virtuous
impulses, the pain that might afterwards result from resisting the call
of duty would always be sufficient to neutralise all other sources of
pleasure.
CHAPTER VI
DEDUCTIVE HEDONISM
§ 1. In the preceding chapter we have seen reason to conclude that,
while obedience to recognised rules of duty tends, under ordinary
circumstances, to promote the happiness of the agent, there are yet no
adequate empirical grounds for regarding the performance of duty as
a universal or infallible means to the attainment of this end. Even,
however, if it were otherwise, even if it were demonstrably reasonable
for the egoist to choose duty at all costs under all circumstances, the
systematic endeavour to realise this principle would not--according
to common notions of morality--solve or supersede the problem of
determining the right method for seeking happiness. For the received
moral code allows within limits the pursuit of our own happiness,
and even seems to regard it as morally prescribed;[131] and still
more emphatically inculcates the promotion of the happiness of other
individuals, with whom we are in various ways specially connected: so
that, under either head, the questions that we have before considered
as to the determination and measurement of the elements of happiness
would still require some kind of answer.
It remains to ask how far a scientific investigation of the causes of
pleasure and pain can assist us in dealing with this practical problem.
Now it is obvious that for deciding which of two courses of action
is preferable on hedonistic grounds, we require not only to measure
pains and pleasures of different kinds, but also to ascertain how they
may be produced or averted. In most important prudential decisions,
complex chains of consequences are foreseen as intervening between
the volition we are immediately to initiate and the feelings which
constitute the ultimate end of our efforts; and the degree of accuracy
with which we forecast each link of these chains obviously depends
upon our knowledge, implicit or explicit, of the relations of cause
and effect among various natural phenomena. But if we suppose the
different elements and immediate sources of happiness to have been
duly ascertained and valued, the investigation of the conditions
of production of each hardly belongs to a general treatise on the
method of ethics; but rather to some one or other of the special
arts subordinate to the general art of conduct. Of these subordinate
arts some have a more or less scientific basis, while others are in
a merely empirical stage; thus if we have decided how far health is
to be sought, it belongs to the systematic art of hygiene, based on
physiological science, to furnish a detailed plan of seeking it; so
far, on the other hand, as we aim at power or wealth or domestic
happiness, such instruction as the experience of others can give
will be chiefly obtained in an unsystematic form, either from advice
relative to our own special circumstances, or from accounts of success
and failure in analogous situations. In either case the exposition
of such special arts does not appear to come within the scope of the
present treatise; nor could it help us in dealing with the difficulties
of measuring pleasures and pains which we have considered in the
previous chapters.
It may, however, be thought that a knowledge of the causes of pleasure
and pain may carry us beyond the determination of the means of gaining
particular kinds of pleasure and avoiding particular kinds of pain; and
enable us to substitute some deductive method of evaluing the elements
of happiness for the empirical-reflective method of which we have seen
the defects.[132]
A hedonistic method, indeed, that would dispense altogether with direct
estimates of the pleasurable and painful consequences of actions is
almost as inconceivable as a method of astronomy that would dispense
with observations of the stars. It is, however, conceivable that by
induction from cases in which empirical measurement is easy we may
obtain generalisations that will give us more trustworthy guidance
than such measurement can do in complicated cases; we may be able to
ascertain some general psychical or physical concomitant or antecedent
of pleasure and pain, more easy to recognise, foresee, measure, and
produce or avert in such cases, than pleasure and pain themselves. I
am willing to hope that this refuge from the difficulties of Empirical
Hedonism may some time or other be open to us: but I cannot perceive
that it is at present available. There is at present, so far as I can
judge, no satisfactorily established general theory of the causes of
pleasure and pain; and such theories as have gained a certain degree of
acceptance, as partially true or probable, are manifestly not adapted
for the practical application that we here require.
The chief difficulty of finding a universally applicable theory of
the causes of pleasures and pains is easily explained. Pleasures
and pains may be assumed to have universally--like other psychical
facts--certain cerebral nerve-processes, specifically unknown, as
their inseparable concomitants: accordingly, we may seek their causes
either in antecedent physical or antecedent psychical facts. But in
one important class of cases the chief cognisable antecedents are
obviously of the former kind, while in another important class they
are obviously of the latter kind: the difficulty is to establish any
theory equally applicable to both classes, or to bring the results of
the two lines of inquiry under a single generalisation without palpably
unsupported hypotheses. In the case of pleasures and pains--especially
pains--connected with sensation the most important cognisable
antecedents are clearly physical. I do not deny that, when the pain
is foreseen, the attitude of mind in which it is met may materially
influence its magnitude: indeed, in the hypnotic condition of the
brain, the feeling of pain may be apparently altogether prevented by an
antecedent belief that it will not be felt. Still in the main, under
ordinary conditions, the pains of sensation--probably the intensest
in the experience of most persons--invade and interrupt our psychical
life from without; and it would be idle to look for the chief causes
of their intensity or quality among antecedent psychical facts. This
is not equally true of the most prominent pleasures of sense: since
antecedent desire, if not an absolutely indispensable condition of
such pleasures, seems at any rate necessary to their attaining a high
degree of intensity. Still the chief causes of these desires themselves
are clearly physical states and processes--not merely neural--in the
organism of the sentient individual: and this is also true of a more
indefinite kind of pleasure, which is an important element of ordinary
human happiness,--the “well-feeling” that accompanies and is a sign of
physical well-being.
On the other hand, when we investigate the causes of the pleasures and
pains that belong to intellectual exercises or the play of personal
affections,--or of the pleasures (and to some extent pains) that belong
to the contemplation of beauty (or its opposite) in art or nature,--no
physiological theory can carry us far, owing to our ignorance of the
neural processes that accompany or antecede these feelings.
This is my general conclusion: the grounds for which I propose to
illustrate and explain further in the present chapter. It would,
however, seem to be quite beyond my limits to attempt anything like an
exhaustive discussion of either psychological or physiological theories
of the causes of pleasure and pain. I shall confine myself to certain
leading generalisations, which seem to have a special interest for
students of ethics; either because ethical motives have had a share in
causing their acceptance; or because--though inadequately grounded as
general theories--they appear to have a partial and limited value for
practical guidance.
§ 2. Let us begin by considering a theory, primarily psychological,
which has at least the merit of antiquity--as it is admittedly
derived from Aristotle,[133]--and is, in some form or other, still
current.[134] It is that expressed by Sir W. Hamilton[135] in the
following propositions: “Pleasure is the reflex of the spontaneous
and unimpeded exertion of a power of whose energy we are conscious:
pain, a reflex of the overstrained or repressed exertion of such a
power.” The phrases suggest _active_ as ordinarily distinguished from
_passive_ states; but Hamilton explains that “energy” and similar terms
“are to be understood to denote indifferently all the processes of our
higher and lower life of which we are conscious,”--on the ground that
consciousness itself implies more than a mere passivity of the subject.
I think, however, that the theory is evidently framed primarily to
suit the pleasures and pains that belong to the intellectual life
as such, and is only applied by a somewhat violent straining to an
important class among the pleasures and pains that belong to man’s
animal life. For Hamilton explains his terms (_a_) “spontaneous” and
(_b_) “unimpeded” to imply respectively (_a_) absence of “forcible
repression” or “forcible stimulation” of the power exercised, and (_b_)
absence of checks or hindrances on the part of the object about which
it is conversant. But these terms seem to have no clear psychical
import in application to organic sensations of the kind ordinarily
called passive. _E.g._ the feelings and vague representations of bodily
processes which constitute the consciousness of a toothache are as free
from conscious repression or stimulation as those which constitute
the consciousness that accompanies a warm bath:--except so far as
the mere presence of pain implies constraint, since we experience it
unwillingly, and the mere presence of pleasure implies the opposite:
but in this sense constraint and its opposite are characteristics of
the effects to be explained, and cannot therefore be regarded as their
causes.
Indeed, the ethical interest and value of the theory appears to me
to lie in its very one-sidedness. It tends to correct a vulgar error
in the estimate of pleasure, by directing attention strongly to the
importance of a class of pleasures which ordinary pleasure-seeking
probably undervalues,--the pleasures that specially belong to a life
filled with strenuous activity, whether purely intellectual, or
practical and partly physical.[136] In the same way it effectively
dispels the popular inadvertence of regarding labour as normally
painful because some labour is so, and because the pleasures connected
with relief from toil--the pleasures of repose and play--are in
the experience of most persons more striking than the pleasures of
strenuous activity. At the same time, even if we limit the theory
to the pleasures and pains immediately connected with voluntary
activity--intellectual or physical--it seems to me devoid not only
of definite guidance, but also of adequate theoretical precision.
For it seems to imply that the exercise of our powers is always made
less pleasant by the presence of impediments; but this is obviously
not true either of mainly intellectual or mainly physical activities.
Some obstacles undeniably increase pleasure by drawing out force and
skill to overcome them, as is clearly shown in the case of games and
sports: and even if we understand pain-causing impediments to be only
such hindrances as repress and diminish action, I do not find that the
theory is supported by experience, except so far as the repression
causes the specific discomfort of unsatisfied desire. _E.g._ I find
entertainment rather than discomfort in trying to make out objects in a
dim light, or the meaning of a speech in a strange language, provided
that failure does not interfere with the attainment of any end to which
I attach importance. It is a fundamental defect in Hamilton’s theory,
even in its more limited application, that it ignores the teleological
character of normal human activity.
This defect is avoided in a modification of the theory that a recent
writer has adopted. “The antithesis,” says Mr. Stout,[137] “between
pleasure and pain is coincident with the antithesis between free
and impeded progress towards an end. Unimpeded progress is pleasant
in proportion to the intensity and complexity of mental excitement.
An activity which is ... thwarted and retarded ... is painful in
proportion to its intensity and complexity and to the degree of
the hindrance.” Mr. Stout admits the difficulty of applying this
principle of explanation to the pleasures and pains of sense:[138]
and--unlike Hamilton--he expressly recognises that “a struggle with
difficulties which is not too prolonged or too intense may enhance the
pleasure of success out of all proportion to its own painfulness.”
But this qualification seems to render the propositions first laid
down unimportant from our present practical point of view, whatever
may be their theoretical value. I think, too, that the importance of
antecedent desire, as a condition of the pleasures and pains attendant
on voluntary activities, should be more expressly recognised. When
desire is strong, hopeful effort to overcome difficulties in the
way of fruition tends to be proportionally pleasurable--apart from
actual success--while disappointment or the fear of disappointment
similarly tends to be painful: but when desire is not strong, the
shock of thwarted activity and unfulfilled expectation may be rather
agreeable than otherwise. Thus, suppose I take a walk for pleasure,
intending to reach a neighbouring village, and find an unexpected
flood crossing my road; if I have no strong motive for arriving at the
village, the surprise and consequent change in the plan of my walk
will probably be on the whole a pleasurable incident.
The importance of eager desire as a condition of pleasure is noteworthy
from an ethical point of view: as it gives the psychological
basis for the familiar precept to repress--with a view to private
happiness--desires for ends that are either unattainable or
incompatible with the course of life which prudence marks out; and for
the somewhat less trite maxim of encouraging and developing desires
that prompt in the same direction as rational choice.
Suppose now we drop the dubious term “unimpeded”--retaining Hamilton’s
idea of “overstrained or repressed exertion” as the condition of
pain--and at the same time passing to a physical point of view,
mean by “activity” the activity of an _organ_. We thus reach
what is substantially Mr. Spencer’s doctrine, that pains are the
psychical concomitants of excessive or deficient actions of organs,
while pleasures are the concomitants of medium activities.[139] In
considering this theory it will be convenient to take pains and
pleasures separately: as it is obviously based primarily on experiences
of pain rather than of pleasure,--especially of the pains of sense to
which Hamilton’s theory seemed palpably inapplicable. Instances are
abundant in which pain is obviously caused by excessive stimulation of
nerves. Thus when we gradually increase the intensity of sensible heat,
pressure, muscular effort, we encounter pain at a certain point of the
increase; “deafening” sounds are highly disagreeable; and to confront
a tropical sun with unprotected eyeballs would soon become torture.
Some pains, again, as Spencer points out, arise from the excessive
actions of organs whose normal actions yield no feelings: as when the
digestive apparatus is overtaxed. Still in none of these cases does
it seem clear that pain supervenes through a mere intensification _in
degree_ of the action of the organ in question; and not rather through
some change in the kind of action--some inchoate disintegration or
disorganisation. And this latter cause--rather than mere quantity of
stimulation--is strongly suggested by a consideration of the pains due
to wounds and diseases, and even of the transient digestive discomforts
which arise from an improper kind rather than an improper quantity
of food. And a similar explanation seems to me most probable in the
case of pains which, according to Mr. Spencer, arise from “deficient”
action. He speaks of these as “discomforts or cravings”; but, as I
have before pointed out,[140] bodily appetites and other desires may
be strongly-felt impulses to action without being appreciably painful:
and, in my experience, when they become decidedly painful, some
disturbance tending to derangement may be presumed either in the organ
primarily concerned or in the organism as a whole. Thus hunger, in my
experience, may be extremely keen without being appreciably painful:
and when I find it painful, experience leads me to expect a temporarily
reduced power of assimilation, indicating some disorganisation in the
digestive apparatus.[141]
In any case, empirical evidence supports “excessive action” of an organ
as a cause of pain far more clearly than “deficient action.” Indeed a
consideration of this evidence has led some psychologists to adopt the
generalisation[142] that there is no quality of sensation absolutely
pleasant or unpleasant, but that every kind of sensation as it grows in
intensity begins at a certain point to be pleasurable, and continues
such up to a certain further point at which it passes rapidly through
indifference into pain. My own experience, however, fails to support
this generalisation. I agree with Gurney[143] that “of many tastes and
odours the faintest possible suggestion is disagreeable”; while other
feelings resulting from stimulation of sense-organs appear to remain
highly pleasurable at the highest degree of stimulation which the
actual conditions of physical life appear to allow.
However this may be, whether we conceive the nervous action of which
pain is an immediate consequent or concomitant as merely excessive in
quantity, or in some way discordant or disorganised in quality, it
is obvious that neither explanation can furnish us with any important
practical guidance: since we have no general means of ascertaining,
independently of our experience of pain itself, what nervous actions
are excessive or disorganised: and the cases where we have such means
do not present any practical problems which the theory enables us to
solve. No one doubts that wounds and diseases are to be avoided under
all ordinary circumstances: and in the exceptional circumstances in
which we may be moved to choose them as the least of several evils, the
exactest knowledge of their precise operation in causing pain is not
likely to assist our choice.
It may be said, however,--turning from pain to pleasure,--that the
generalisation which we have been considering at any rate gives us a
psychophysical basis for the ancient maxim of “avoiding excess” in
the pursuit of pleasure. But we have to observe that the practical
need of this maxim is largely due to the qualifications which the
psychophysical generalisation requires to make it true. Thus it is
especially needed in the important cases in which over-stimulation is
followed by pain not at once but after an interval of varying length.
_E.g._ alcoholic drinking, to many, remains pleasurable at the time up
to the point of excess at which the brain can no longer perform its
functions: it is “next morning” that the pain comes, or perhaps--in the
case of “well-seasoned” topers--not till after many years of habitual
excess. It should be noted also that it is not always the organ of
which the exercise gives pleasure that also, through over-exercise,
causes the pain of excess. Thus when we are tempted to eat too much,
the seductive pleasure is mainly due to the nerves of taste which are
not overtaxed; the pains come from the organs of digestion, whose
faint, vague pleasures alone would hardly tempt the voluptuary to
excess. In the case of dangerous mental excitements the penalty on
excess is usually still more indirect.
On the whole, granting that pleasure like virtue resides somewhere
in the mean, it must be admitted that this proposition gives no
practical directions for attaining it. For first, granting that both
excessive and deficient activities of organs cause pain, the question
still remains--as Spencer himself says--What determines in any case
the lower and the higher limits within which action is pleasurable?
Spencer’s answer to this question I will consider presently. But
there is a question no less obvious to which he does not expressly
advert, viz. why among the normal activities of our physical organs,
that have counterparts in consciousness, some only are pleasurable in
any appreciable degree, while many if not most are nearly or quite
indifferent. It seems undeniable (_e.g._) that while tastes and
smells are mostly either agreeable or disagreeable, most sensations
of touch and many of sight and sound are not appreciably[144] either;
and that, in the daily routine of healthy life, eating and drinking
are ordinarily pleasant, while dressing and undressing, walking and
muscular movements generally are practically indifferent.
It does not seem that an adequate explanation can be found in the
operation of habit.[145] It is no doubt true that actions through
frequent uniform repetition tend to become automatic and lose their
conscious counterparts, and hedonic indifference certainly seems in
some cases to be a stage through which such actions pass on the way
to unconsciousness. Thus even a business walk in a strange town is
normally pleasant through the novelty of the sights: but a similar walk
in the town where one lives is ordinarily indifferent, or nearly so;
while if one’s attention is strongly absorbed by the business, it may
be performed to a great extent unconsciously. On the other hand, the
operations of habit often have the opposite effect of making activities
pleasant which were at first indifferent or even disagreeable: as in
the case of acquired tastes, physical or intellectual. Indeed such
experiences have long been--I think, quite legitimately--used by
moralists as an encouragement to irksome duties, on the ground that
their irksomeness will be transient, through the operation of habit,
while the gain of their performance will be permanent. Mr. Spencer,
indeed, regards such experiences as so important that he ventures to
base on them the prediction that “pleasure will eventually accompany
every mode of action demanded by social conditions.” This, however,
seems unduly optimistic, in view not only of the first-mentioned
tendency of habit to hedonic indifference, but also of a third tendency
to render actions, at first indifferent or even pleasant, gradually
more irksome. Thus our intellect gradually wearies of monotonous
activities, and the _ennui_ may sometimes become intense: so again the
relish of a kind of diet at first agreeable may turn through monotony
into disgust.
Some quite different explanation must therefore be sought for the
varying degrees in which pleasure accompanies normal activities. Can
we find this in a suggestion of Mr. Spencer’s, developed by Mr. Grant
Allen,[146] that the pleasurableness of normal organic activities
depends on their _intermittence_, and that “the amount of pleasure
is probably ... in the inverse ratio of the natural frequency of
excitation” of the nerve-fibres involved? This theory certainly
finds some support in the fact that the sensual pleasures generally
recognised as greatest are those attending the activities of organs
which are normally left unexercised for considerable intervals.
Still, there are many facts that it does not explain--_e.g._ the
great differences in the pleasures obtainable at any given time by
different stimulations of the same sense; the phenomenon expressed in
the proverbial phrase “L’appétit vient en mangeant”; and the fact that
the exercise of the visual organs after apparently dreamless sleep does
not give appreciably keener pleasure than it does at ordinary times. It
would seem that we must seek for some special cause of the pleasurable
effect of intermittence in certain cases. And this cannot be merely
the greater intensity of the nervous action that takes place when
long-unexercised and well-nourished nerve-centres are stimulated: for
why, if that were the explanation, should the normal consciousness of
full nervous activity, gradually attained--as when we are in full swing
of energetic unwearied work of a routine kind--be often nearly or quite
indifferent?
Among the various competing hypotheses offered at this point of our
inquiry--no one of which, I believe, has attained anything like general
acceptance as covering the whole ground--I select for discussion one
that has special ethical interest.
According to this hypothesis,[147] the organic process accompanied
by pleasure is to be conceived as a “restoration of equilibrium”
after “disturbance”: so that the absence of appreciable pleasure in
the case of certain normal activities is explained by the absence of
antecedent disturbance. This view is obviously applicable to certain
classes of pleasures which, though by no means rare are incidental
in a normal life:--the pleasure of relief after physical pain, or
after the strain of great anxiety, and the pleasure of repose after
unusual exertions, intellectual or muscular. But when we attempt to
apply it to sensational pleasures generally, the indefiniteness of
the notion of “equilibrium,” as applied to the processes of a living
organism, becomes manifest. For our physical life consists of a series
of changes, for the most part periodically recurrent with slight
modification after short intervals: and it is difficult to see why we
should attach the idea of “disturbance” or “restoration of equilibrium”
to any one among these normal processes rather than any other:--_e.g._
it is difficult to see why the condition of having expended energy
should be regarded as a departure from equilibrium any more than the
condition of having just taken in nutriment. In fact, to render the
hypothesis we are considering at all applicable to normal pleasures
of sense, we have to pass from the physiological to the psychological
point of view, and take note of the psychical state of _desire_, as
a consciously _unrestful_ condition, of which the essence is a felt
impulse to pass out of this state towards the attainment of the desired
object. Our hypothesis, then, may take this unrestful consciousness as
a sign of what, from a physiological point of view, is “disturbance of
equilibrium,” and similarly, the satisfaction of desire may be taken to
be, physiologically, a restoration of equilibrium. On this assumption,
the theory becomes undeniably applicable to those gratifications of
sensual appetite which form the most prominent element of the pleasures
of sense, as popularly conceived.
Now we have already noted that by a wide-spread confusion of thought,
desire has often been regarded as a species of pain. Accordingly, the
theory that we are considering was originally prompted by the ethical
motive of depreciating the vulgarly overvalued pleasures of satisfied
bodily appetite, by laying stress on their inseparable connexion
with antecedent pain. The depreciation, however, fails so far as the
appetite which is a necessary antecedent condition of the pleasure
is--though an unrestful state--not appreciably painful.[148]
In any case, admitting the physical counterpart of conscious desire
to be a ‘disturbance of equilibrium,’ or an effect and sign of such
disturbance, the theory seems open to obvious objections, if it is
extended to cover the whole range of the pleasures of sense. For
conscious desire is certainly not a necessary condition of experiencing
the simple pleasures of the special senses: normally no sense of
want has preceded the experience of pleasant sights, sounds, odours,
flavours, or of the more important pleasures, more complex in their
psychical conditions, which we call æsthetic. No doubt in special cases
antecedent privation may produce a conscious want of these latter
pleasures which may increase their intensity when they are at length
attained: or even without any felt privation, the prospect of enjoying
such pleasures may produce a keen desire for the enjoyment, which may
be regarded as a “disturbance of equilibrium” no less plausibly than
a bodily appetite. But it would be quite unwarrantable therefore to
suppose a similar disturbance, though unfelt, in the ordinary cases
where pleasures of this kind are experienced without any antecedent
consciousness of desire or want.
I have perhaps said enough to support my general conclusion that
psychophysical speculation as to the causes of pleasure and pain does
not at present afford a basis for a deductive method of practical
Hedonism. But, before passing from this topic, I may remark that the
difficulties in the way of any such theory seem especially great in
the case of the complex pleasures which we distinguish as “æsthetic.”
All would agree that æsthetic gratification, when at all high, depends
on a subtle harmony of different elements in a complex state of
consciousness; and that the pleasure resulting from such harmonious
combination is indefinitely greater than the sum of the simpler
pleasures which the uncombined elements would yield. But even those
who estimate most highly the success that has so far been attained
in discovering the conditions of this harmony, in the case of any
particular art, would admit that mere conformity to the conditions
thus ascertained cannot secure the production of æsthetic pleasure
in any considerable degree. However subtly we state in general terms
the objective relations of elements in a delightful work of art, on
which its delight seems to depend, we must always feel that it would
be possible to produce out of similar elements a work corresponding to
our general description which would give no delight at all; the touch
that gives delight depends upon an instinct for which no deductive
reasoning can supply a substitute. This is true, even without taking
into account the wide divergences that we actually find in the æsthetic
sensibilities of individuals: still less, therefore, is it needful to
argue that, from the point of view of an individual seeking his own
greatest happiness, none but a mainly inductive and empirical method of
estimating æsthetic pleasures can be made available.
§ 3. I now pass to consider a theory which may be distinguished from
those discussed in the preceding section as being biological rather
than psychophysical: since it directs attention not to the actual
present characteristics of the organic states or changes of which
pleasures and pains are the concomitants or immediate consequents,
but to their relations to the life of the organism as a whole. I mean
the theory that “pains are the correlatives of actions injurious to
the organism, while pleasures are the correlatives of acts conducive
to its welfare.” Mr. Spencer, from whom the above propositions are
quoted,[149] subsequently explains “injurious” and “conducive to
welfare” to mean respectively “tending to decrease or loss of life,”
and “tending to continuance or increase of life”: but in his deduction
by which the above conclusion is summarily established, “injurious”
and “beneficial” are used as equivalent simply to “destructive” and
“preservative” of organic life: and it will be more convenient to take
the terms first in this simpler signification.
Mr. Spencer’s argument is as follows:--
“If we substitute for the word Pleasure the equivalent phrase--a
feeling which we seek to bring into consciousness and retain there;
and if we substitute for the word Pain the equivalent phrase--a
feeling which we seek to get out of consciousness and to keep out;
we see at once that, if the states of consciousness which a creature
endeavours to maintain are the correlatives of injurious actions,
and if the states of consciousness which it endeavours to expel are
the correlatives of beneficial actions, it must quickly disappear
through persistence in the injurious and avoidance of the beneficial.
In other words, those races of beings only can have survived in
which, on the average, agreeable or desired feelings went along with
activities conducive to the maintenance of life, while disagreeable
and habitually-avoided feelings went along with activities directly or
indirectly destructive of life; and there must ever have been, other
things equal, the most numerous and long-continued survivals among
races in which these adjustments of feelings to actions were the best,
tending ever to bring about perfect adjustment.”
Now I am not concerned to deny the value of this summary deduction
for certain purposes. But it can easily be shown to be inadequate to
afford a basis for a deductive method of seeking maximum happiness for
the individual, by substituting Preservation for Pleasure as the end
directly aimed at. In the first place, Mr. Spencer only affirms the
conclusion to be true, as he rather vaguely says, “on the average”: and
it is obvious that though the tendency to find injurious acts pleasant
or preservative acts painful must be a disadvantage to any species
of animal in the struggle for existence, it may--if existing only
to a limited extent--be outweighed by other advantages, so that the
organism in which it exists may survive in spite of it. This, I say,
is obvious _a priori_: and common experience, as Mr. Spencer admits,
shows “in many conspicuous ways” that this has been actually the case
with civilised man during the whole period of history that we know:
owing to the changes caused by the course of civilisation, “there has
arisen and must long continue a deep and involved derangement of the
natural connexions between pleasures and beneficial actions and between
pains and detrimental actions.” This seems to be in itself a sufficient
objection to founding a deductive method of Hedonism on Mr. Spencer’s
general conclusion. It is, indeed, notorious that civilised men take
pleasure in various forms of unhealthy conduct and find conformity to
the rules of health irksome; and it is also important to note that they
may be, and actually are, susceptible of keen pleasure from acts and
processes that have no material tendency to preserve life. Nor is there
any difficulty in explaining this on the “evolution hypothesis”; since
we cannot argue _a priori_ from this hypothesis that the development
of the nervous system in human beings may not bring with it intense
susceptibilities to pleasure from non-preservative processes, if only
the preservation of the individuals in whom such susceptibilities
are developed is otherwise adequately provided for. Now this latter
supposition is obviously realised in the case of persons of leisure
in civilised society; whose needs of food, clothing, shelter, etc.,
are abundantly supplied through the complex social habit which we call
the institution of private property: and I know no empirical ground
for supposing that a cultivated man tends, in consequence of the keen
and varied pleasure which he seeks and enjoys, to live longer than a
man who goes through a comparatively dull round of monotonous routine
activity, interspersed by slightly pleasurable intervals of repose and
play.
§ 4. If, however, the individual is not likely to obtain a maximum
of Pleasure by aiming merely at Preservation, it remains to consider
whether “quantity of life” will serve any better. Now it is of course
true that so far as nervous action is attended by consciousness
pleasurable in quality, the more there is of it, the happier we shall
be. But even if we assume that the more intense and full life is “on
the average” the happier, it by no means follows that we shall gain
_maximum_ pleasure by aiming merely at intensity of consciousness:
for we experience intense pains even more indubitably than intense
pleasures, and in those “full tides of soul,” in which we seem to
be most alive, painful consciousness may be mixed in almost any
proportion. And further we often experience excitement nearly or quite
neutral in quality (_i.e._ not distinctly pleasurable or painful),
which reaches a great pitch of intensity, as in the case of laborious
struggles with difficulties, and perplexing conflicts of which the
issue is doubtful.
It may, however, be replied that “quantity of life” must be taken to
imply not merely intensity of consciousness, but multiplicity and
variety--a harmonious and many-sided development of human nature. And
experience certainly seems to support the view that men lose happiness
by allowing some of their faculties or capacities to be withered
and dwarfed for want of exercise, and thus not leaving themselves
sufficient variety of feelings or activities: especially as regards
the bodily organs, it will be agreed that the due exercise of most, if
not all, is indispensable to the health of the organism; and further,
that the health maintained by this balance of functions is a more
important source of the individual’s happiness than the unhealthy
over-exercise of any one organ can be. Still, it would appear that the
harmony of functions necessary to health is a very elastic one, and
admits of a very wide margin of variation, as far as the organs under
voluntary control are concerned. A man (_e.g._) who exercises his brain
alone will probably be ill in consequence: but he may exercise his
brain much and his legs little, or _vice versa_, without any morbid
results. And, in the same way, we cannot lay down the proposition, that
a varied and many-sided life is the happiest, with as much precision
as would be necessary if it were to be accepted as a basis for
deductive Hedonism. For it seems to be also largely true, on the other
side, that the more we come to exercise any faculty with sustained
and prolonged concentration, the more pleasure we derive from such
exercise, up to the point at which it becomes wearisome, or turns into
a semi-mechanical routine which renders consciousness dull and languid.
It is, no doubt, important for our happiness that we should keep
within this limit: but we cannot fix it precisely in any particular
case without special experience: especially as there seems always to
be a certain amount of weariness and tedium which must be resisted and
overcome, if we would bring our faculties into full play, and obtain
the full enjoyment of our labour. And similarly in respect of passive
emotional consciousness: if too much sameness of feeling results in
languor, too much variety inevitably involves shallowness. The point
where concentration ought to stop, and where dissipation begins, varies
from man to man, and must, it would seem, be decided by the specific
experience of individuals.
There is, however, another and simpler way in which the maxim
of ‘giving free development to one’s nature’ may be understood:
_i.e._ in the sense of yielding to spontaneous impulses, instead of
endeavouring to govern these by elaborate forecasts of consequences:
a scientific justification for this course being found in the theory
that spontaneous or instinctive impulses really represent the effects
of previous experiences of pleasure and pain on the organism in which
they appear, or its ancestors. On this ground, it has been maintained
that in complicated problems of conduct, experience will “enable
the constitution to estimate the respective amounts of pleasure and
pain consequent upon each alternative,” where it is “impossible for
the intellect” to do this: and “will further cause the organism
instinctively to shun that course which produces on the whole most
suffering.”[150] That there is an important element of truth in this
contention I would not deny. But any broad conclusion that non-rational
inclination is a better guide than reason to the individual’s happiness
would be quite unwarranted by anything that we know or can plausibly
conjecture respecting biological evolution. For--overlooking the effect
of natural selection to foster impulses tending to the preservation
of the race rather than the pleasure of the individual, and granting
that every sentient organism tends to adapt itself to its environment,
in such a manner as to acquire instincts of some value in guiding
it to pleasure and away from pain--it by no means follows that in
the human organism one particular kind of adaptation, that which
proceeds by unconscious modification of instinct, is to be preferred
to that other kind of adaptation which is brought about by conscious
comparison and inference. It rather seems clear, that this proposition
can only be justified by a comparison of the consequences of yielding
to instinctive impulses with the consequences of controlling them by
calculations of resulting pleasure and pain. But it will hardly be
maintained that in the majority of clear instances where non-rational
impulse conflicts with rational forecast, a subsequent calculation of
consequences appears to justify the former; the assertion would be in
too flagrant conflict with the common sense and common experience of
mankind. Hence, however true it may be that in certain cases instinct
is on the whole a safer guide than prudential calculation, it would
still seem that we can only ascertain these cases by careful reflection
on experience: we cannot determine the limits to which prudential
calculation may prudently be carried, except by this very calculation
itself.
We seem, then, forced to conclude that there is no scientific short-cut
to the ascertainment of the right means to the individual’s happiness:
every attempt to find a ‘high priori road’ to this goal brings us back
inevitably to the empirical method. For instead of a clear principle
universally valid, we only get at best a vague and general rule, based
on considerations which it is important not to overlook, but the
relative value of which we can only estimate by careful observation
and comparison of individual experience. Whatever uncertainty besets
these processes must necessarily extend to all our reasonings about
happiness. I have no wish to exaggerate these uncertainties, feeling
that we must all continue to seek happiness for ourselves and for
others, in whatever obscurity we may have to grope after it: but there
is nothing gained by underrating them, and it is idle to argue as if
they did not exist.
FOOTNOTES:
[131] “It should seem that a due concern about our own interest or
happiness, and a reasonable endeavour to secure and promote it, ... is
virtue, and the contrary behaviour faulty and blamable.” Butler (in the
Dissertation _Of the Nature of Virtue_ appended to the _Analogy_).
[132] This view is suggested by Mr. Herbert Spencer’s statement--in
a letter to J. S. Mill, published in Mr. Bain’s _Mental and Moral
Science_; and partially reprinted in Mr. Spencer’s _Data of Ethics_,
chap. iv. § 21--that “it is the business of moral science to deduce,
from the laws of life and the conditions of existence, what kinds
of actions necessarily tend to produce happiness, and what kinds to
produce unhappiness,” and that when it has done this, “its deductions
are to be recognised as laws of conduct; and are to be conformed to
irrespective of a direct estimate of happiness or misery.” I ought,
however, to say that Mr. Spencer has made it clear in his latest
treatise that the only cogent deductions of this kind which he
conceives to be possible relate to the behaviour not of men here and
now, but of ideal men living in an ideal society, and living under
conditions so unlike those of actual humanity that all their actions
produce “pleasure unalloyed with pain anywhere” (_Data of Ethics_, §
101). The laws of conduct in this Utopia constitute, in Mr. Spencer’s
view, the subject-matter of “Absolute Ethics”; which he distinguishes
from the “Relative Ethics” that concerns itself with the conduct
of the imperfect men who live under the present imperfect social
conditions, and of which the method is, as he admits, to a great
extent “necessarily empirical” (_Data of Ethics_, § 108). How far
such a system as Mr. Spencer calls Absolute Ethics can be rationally
constructed, and how far its construction would be practically useful,
I shall consider in a later part of this treatise (Book iv. chap. iv.),
when I come to deal with the method of Universalistic Hedonism: at
present I am only concerned with the question how far any deductive
Ethics is capable of furnishing practical guidance to an individual
seeking his own greatest happiness here and now.
[133] Aristotle’s theory is, briefly, that every normal
sense-perception or rational activity has its correspondent pleasure,
and that the most perfect is the most pleasant: the most perfect in the
case of any faculty being the exercise of the faculty in good condition
on the best object. The pleasure follows the activity immediately,
giving it a kind of finish, “like the bloom of youth.” Pleasures
vary in kind, as the activities that constitute life vary: the best
pleasures are those of the philosophic life.
[134] See Bouillier, _Du plaisir et de la douleur_, chap. iii.; L.
Dumont, _Théorie scientifique de la sensibilité_, chap. iii.; as well
as Stout, _Analytic Psychology_, chap. xii.--to which I refer later.
[135] _Lectures on Metaphysics_, vol. ii. Lect. xlii.
[136] In Aristotle’s exposition of this theory--which with him is only
a theory of pleasure--the ethical motive of exhibiting the philosophic
life as preferable to that of the sensualist, in respect of the
pleasures it affords, is quite unmistakable.
[137] _Analytic Psychology_, chap. xii. 2.
[138] The physiological theory which Mr. Stout puts forward, as at once
correspondent and supplementary to his psychological generalisation,
will be noticed later.
[139] _Psychology_, chap. ix. § 128.
[140] Book i. chap. iv.
[141] It may be added that in the case of emotional pains and
pleasures, the notion of _quantitative_ difference between the cerebral
nerve-processes, antecedent respectively to the one and the other,
seems altogether unwarrantable: the pains of shame, disappointed
ambition, wounded love, do not appear to be distinguishable from the
pleasures of fame, success, reciprocated affection, by any difference
of intensity in the impressions or ideas accompanied by the pleasures
and pains respectively.
[142] See Wundt, _Grundzüge der physiologischen Psychologie_, chap. x.
[143] _Power of Sound_, chap. i. § 2.
[144] I say “appreciably” because the controverted psychological
question whether there are any _strictly_ neutral or indifferent
modifications of consciousness seems to me unimportant from a practical
point of view. See Sully, _Human Mind_, chap. xiii. § 2.
[145] See Stout, _Analytic Psychology_, _l.c._
[146] _Physiological Æsthetics_, chap. ii.
[147] See Stout, _Analytic Psychology_, chap. xii. § 4.
[148] See Book i. chap. iv. _Note_.
[149] _Principles of Psychology_, § 125, and _Data of Ethics_, § 33.
[150] The quotations are from Mr. Spencer’s _Social Statics_, chap.
iv.: but I should explain that in the passage quoted Mr. Spencer is not
writing from the point of view of Egoistic Hedonism.
BOOK III
INTUITIONISM
CHAPTER I
INTUITIONISM
§ 1. The effort to examine, closely but quite neutrally, the system
of Egoistic Hedonism, with which we have been engaged in the last
Book, may not improbably have produced on the reader’s mind a certain
aversion to the principle and method examined, even though (like
myself) he may find it difficult not to admit the ‘authority’ of
self-love, or the ‘rationality’ of seeking one’s own individual
happiness. In considering ‘enlightened self-interest’ as supplying a
_prima facie_ tenable principle for the systematisation of conduct, I
have given no expression to this sentiment of aversion, being anxious
to ascertain with scientific impartiality the results to which this
principle logically leads. When, however, we seem to find on careful
examination of Egoism (as worked out on a strictly empirical basis)
that the common precepts of duty, which we are trained to regard as
sacred, must be to the egoist rules to which it is only generally
speaking and for the most part reasonable to conform, but which under
special circumstances must be decisively ignored and broken,--the
offence which Egoism in the abstract gives to our sympathetic and
social nature adds force to the recoil from it caused by the perception
of its occasional practical conflict with common notions of duty. But
further, we are accustomed to expect from Morality clear and decisive
precepts or counsels: and such rules as can be laid down for seeking
the individual’s greatest happiness cannot but appear wanting in these
qualities. A dubious guidance to an ignoble end appears to be all that
the calculus of Egoistic Hedonism has to offer. And it is by appealing
to the superior certainty with which the dictates of Conscience or the
Moral Faculty are issued, that Butler maintains the practical supremacy
of Conscience over Self-love, in spite of his admission (in the passage
before quoted[151]) of theoretical priority in the claims of the
latter.[152] A man knows certainly, he says, what he ought to do: but
he does not certainly know what will lead to his happiness.
In saying this, Butler appears to me fairly to represent the common
moral sense of ordinary mankind, in our own age no less than in his.
The moral judgments that men habitually pass on one another in ordinary
discourse imply for the most part that duty is usually not a difficult
thing for an ordinary man to _know_, though various seductive impulses
may make it difficult for him to _do_ it. And in such maxims as that
duty should be performed ‘advienne que pourra,’ that truth should be
spoken without regard to consequences, that justice should be done
‘though the sky should fall,’ it is implied that we have the power of
seeing clearly that certain kinds of actions are right and reasonable
in themselves, apart from their consequences;--or rather with a merely
partial consideration of consequences, from which other consequences
admitted to be possibly good or bad are definitely excluded.[153] And
such a power is claimed for the human mind by most of the writers who
have maintained the existence of moral intuitions; I have therefore
thought myself justified in treating this claim as characteristic of
the method which I distinguish as Intuitional. At the same time,
as I have before observed, there is a wider sense in which the term
‘intuitional’ might be legitimately applied to either Egoistic or
Universalistic Hedonism; so far as either system lays down as a first
principle--which if known at all must be intuitively known--that
happiness is the only rational ultimate end of action. To this meaning
I shall recur in the concluding chapters (xiii. and xiv.) of this Book;
in which I shall discuss more fully the intuitive character of these
hedonistic principles. But since the adoption of this wider meaning
would not lead us to a distinct ethical method, I have thought it best,
in the detailed discussion of Intuitionism which occupies the first
eleven chapters of this Book, to confine myself as far as possible to
Moral Intuition understood in the narrower sense above defined.
§ 2. Here, perhaps, it may be said that in thus defining Intuitionism I
have omitted its most fundamental characteristic; that the Intuitionist
properly speaking--in contrast with the Utilitarian--does not judge
actions by an external standard at all; that true morality, in his
view, is not concerned with outward actions as such, but with the
state of mind in which acts are done--in short with “intentions” and
“motives.”[154] I think, however, that this objection is partly due to
a misunderstanding. Moralists of all schools, I conceive, would agree
that the moral judgments which we pass on actions relate primarily to
intentional actions regarded as intentional. In other words, what we
judge to be ‘wrong’--in the strictest ethical sense--is not any part
of the actual effects, as such, of the muscular movements immediately
caused by the agent’s volition, but the effects which he foresaw in
willing the act; or, more strictly, his volition or choice of realising
the effects as foreseen.[155] When I speak therefore of acts, I must be
understood to mean--unless the contrary is stated--acts presumed to be
intentional and judged as such: on this point I do not think that any
dispute need arise.
The case of motives is different and requires careful discussion. In
the first place the distinction between “motive” and “intention” in
ordinary language is not very precise: since we apply the term “motive”
to foreseen consequences of an act, so far as they are conceived to be
objects of desire to the agent, or to the desire of such consequences:
and when we speak of the intention of an act we usually, no doubt,
have desired consequences in view. I think, however, that for purposes
of exact moral or jural discussion, it is best to include under the
term ‘intention’ all the consequences of an act that are foreseen as
certain or probable; since it will be admitted that we cannot evade
responsibility for any foreseen bad consequences of our acts by the
plea that we felt no desire for them, either for their own sake or
as means to ulterior ends:[156] such undesired accompaniments of the
desired results of our volitions are clearly chosen or willed by
us. Hence the intention of an act may be judged to be wrong, while
the motive is recognised as good; as when a man commits perjury to
save a parent’s or a benefactor’s life. Such judgments are, in fact,
continually passed in common moral discourse. It may, however, be said
that an act cannot be right, even when the intention is such as duty
would prescribe, if it be done from a bad motive: that--to take a case
suggested by Bentham--a man who prosecutes from malice a person whom
he believes to be guilty, does not really act rightly; for, though it
may be his duty to prosecute, he ought not to do it from malice. It is
doubtless true that it is our duty to get rid of bad motives if we can;
so that a man’s intention cannot be _wholly_ right, unless it includes
the repression, so far as possible, of a motive known to be bad. But
no one, I think, will contend that we can always suppress entirely
a strong emotion; and such suppression will be especially difficult
if we are to do the act to which the wrong impulse prompts; while
yet, if that act be clearly a duty which no one else can so properly
perform, it would be absurd to say that we ought to omit it because
we cannot altogether exclude an objectionable motive. It is sometimes
said that, though we may not be able in doing our duty to exclude a
bad motive altogether from our minds, it is still possible to refuse
to act from it. But I think that this is only possible so far as the
details of action to which a right motive would prompt differ to some
extent from those to which a wrong motive would prompt. No doubt this
is often the case:--thus, in Bentham’s example, a malevolent prosecutor
may be prompted to take unfair advantage of his enemy, or cause him
needless pain by studied insults; and it is obviously possible for
him--and his duty--to resist such promptings. But so far as precisely
the same action is prompted by two different motives, both present in
my consciousness, I am not conscious of any power to cause this action
to be determined by one of the two motives to the exclusion of the
other. In other words, while a man can resolve to aim at any end which
he conceives as a possible result of his voluntary action, he cannot
simultaneously resolve _not_ to aim at any other end which he believes
will be promoted by the same action; and if that other end be an object
of desire to him, he cannot, while aiming at it, refuse to act from
this desire.[157]
On the whole, then, I conclude (1) that while many actions are
commonly judged to be made _better_ or _worse_ by the presence or
absence of certain motives, our judgments of _right_ and _wrong_
strictly speaking relate to intentions, as distinguished from
motives;[158] and (2) that while intentions affecting the agent’s own
feelings and character are morally prescribed no less than intentions
to produce certain external effects, still, the latter form the
primary--though not the sole--content of the main prescriptions of
duty, as commonly affirmed and understood: but the extent to which this
is the case, will become more clear as we proceed.
It has indeed been maintained by moralists of influence that the moral
value of our conduct depends upon the degree to which we are actuated
by the one motive which they regard as truly moral: viz. the desire
or free choice[159] of doing what is right as such, realising duty or
virtue for duty or virtue’s sake:[160] and that a perfectly good act
must be done entirely from this motive. I think, however, that it is
difficult to combine this view--which I may conveniently distinguish as
Stoical--with the belief, which modern orthodox moralists have usually
been concerned to maintain, that it is always a man’s true interest
to act virtuously. I do not mean that a man who holds this belief
must necessarily be an egoist: but it seems to me impossible for him
to exclude from his motives a regard for his own interest, while yet
believing that it will be promoted by the act which he is willing.
If, therefore, we hold that this self-regard impairs the moral value
of an act otherwise virtuous, and at the same time hold that virtue
is always conducive to the virtuous agent’s interest, we seem driven
to the conclusion that knowledge of the true relation between virtue
and happiness is an insuperable obstacle to the attainment of moral
perfection. I cannot accept this paradox: and in subsequent chapters
I shall try to show that the Stoical view of moral goodness is not on
the whole sustained by a comprehensive survey and comparison of common
moral judgments: since in some cases acts appear to have the quality
of virtue even more strikingly when performed from some motive other
than the love of virtue as such. For the present I wish rather to point
out that the doctrine above stated is diametrically opposed to the
view that the universal or normal motives of human action are either
particular desires of pleasure or aversions to pain for the agent
himself, or the more general regard to his happiness on the whole which
I term Self-love; that it also excludes the less extreme doctrine that
duties may be to some extent properly done from such self-regarding
motives; and that one or other of these positions has frequently been
held by writers who have expressly adopted an Intuitional method of
Ethics. For instance, we find Locke laying down, without reserve or
qualification, that “good and evil are nothing but pleasure and pain,
or that which occasions or procures pleasure or pain to us:”[161] so
that “it would be utterly in vain to suppose a rule set to the free
actions of man, without annexing it to some reward or punishment to
determine his will.” On the other hand, he expresses, with no less
emphasis, the conviction that “from self-evident propositions, by
necessary consequences, as incontestable as those in mathematics, the
measures of right and wrong might be made out,”[162] so that “morality
might be placed among the sciences capable of demonstration.” The
combination of these two doctrines gives us the view that moral rules
are essentially laws of God, which men are impelled to obey, solely or
mainly, from fear or hope of divine punishments or rewards; and some
such view as this seems to be widely accepted, by plain men without
very refined moral sensibilities.
As an example, again, of thinkers who, while recognising in human
nature a disinterested regard for duty or virtue as such, still
consider that self-love is a proper and legitimate motive to right
conduct, we may refer to Butler and his disciples. Butler regards
“reasonable self-love” as not merely a normal motive to human action,
but as being--no less than conscience--a “chief or superior principle
in the nature of man”; so that an action “becomes unsuitable” to this
nature, if the principle of self-love be violated. Accordingly the
aim of his teaching is not to induce men to choose duty rather than
interest, but to convince them that there is no inconsistency between
the two; that self-love and conscience lead “to one and the same course
of life.”
This intermediate doctrine appears to me to be more in harmony with
the common sense of mankind on the whole than either of the extreme
views before contrasted. But I do not conceive that any one of the
three positions is inconsistent with fundamental assumptions of the
Intuitional method. Even those who hold that human beings cannot
reasonably be expected to conform to moral rules disinterestedly, or
from any other motive than that supplied by the sanctions divinely
attached to them, still commonly conceive God as supreme Reason,
whose laws must be essentially reasonable: and so far as such laws
are held to be cognisable by the ‘light of nature’--so that morality,
as Locke says, may be placed among demonstrative sciences--the method
of determining them will be none the less intuitional because it is
combined with the belief that God will reward their observance and
punish their violation. On the other hand those who hold that regard
for duty as duty is an indispensable condition of acting rightly,
would generally admit that acting rightly is not adequately defined as
acting from a pure desire to act rightly; that though, in a certain
sense, a man who sincerely desires and intends to act rightly does all
he can, and completely fulfils duty, still such a man may have a wrong
judgment as to the particulars of his duty, and therefore, in another
sense, may act wrongly. If this be admitted, it is evident that, even
on the view that the desire or resolution to fulfil duty as such is
essential to right action, a distinction between two kinds of rightness
is required; which we may express by saying that an act is--on this
view--“formally”[163] right, if the agent in willing is moved by pure
desire to fulfil duty or chooses duty for duty’s sake; “materially”
right, if he intends the right particular effects. This distinction
being taken, it becomes plain that there is no reason why the same
principles and method for determining material rightness, or rightness
of particular effects, should not be adopted by thinkers who differ
most widely on the question of formal rightness; and it is, obviously,
with material rightness that the work of the systematic moralist is
mainly concerned.
§ 3. The term ‘formal rightness,’ as above used, implying a _desire_ or
choice of the act as right, implies also a _belief_ that it is so. But
the latter condition may exist without the former: I cannot perform an
act from pure love of duty without believing it to be right: but I can
believe it to be right and yet do it from some other motive. And there
seems to be more agreement among moralists who adopt the Intuitional
Method as to the moral indispensability of such a belief, than we have
found with respect to the question of motive: at least, it would, I
conceive, be universally held that no act can be absolutely right,
whatever its external aspect and relations, which is believed by the
agent to be wrong.[164] Such an act we may call “subjectively” wrong,
even though “objectively” right. It may still be asked whether it is
better in any particular case that a man should do what he mistakenly
believes to be his duty, or what really is his duty in the particular
circumstances--considered apart from his mistaken belief--and would
be completely right if he could only think so. The question is rather
subtle and perplexing to Common Sense: it is therefore worth while to
point out that it can have only a limited and subordinate practical
application. For no one, in considering what he ought himself to do
in any particular case, can distinguish what he believes to be right
from what really is so: the necessity for a practical choice between
‘subjective’ and ‘objective’ rightness can only present itself in
respect of the conduct of another person whom it is in our power to
influence. If another is about to do what we think wrong while he
thinks it right, and we cannot alter his belief but can bring other
motives to bear on him that may overbalance his sense of duty, it
becomes necessary to decide whether we ought thus to tempt him to
realise what we believe to be objectively right against his own
convictions. I think that the moral sense of mankind would pronounce
against such temptation,--thus regarding the Subjective rightness
of an action as more important than the Objective,--unless the evil
of the act prompted by a mistaken sense of duty appeared to be very
grave.[165] But however essential it may be that a moral agent should
do what he believes to be right, this condition of right conduct is
too simple to admit of systematic development: it is, therefore, clear
that the details of our investigation must relate mainly to ‘objective’
rightness.
There is, however, one practical rule of some value, to be obtained by
merely reflecting on the general notion of rightness,[166] as commonly
conceived. In a previous chapter[167] I endeavoured to make this notion
clearer by saying that ‘what I judge to be right must, unless I am
in error, be judged to be so by all rational beings who judge truly
of the matter.’ This statement does not imply that what is judged
to be right for one man must necessarily be judged so for another:
‘objective’ rightness may vary from _A_ to _B_ no less than the
‘objective’ facts of their nature and circumstances vary. There seems,
however, to be this difference between our conceptions of ethical and
physical objectivity respectively: that we commonly refuse to admit
in the case of the former--what experience compels us to admit as
regards the latter--variations for which we can discover no rational
explanation. In the variety of coexistent physical facts we find an
accidental or arbitrary element in which we have to acquiesce, as we
cannot conceive it to be excluded by any extension of our knowledge
of physical causation. If we ask, for example, why any portion of
space empirically known to us contains more matter than any similar
adjacent portion, physical science can only answer by stating (along
with certain laws of change) some antecedent position of the parts of
matter which needs explanation no less than the present; and however
far back we carry our ascertainment of such antecedent positions, the
one with which we leave off seems as arbitrary as that with which we
started. But within the range of our cognitions of right and wrong, it
will be generally agreed that we cannot admit a similar unexplained
variation. We cannot judge an action to be right for _A_ and wrong for
_B_, unless we can find in the natures or circumstances of the two some
difference which we can regard as a reasonable ground for difference in
their duties. If therefore I judge any action to be right for myself, I
implicitly judge it to be right for any other person whose nature and
circumstances do not differ from my own in some important respects.
Now by making this latter judgment explicit, we may protect ourselves
against the danger which besets the conscience, of being warped and
perverted by strong desire, so that we too easily think that we ought
to do what we very much wish to do. For if we ask ourselves whether
we believe that any similar person in similar circumstances ought to
perform the contemplated action, the question will often disperse
the false appearance of rightness which our strong inclination has
given to it. We see that we should not think it right for another,
and therefore that it cannot be right for us. Indeed this test of
the rightness of our volitions is so generally effective, that Kant
seems to have held that all particular rules of duty can be deduced
from the one fundamental rule “Act as if the maxim of thy action
were to become by thy will a universal law of nature.”[168] But this
appears to me an error analogous to that of supposing that Formal
Logic supplies a complete criterion of truth. I should agree that a
volition which does not stand this test[169] is to be condemned; but I
hold that a volition which does stand it may after all be wrong. For
I conceive that all (or almost all) persons who act conscientiously
could sincerely will the maxims on which they act to be universally
adopted: while at the same time we continually find such persons in
thoroughly conscientious disagreement as to what each ought to do in a
given set of circumstances. Under these circumstances, to say that all
such persons act rightly--in the objective sense--because their maxims
all conform to Kant’s fundamental rule, would obliterate altogether
the distinction between subjective and objective rightness; it would
amount to affirming that whatever any one thinks right is so, unless he
is in error as to the facts of the case to which his judgment applies.
But such an affirmation is in flagrant conflict with common sense;
and would render the construction of a scientific code of morality
futile: as the very object of such a code is to supply a standard for
rectifying men’s divergent opinions.
We may conclude then that the moral judgments which the present method
attempts to systematise are primarily and for the most part intuitions
of the rightness or goodness (or the reverse) of particular kinds of
external effects of human volition, presumed to be intended by the
agent, but considered independently of the agent’s own view as to the
rightness or wrongness of his intention; though the quality of motives,
as distinct from intentions, has also to be taken into account.
§ 4. But the question may be raised, whether it is legitimate to take
for granted (as I have hitherto been doing) the existence of such
intuitions? And, no doubt, there are persons who deliberately deny
that reflection enables them to discover any such phenomenon in their
conscious experience as the judgment or apparent perception that an act
is in itself right or good, in any other sense than that of being the
right or fit means to the attainment of some ulterior end. I think,
however, that such denials are commonly recognised as paradoxical, and
opposed to the common experience of civilised men:--at any rate if the
psychological question, as to the _existence_ of such moral judgments
or apparent perceptions of moral qualities, is carefully distinguished
from the ethical question as to their _validity_, and from what we
may call the ‘psychogonical’ question as to their _origin_. The first
and second of these questions are sometimes confounded, owing to an
ambiguity in the use of the term “intuition”; which has sometimes
been understood to imply that the judgment or apparent perception
so designated is _true_. I wish therefore to say expressly, that by
calling any affirmation as to the rightness or wrongness of actions
“intuitive,” I do not mean to prejudge the question as to its ultimate
validity, when philosophically considered: I only mean that its truth
is apparently known immediately, and not as the result of reasoning. I
admit the possibility that any such “intuition” may turn out to have an
element of error, which subsequent reflection and comparison may enable
us to correct; just as many apparent perceptions through the organ of
vision are found to be partially illusory and misleading: indeed the
sequel will show that I hold this to be to an important extent the case
with moral intuitions commonly so called.
The question as to the validity of moral intuitions being thus
separated from the simple question ‘whether they actually exist,’ it
becomes obvious that the latter can only be decided for each person by
direct introspection or reflection. It must not therefore be supposed
that its decision is a simple matter, introspection being always
infallible: on the contrary, experience leads me to regard men as often
liable to confound with moral intuitions other states or acts of mind
essentially different from them,--blind impulses to certain kinds of
action or vague sentiments of preference for them, or conclusions from
rapid and half-unconscious processes of reasoning, or current opinions
to which familiarity has given an illusory air of self-evidence. But
any errors of this kind, due to careless or superficial reflection,
can only be cured by more careful reflection. This may indeed be much
aided by communication with other minds; it may also be aided, in a
subordinate way, by an inquiry into the antecedents of the apparent
intuition, which may suggest to the reflective mind sources of error
to which a superficial view of it is liable. Still the question
whether a certain judgment presents itself to the reflective mind as
intuitively known cannot be decided by any inquiry into its antecedents
or causes.[170]
It is, however, still possible to hold that an inquiry into the
Origin of moral intuitions must be decisive in determining their
Validity. And in fact it has been often assumed, both by Intuitionists
and their opponents, that if our moral faculty can be shown to be
‘derived’ or ‘developed’ out of other pre-existent elements of mind
or consciousness, a reason is thereby given for distrusting it; while
if, on the other hand, it can be shown to have existed in the human
mind from its origin, its trustworthiness is thereby established.
Either assumption appears to me devoid of foundation. On the one hand,
I can see no ground for supposing that a faculty thus derived, is, as
such, more liable to error than if its existence in the individual
possessing it had been differently caused:[171] to put it otherwise,
I cannot see how the mere ascertainment that certain apparently
self-evident judgments have been caused in known and determinate ways,
can be in itself a valid ground for distrusting this class of apparent
cognitions. I cannot even admit that those who affirm the truth of such
judgments are bound to show in their causes a tendency to make them
true: indeed the acceptance of any such _onus probandi_ would seem to
me to render the attainment of philosophical certitude impossible.
For the premises of the required demonstration must consist of caused
beliefs, which as having been caused will equally stand in need of
being proved true, and so on _ad infinitum_: unless it be held that
we can find among the premises of our reasonings certain apparently
self-evident judgments which have had no antecedent causes, and that
these are therefore to be accepted as valid without proof. But such an
assertion would be an extravagant paradox: and, if it be admitted that
all beliefs are equally in the position of being effects of antecedent
causes, it seems evident that this characteristic alone cannot serve to
invalidate any of them.
I hold, therefore, that the _onus probandi_ must be thrown the other
way: those who dispute the validity of moral or other intuitions on the
ground of their derivation must be required to show, not merely that
they are the effects of certain causes, but that these causes are of a
kind that tend to produce invalid beliefs. Now it is not, I conceive,
possible to prove by any theory of the derivation of the moral faculty
that the fundamental ethical conceptions ‘right’ or ‘what ought to
be done,’ ‘good’ or ‘what it is reasonable to desire and seek,’ are
invalid, and that consequently _all_ propositions of the form ‘_X_ is
right’ or ‘good’ are untrustworthy: for such ethical propositions,
relating as they do to matter fundamentally different from that with
which physical science or psychology deals, cannot be inconsistent
with any physical or psychological conclusions. They can only be shown
to involve error by being shown to contradict each other: and such a
demonstration cannot lead us cogently to the sweeping conclusion that
all are false. It may, however, be possible to prove that some ethical
beliefs have been caused in such a way as to make it probable that they
are wholly or partially erroneous: and it will hereafter be important
to consider how far any Ethical intuitions, which we find ourselves
disposed to accept as valid, are open to attack on such psychogonical
grounds. At present I am only concerned to maintain that no general
demonstration of the derivedness or developedness of our moral faculty
can supply an adequate reason for distrusting it.
On the other hand, if we have been once led to distrust our moral
faculty on other grounds--as (_e.g._) from the want of clearness and
consistency in the moral judgments of the same individual, and the
discrepancies between the judgments of different individuals--it seems
to me equally clear that our confidence in such judgments cannot
properly be re-established by a demonstration of their ‘originality.’
I see no reason to believe that the ‘original’ element of our moral
cognition can be ascertained; but if it could, I see no reason to hold
that it would be especially free from error.
§ 5. How then can we hope to eliminate error from our moral intuitions?
One answer to this question was briefly suggested in a previous chapter
where the different phases of the Intuitional Method were discussed.
It was there said that in order to settle the doubts arising from the
uncertainties and discrepancies that are found when we compare our
judgments on particular cases, reflective persons naturally appeal
to general rules or formulæ: and it is to such general formulæ that
Intuitional Moralists commonly attribute ultimate certainty and
validity. And certainly there are obvious sources of error in our
judgments respecting concrete duty which seem to be absent when we
consider the abstract notions of different kinds of conduct; since
in any concrete case the complexity of circumstances necessarily
increases the difficulty of judging, and our personal interests or
habitual sympathies are liable to disturb the clearness of our moral
discernment. Further, we must observe that most of us feel the need
of such formulæ not only to correct, but also to supplement, our
intuitions respecting particular concrete duties. Only exceptionally
confident persons find that they always seem to see clearly what ought
to be done in any case that comes before them. Most of us, however
unhesitatingly we may affirm rightness and wrongness in ordinary
matters of conduct, yet not unfrequently meet with cases where our
unreasoned judgment fails us; and where we could no more decide the
moral issue raised without appealing to some general formula, than we
could decide a disputed legal claim without reference to the positive
law that deals with the matter.
And such formulæ are not difficult to find: it only requires a little
reflection and observation of men’s moral discourse to make a
collection of such general rules, as to the validity of which there
would be apparent agreement at least among moral persons of our own age
and civilisation, and which would cover with approximate completeness
the whole of human conduct. Such a collection, regarded as a code
imposed on an individual by the public opinion of the community
to which he belongs, we have called the Positive Morality of the
community: but when regarded as a body of moral truth, warranted to
be such by the _consensus_ of mankind,--or at least of that portion
of mankind which combines adequate intellectual enlightenment with
a serious concern for morality--it is more significantly termed the
morality of Common Sense.
When, however, we try to apply these currently accepted principles, we
find that the notions composing them are often deficient in clearness
and precision. For instance, we should all agree in recognising Justice
and Veracity as important virtues; and we shall probably all accept the
general maxims, that ‘we ought to give every man his own’ and that ‘we
ought to speak the truth’: but when we ask (1) whether primogeniture
is just, or the disendowment of corporations, or the determination of
the value of services by competition, or (2) whether and how far false
statements may be allowed in speeches of advocates, or in religious
ceremonials, or when made to enemies or robbers, or in defence of
lawful secrets, we do not find that these or any other current maxims
enable us to give clear and unhesitating decisions. And yet such
particular questions are, after all, those to which we naturally expect
answers from the moralist. For we study Ethics, as Aristotle says, for
the sake of Practice: and in practice we are concerned with particulars.
Hence it seems that if the formulæ of Intuitive Morality are really to
serve as scientific axioms, and to be available in clear and cogent
demonstrations, they must first be raised--by an effort of reflection
which ordinary persons will not make--to a higher degree of precision
than attaches to them in the common thought and discourse of mankind
in general. We have, in fact, to take up the attempt that Socrates
initiated, and endeavour to define satisfactorily the general notions
of duty and virtue which we all in common use for awarding approbation
or disapprobation to conduct. This is the task upon which we shall be
engaged in the nine chapters that follow. I must beg the reader to
bear in mind that throughout these chapters I am not trying to prove or
disprove Intuitionism, but merely by reflection on the common morality
which I and my reader share, and to which appeal is so often made in
moral disputes, to obtain as explicit, exact, and coherent a statement
as possible of its fundamental rules.
FOOTNOTES:
[151] See p. 119.
[152] It may seem, he admits, that “since interest, one’s own
happiness, is a manifest obligation,” in any case in which virtuous
action appears to be not conducive to the agent’s interest, he would
be “under two contrary obligations, _i.e._ under none at all. But,” he
urges, “the obligation on the side of interest really does not remain.
For the natural authority of the principle of reflection or conscience
is an obligation ... the most certain and known: whereas the contrary
obligation can at the utmost appear no more than probable: since no
man can be _certain_ in any circumstances that vice is his interest in
the present world, much less can he be certain against another: and
thus the certain obligation would entirely supersede and destroy the
uncertain one.”--(Preface to Butler’s _Sermons_.)
[153] I have before observed (Book i. chap. viii. § 1) that in the
common notion of an act we include a certain portion of the whole
series of changes partly caused by the volition which initiated the
so-called act.
[154] Some would add “character” and “disposition.” But since
characters and disposition not only cannot be known directly but can
only be definitely conceived by reference to the volitions and feelings
in which they are manifested, it does not seem to me possible to regard
them as the primary objects of intuitive moral judgments. See chap. ii.
§ 2 of this Book.
[155] No doubt we hold a man responsible for unintended bad
consequences of his acts or omissions, when they are such as he might
with ordinary care have foreseen; still, as I have before said (p. 60),
we admit on reflection that moral blame only attaches to such careless
acts or omissions indirectly, in so far as the carelessness is the
result of some previous wilful neglect of duty.
[156] I think that common usage, when carefully considered, will be
found to admit this definition. Suppose a nihilist blows up a railway
train containing an emperor and other persons: it will no doubt be held
correct to say simply that his intention was to kill the emperor; but
it would be thought absurd to say that he ‘did not intend’ to kill the
other persons, though he may have had no desire to kill them and may
have regarded their death as a lamentable incident in the execution of
his revolutionary plans.
[157] A further source of confusion between “intention” and “motive”
arises from the different points of view from which either may be
judged. Thus an act may be one of a series which the agent purposes
to do for the attainment of a certain end: and our moral judgment of
it may be very different, according as we judge the intention of the
particular act, or the general intention of the series regarded as a
whole. Either point of view is legitimate, and both are often required;
for we commonly recognise that, of the series of acts which a man does
to attain (_e.g._) any end of ambition, some may be right or allowable,
while others are wrong; while the general intention to attain the end
by wrong means, if necessary, as well as right--
“Get place and wealth, if possible with grace;
If not, by any means get wealth and place”--
is clearly a wrong intention. So again, in judging a motive to be good
or bad, we may either consider it simply in itself, or in connexion
with other balancing and controlling motives--either actually present
along with it, or absent when they ought to be present. Thus in the
above case we do not commonly think the desire for wealth or rank bad
in itself; but we think it bad as the sole motive of a statesman’s
public career. It is easy to see that one or other of these different
distinctions is apt to blend with and confuse the simple distinction
between intention and motive.
[158] The view that moral judgments relate primarily or most properly
to motives will be more fully discussed in chap. xii. of this Book.
[159] I use these alternative terms in order to avoid the Free Will
Controversy.
[160] Many religious persons would probably say that the motive of
obedience or love to God was the highest. But those who take this view
would generally say that obedience and love are due to God as a Moral
Being, possessing the attributes of Infinite Wisdom and Goodness, and
not otherwise: and if so, these religious motives would seem to be
substantially identical with regard for duty and love of virtue, though
modified and complicated by the addition of emotions belonging to
relations between persons.
[161] Locke’s _Essay_, II. c. 28, §§ 5, 6.
[162] _Ibid._ IV. c. 3, § 18.
[163] I do not myself usually employ the antithesis of Form and Matter
in philosophical exposition, as it appears to me open to the charge of
obscurity and ambiguity. In the present case we may interpret “formal
rightness” as denoting at once a _universal_ and _essential_, and a
_subjective_ or _internal_ condition of the rightness of actions.
[164] It is not, I conceive, commonly held to be indispensable, in
order to constitute an act completely right, that a belief that it
is right should be actually present in the agent’s mind: it might be
completely right, although the agent never actually raised the question
of its rightness or wrongness. See p. 225.
[165] The decision would, I think, usually be reached by weighing
bad consequences to the agent’s character against bad consequences
of a different kind. In extreme cases the latter consideration would
certainly prevail in the view of common sense. Thus we should generally
approve a statesman who crushed a dangerous rebellion by working on the
fear or cupidity of a leading rebel who was rebelling on conscientious
grounds. Cf. _post_, Book iv. chap. iii. § 3.
[166] The antithesis of ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’ cannot be applied
to the condition of right conduct considered in this paragraph: for
this formal condition is at once subjective and objective; being,
as I argue, involved in our common notion of right conduct, it
is, therefore, necessarily judged by us to be of really universal
application: and, though it does not secure complete objective
rightness, it is an important protection against objective wrongness.
[167] Cf. Book i. chap. iii. § 3.
[168] See the _Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten_ (pp. 269-273,
Hartenstein; Abbott’s transl. [1879] pp. 54-61). Here Kant first says,
“There is therefore but one categorical imperative, namely, this: _Act
only on that maxim whereby thou canst at the same time will that it
should become a universal law_. Now, if all imperatives of duty can be
deduced from this one imperative as from their principle ... we shall
at least be able to show what we understand by [duty] and what this
notion means.” He then demonstrates the application of the principle
to four cases, selected as representative of “the many actual duties”;
and continues: “if now we attend to ourselves on occasion of any
transgression of duty, we shall find that we in fact do not will that
our maxim should be a universal law, for that is impossible for us”
...: then, summing up the conclusion of this part of his argument, he
says, “we have exhibited clearly and definitely for _every practical
application_ the content of the categorical imperative which must
contain the principle of all duty, if there is such a thing at all.”
[169] I do not mean that I am prepared to accept Kant’s fundamental
maxim, in the precise form in which he has stated it: but the
qualifications which it seems to me to require will be more
conveniently explained later.
[170] See Book i. chap. iii. p. 32.
[171] I cannot doubt that every one of our cognitive faculties,--in
short the human mind as a whole,--has been derived and developed,
through a gradual process of physical change, out of some lower life
in which cognition, properly speaking, had no place. On this view, the
distinction between ‘original’ and ‘derived’ reduces itself to that
between ‘prior’ and ‘posterior’ in development: and the fact that the
moral faculty appears somewhat later in the process of evolution than
other faculties can hardly be regarded as an argument against the
validity of moral intuition; especially since this process is commonly
conceived to be homogeneous throughout. Indeed such a line of reasoning
would be suicidal; as the cognition that the moral faculty is developed
is certainly later in development than moral cognition, and would
therefore, by this reasoning, be less trustworthy.