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THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDO.V
^ ? Y
THE
SCIENCE OF ETHICS,
BY
LESLIE STEPHEN.
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NEW YORK:
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS,
27 & 29 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET.
1882.
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PREFACE.
A PREFACE is generally the most interesting, and not seldom
the only interesting, part of a book. It is useful to the hasty
critic who wishes to avoid the trouble of reading at all, and
to the more serious student who wishes to have the clue to
the author's speculations put into his hands at the earliest
possible period. I should be glad to be useful to both classes,
to save some readers the trouble of getting through more
than a couple of paragraphs, and to point out to others what
is the kind of result which they may expect from a perusal of
the whole work.
My ethical theory, then, when I first became the conscious
proprietor of any theory at all, was that of the orthodox
utilitarians. J. S. Mill was the Gamaliel at whose feet I
sat, and whose authority was decisive with me on this as
on other matters. In this, of course, I was simply following
the example of the majority of the more thoughtful lads of
my own generation. At a later period my mind was stirred
by the great impulse conveyed through Mr. Darwin's Origin
of Species. I shall always, I hope, be proud to acknowledge
the great intellectual debt which I, in common with so many
vi PREFACE.
worthier disciples^ owe to his writings,^ So far as ethical
problems were concerned^ I at first regarded Mr. Darwin's
principles rather as providing a new armoury wherewith to
encounter certain plausible objections of the so-called In-
trusionists^ than as implying any reconstruction of the utili-
tarian doctrine itself. Gradually^ however, I came to think
that a deeper change would be necessary, and I believe that
this conviction came to me from a study of some of Mr.
Herbert Spencer's works. It became stronger during a
subsequent attempt at a brief historical examination of the
English moralists of the eighteenth century. Whilst I was
finishing that task, I read Mr. Henry Sidgwick's Methods of'
Ethics, then just published. As I differ upon many points
from Mr. Sidgwick, and especially upon the critical point of
the relation of evolution to ethics, I am the more bound to
express my sincere admiration for his book. It set me think-
ing when it failed to make me think with him. The result
of my thinking was a resolution to set down as systematically
as I could a statement of the ethical theory which had com-
mended itself to me. I resolved to begin at the beginning
as well as I could, and trudge steadily through the alternate
platitudes and subtleties into which every moralist must
plunge. My views were, of course, more or less modified
in the process, and though they have not substantially
changed, I hope that they have gained in consistency and
clearness. At any rate, my labours are embodied in the
^ It is with a pang of deep regret that I must add to-day (April 24th, 1882)
that I can no longer cherish the hope of fully acknowledging it to Mr. Darwin
himself. I was withheld from speaking formerly by the feeling that anything
like a compliment (sincere though it might be)'seemed incongruous in presence
of that exquisitely simple and modest nature. Yet I could wish that I had
been less diffident.
PREFACE. vii
following pages, which may be briefly described as an
attempt to lay down an ethical doctrine in harmony with
the doctrine of evolution so widely accepted by modern men
of science.
To this statement it would be desirable to add an acknow-
ledgment of my debt to other writers. I find it impossible
to do so_, for the simple reason that I am altogether ignorant
of the extent of my obligations. It has happened to me, as,
I presume, to almost all writers upon such topics, to discover
that arguments which had apparently sprung up spontaneously
in my own mind had really been expressly stated by my
predecessors, and, moreover, stated in books with which I
had been familiar; and were, therefore, in all probability,
intellectual waifs and strays upon which I had unconsciously
laid hands. In less direct ways, I have, of course, been influ-
enced to a degree which I am quite unable to estimate. I
have no fear that my obligations to writers belonging to
what I may call my own school, to Hume, Bentham, the
Mills, G. H. Lewes, and Mr. Herbert Spencer, will be over-
looked or underrated ; and I would gladly name others to
whom I am more opposed, were it not that in many cases
an acknowledgment would look like a claim to affiliate
my speculations upon men who would regard the claim as
offensive. I can, however, obviate any objection which may
be made to want of fuller acknowledgment by the explicit
and perfectly sincere admission that I do not believe (though
ajrain I cannot be certain even of this negative statement)
that there is a sin2;le ori2:inal thou2;ht in the book from
beginning to end. By original, I mean of course a thought
which has not occurred to others; though I, of course, also
claim to have made every thought which I utter my own
by reflection and assimilation.
viii PREFA CE.
I am the more bound to make this statement because I
have made it a rule never to mention proper names. I have
done so partly because I think that any book which aims
at scientific method should contain within itself all that
is necessary to the immediate issues^ and should avoid the
appearance of anything like an appeal to authority ; and
still more because I have observed that, as a matter of fact,
any such references are apt to introduce digressions, and to
lead one aside into disputes as to the rightful interpretation
or correct affiliation of the principles of other writers, which,
however interesting, really involve irrelevant issues.
Another question may be suggested by this avowal. Why
publish a fresh discussion of so ancient a topic if you have
nothing new to say? The general answer is simple enough,
namely, that problems of this kind require to be dis-
cussed in every generation with a change of dialect, if not
with a corresponding change of the first principles ; and,
further, that it is desirable that all points of view should be
represented. This last remark may suggest some answer to
the more special question, whether my book has not been
made superfluous by the discussion of the same topic upon
the same assumptions by the leading exponent of the
philosophy of evolution in Mr. Herbert Spencer's Data of
Ethics. To this I reply that I differ from Mr, Herbert Spencer
in various ways ; and moreover, that we really stand at
different points of view. Mr. Spencer has worked out an
encyclopaedic system, of which his ethical system is the
crown and completion. T, on the contrary, have started
from the old ethical theories, and am trying to bring them
into harmony with the scientific principles which I take for
granted. My aim is more limited, though we ought to
coincide in results so far as we cover the same ground. I
PREFACE. ix
have^ as it were, surveyed the province from within, without
attempting to pass the frontiers, whilst he reaches the pro-
vince after surveying the whole empire of scientific thought ;
and therefore I have laid stress upon some matters which
he treats with comparative lightness, whilst in other cases
the relation is reversed.
In fact, however, I hold that there is ample room for any
number of labourers in this field ; nay, that there will be
room for the labourers of many generations to come. I
have no doubt that ethical problems will be debated long
after I (it would be impertinent to consider the case of Mr.
Spencer) am dead and forgotten. It is enough and more
than enough if one can communicate the very slightest
impetus to the slowly grinding wheels of speculation. At
times, I have been startled at my own impudence when
virtually sitting in judgment upon all the deepest and acutest
thinkers since the days of Plato. But I easily comfort myself
by remembering that the evolution of thought is furthered
by the efforts of the weak as well as of the strongest ; and
that if giants have laid the foundations, even dwarfs may
add something to the superstructure of the great edifice of
science. So far as my reading has gone, I have found only
two kinds of speculation which are absolutely useless — that
of the hopelessly stupid, and that of the hopelessly insincere.
The fool who does not know his own folly may be doing
nothing, and the philosopher who is trying to darken know-
ledge may be doing worse than nothing ; but every sincere
attempt to grapple with real difficulties made by a man not
utterly incompetent has its value. I claim to come within
that description, though I claim nothing more. And I have
the satisfaction — not a very edifying one, it may be said, for
a professed moralist — to reflect that if my book does no
X PREFACE.
good to anybody else^ it has provided me with an innocent
occupation for a longer time than I quite Hke to remember;
whilst I hope that there is nothing in it — if I may apply
to myself what a discerning critic has said of Dr. Watts'
sermons — " calculated to call a blush to the check of
modestv."
LESLIE STEPHEN.
London, April 18S2.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Purpose and Limits of the Inquiry.
I. The Starting-Poijit.
PAGE
1. Nature of ethical controversy ..... i
2. Conciliation requires a right method .... 2
3. And a postponement of metaphysical problems . . 3
4. Metaphysical doubts are irrelevant in the sphere of science 4
5. Including the moral sciences ..... 5
6. Truths in moral science independent of metaphysics . 6
7. The sphere of science ...... 7
II. Difficulty of Moral Science.
8. The free-will difficulty irrelevant ..... 9
9, Moral science, though not self-contradictory, may be
unattainable . . . . . . . .10
10. Imperfecti6irx)f science generally . . . . .11
11. Hopeless complexity of the problem of individual conduct 12
12. Even average conduct too complex for calculation . . 13
13. Absence of a scientific psychology . . . .14
14. Special difficulties from varying character and motive . 15
15. Intermittent action of consciousness .... 16
16. Sociology as vague as psychology . . , . .17
17. Narrow limits of moral sciences ... . . 20
III. A ttainable Results.
18. Empirical knowledge of conduct . . . . .21
19. Its relation to scientific knowledge .... 22
20. Difficulty of obtaining definitive rules .... 23
xii CONTENTS.
PAGE
21. Statistical method insufficient ..... 24
22. Method of political economy insufficient ... 26
23. Appearance of fatalism due to false assumptions . . 28
24. The permanent social structure . . . . .30
IV. Theory of Social Evohction.
25. Importance of study of social structure . . . . 31
26. New significance of phenomena when regarded as indi-
cative of organic growth . . . ... 32
27. The true statement of the problem of sociology . . t^t^
V. The Ethical Problem.
28. Our problem is to discover the scientific form of morality 35
29. Distinction between actual and ideal morality . . 36
30. Actual morality here concerned ..... 39
CHAPTER II.
The Theory of Motives.
I. The Problem.
1. An examination of first principles necessary ... 40
2. Excluding, however, the metaphysical principles . . 40
II. 77^1? Emotions as Deiermining Conduct.
3. Happiness determines conduct in a scientific sense . 42
4. Some common objections are irrelevant ... 42
5. The formula, though vague, is not meaningless . . 43
6. It excludes an erroneous theory, but requires more
precision ........ 44
7. Theory of happiness as the sole end of conduct . . 46
8. Supposes a strictly inconceivable process ... 47
9. And in many important cases gives an erroneous formula
— Objective and subjective ends .... 47
10. Misrepresents the inseparable connection of emotion and
reason ......... 49
11. Pain and pleasure as ultimate determinants of conduct . 50
12. In all cases pleasure corresponds to stable and pain to
unstable equilibrium . . . . . .51
CONTENTS. xiii
Page
13. Analogy of least resistance , . . . . .52
14. Nature of an act of choice ...... 53
15. Difficulty of discovering the sphere of volition . . 54
16. And of knowing our own desires ..... 56
17. True statement of the greatest-happiness formula — The
■ province of reason . . . . , . .56
III. T/ie Reason as Determining Conduct.
18. All conduct " reasonable " so far as giving an assignable
law 58
19. Senses in which conduct may be more or Iq^s reasonable 59
20. Reason not opposed to feeling as such .... 60
21. Sense in which it may dispense with feeling ... 61
22. Latent feeling . . . . . . . .61
23. Feeling by signs ........ 62
24. Reason and feeling are mutually involved, and naturally
develop together . . . . , . .63
25. But may be considered separately — Reason as implying
accuracy of judgment ...... 64
26. And consistency of motive insufficient to determine
conduct 65
27. Frohlem o{ the su7nmie?n ionum . . . . .67
28. Given a single end of conduct, the problem is definite . 67
29. But men have in fact many partially inconsistent ends , 68
30. The unity of the agent implies di: facto commensurability
of ends ......... 69
31. Reasonableness thus implies harmony and consistency of
conduct ......... 70
32. But as character varies, the end is still indeterminate . 71
2)1. So far, therefore, no sole end follows from reasonableness 73
\Y. Types.
34. IMeaning of " type" illustrated ....
35. A typical instrument implies the solution of a problem
36. And a maximum efficiency of given means to a given end
37. Esthetic value of types ....
38. The same principles apply to a living organism
39. What corresponds in this case to the "end" ,
40. The evolutionist theory suggests an answer
41. The evolution of vitally efficient types .
42. Extreme intricacy of any accurate statement .
74
11
IS
76
76
78
7S
80
80
xiv CONTE^WTS.
V. T/ie Principle of Utility.
PAGE
43. Conduct may be useful as " pleasure-giving " as to " life-
preserving :" the two must tend to coincide . . 82
44. Habits and instincts may be considered in either aspect . 83
45. Necessity of distinguishing between organisms and aggre-
gates ......... 84
46. Utility must be understood with reference to whole
organism , . . . . . . .85
47. Ultimate theory of pain and pleasure irrelevant . . 86
48. They must be functions of working condition of organism 86
49. Correlation of painful and pernicious, pleasurable and
beneficial ........ 88
50. Presumption in favour of more essential instincts . . 89
VI. Social and Individual Utility.
51. Instincts essential to the race may be prejudicial to the
individual ... ..... 90
52. Hence necessity of considering relation of race to indi-
vidual ......... 92
CHAPTER III.
Theory of Social Motives.
I, The Individual and the Race,
1. Importance of the distinction . . . . • 93 '^
2. Properties of the organic whole not inferable from pro-
perties of constituent units . . . . • 93 .
3. Dependence on race an essential property of man . . 95 \/
4. There must be a tacit or express reference to this in every
theory of human nature . . . . . . 96 v/
5. Some properties may admit of independent variation . 97
6. In simplest case, the organism may vary whilst social a
organisation is constant . . . . . .98
7. In most complex, organic variation implied by change
in social organisation . . . . . -99
8. The most complex social organisation varies whilst indivi-
dual organisation is constant . . . . .100
CONTENTS.
XV
1 1. Society atid Men.
9, The last is true of human societies
10. Social development may take place
variation ....
11. The accumulation of experience .
12.
13-
without orjranic
Inheritance of capital and skill
Changes implied in language as a product of the
factor .......
14. Necessity of considering the social factor
1 5. The mutual dependence of the members of society
16. The omnipresent social discipline .
17. Society to be regarded as an organic growth .
social
PACE
lOI
103
104
105
107
108
109
I 10
III. Social Organisation.
18. Social organs . . . . . . . .112
19. Corporate sentiment implied in an organ . . .113
20. Various developments of corporate sentiment . . . 115
2 I. Every such sentiment implies the existence of more general
sentiments . . . . . . . .116
22. The hierarchy of social instincts . . . . .117
23. The constitution of each organ dependent upon contingent
circumstances . . . . . . .119
IV, Social Tissue.
24,
2$.
" Social tissue " is the substratum of social organs .
Theory of evolution requires definition of units
Relation of this to problems involving reference to social
factor . . .
Social development spread laterally as well as lineally
How this affects the struggle for existence
The unit of operation cannot be the state
30. Otherwise our problem^ would be the evolution of typical
states ........
Nature of the social tissue .....
Malthusian competition .....
Complex nature of the actual process ...
The vitality of the tissue has conditions capable of inde
pendent statement ......
35. No precise test of identity of tissue
26.
27.
28.
29
3t.
32.
33.
34.
120
120
121
122
123
123
125
126
127
127
129
xvi CONTENTS.
V, T/ie Family.
PAGE
36. The family not co-ordinate with other forms of association 131
37. It corresponds to more intimate and underlying order of
forces .........
38. It represents the forces of cohesion of the social tissue , 134
39. Recapitulation to show necessity of these distinctions . 135
132
CHAPTER IV.
Form of the Moral Law.
I. Law and C^istom.
1. Customs and habits . . . . . . .137
2. They are "laws of nature " in the making . . .137
3. Positive laws imply custom, including a potential element 138
4. They must rest ultimately upon custom, not upon coercion 140
5. Every society must have organic laws, intelligible only
through itself. . . . . . , ,142
6. It is dependent upon the vitality of corresponding social
instincts . . . . . . . .143
7. We must therefore study the conditions of this vitality
separately . . . . . . . .145
II. The Moral Law.
8. The moral law must be an approximate statement of these
conditions . . . . . . . .147
9. This does not necessarily give the reason, but only the
cause of morality . . . . . . .148
III. The Moral Law is Natural.
10. Hence we may deduce certain attributes of morality — It
is "natural" ........ 149
11. Possibility of an artificial development of actual morality 150
~I2. Morality must be a function of the organic instincts . 150
13. In what sense it can be affected by a moral legislator . 151
14. Morality only susceptible of secular variations . .152
15. The "immutability" and "eternity" of the moral law
deducible from this . . . . . .153
CONTENTS. xvii
IV. Morality is Natural.
PAGE
1 6. Change of form from " Do this " to " Be this " . -155
17. Why is the change important ? . . . . -155
18. The external and internal rules may approximate but can-
not be coincident . . . . . . .156
19. A general rule of conduct must be a rule of character . 157
20. Extrinsic and intrinsic motives . . . . .158
21. Some classes of conduct without intrinsic motive . . 159
22. Most rules imply a variety of possible motives . .160
23. Possibility of external rules due to habit and actual incon-
sistency . . . . . . . .160
24. They may correspond approximately to constant motives 161
25. The extrinsic motive of respect for authority implies
occasional deviations . . . . . .162
26. Hence reference to authority or extrinsic motive must be
eliminated from a true moral law . . . .163
27. The development of such laws is a process of induction . 164
28. Hence the attribute of ^f^y^riT/f? " supremacy " of moral law 166
V. Basis of Morality.
29. Recapitulation , . . . . , . .167
30. Possible deduction of moral law . . . . .168
31. Many laws which satisfy these conditions not moral . 169
32. The distinction of the organism and aggregate to be borne
in mind , . , . . . , .170
33. Hence we have to seek for the difference of the moral law 17 i
CHAPTER V.
Contents of the Moral Law.
I. The Law of Nature and Morality.
1. The law of nature includes prudence and morality . . 172
2. Deduction of special virtues . . . . . .173
3. The cardinal virtues . . . . '". . .174
1 1. Virtue of Courage,
4. Social welfare dependent upon strength, and especially
upon courage . . . . . . . .175
5. Development of chivalrous sentiment . . . . 'i^77
XVIU
CONTENTS.
PAGE
6. Development of " moral courage " . . . .178
7. Limitations to utility of courage . . . . .179
8. Question whether courage is properly a virtue . . 1 80
9. Courage regarded by common sense with a quasi moral
approval , . . , . . . .181
It is regarded as a necessary but not sufficient condition
of virtue . . . . . . . .182
The development as a process of implicit induction . 183
Question whether approval implies perception of utility of
courage . . . . . . . . .184
The distinct perception emerges in later stages . .185
Approval of conduct as useful must itself be useful , .186
Possible non-fulfilment of this condition . . , .187
16. Tendency to its complete fulfilment . . . .188
17. Application to other virtues of strength . . . .189
10.
1 1.
12.
13.
14.
15-
III. Viftue of Tempera7ice.
18. Temperance either prudential or strictly virtuous . .190
19. Change from external to internal rule . . . .191
20. The antisocial quality of sensuality produces the moral
disapproval . . . . . . . .192
21. The sentiment goes beyond the utilitarian perception of
"consequences" . . . . . . .195
22. The development of the ascetic theory . . . .195
23. Ascetic theory implies a one-sided but sometimes accurate
assumption . . . . . , . .196
24. Ordinary and heroic virtues , . . . . .197
25. A tacit recognition of utiUty implied in these theories . 198
26. In what sense all "consequences" are to decide morality 199
27. The whole organic constitution must be taken into account 200
28. Physiological element in the moral sentiment. . .201
IV. Virtue of Trjcth.
Social welfare dependent upon truthfulness . . . 202
Slow development of toleration . , . , .204
Possibility of an absolute statement of moral law of truth-
fulness ......... 205
Still the virtue is based upon social welfare . . . 206
Casuistical difficulties from an absolute statement . . 207
34. The development of truthfulness resembles that of other
virtues ......... 208
29.
30.
31.
32.
33
CONTENTS. xix
V. T/ie Social Viriues.
PAGE
35. These virtues developed in the same way and based upon
social welfare , . . . . . . .210
36. Justice and benevolence distinguished . . . .211
37. Justice means acting on sufficient reason . . .212
38. The sufficient reason means social welfare . . .213
39. Hence the duties really consistent are a development of
the same principle . . . . , . .214
VI. The Social Definition of Virtue.
40. Recapitulation of the principles asserted . . .215
41. Origin of problem of obligation . . . . . 217 ^_^
CHAPTER VI.
Altruism.
I. Esioisfic Instincts.
'<b^
1. The possibility of self-sacrifice disputed . . .219
2. The egoist denies the possibility of conscious self-sacrifice 220
3. Beneficial consequence does not necessarily imply benevo-
lent intention . . . . . . . .221
4. Gradual development of truly benevolent intention . . 222
5. Doctrine of " association " gives an apparently inadequate
explanation , . . . . . . .223
6. Egoistic theory that the happiness of others can never be
an ultimate end . . . . . . .224
7. Implied truth that all motives may be stated objectively
or subjectively . . . . . . .225
8. The objective statement must express some condition of
the subject , . . . . . . .226
9. If it includes the happiness of others, some further analysis
is needed 227
II. Sympathy.
10. " Objective" is that which exists for you as well as for me 228
I I. To think of another man is to have representative feelings 229
12. Sympathy has a logical as well as an emotional value . 230
13. This is obscured by the ambiguities of ordinary language 230
XX
CONTENTS.
14. Nor does it giv'e a full account of the process
15. Cruelty as identified with stupidity
16. Or as inattention to implicit consequences
17. Complications introduced by antipathy .
18. Sympathy the fundamental fact
19. Pleasure in pain as pain
20. Normally sympathy means self-identification with others
2T. The difficulty is to understand the reverse feeling .
PAGE
236
237
238
III. Altr7iis7n.
22. Sympathy the condition of altruism
23. All conduct conditioned by the agent's feelings
24. It is not therefore selfish ....
25. Association does not explain it .
26. It must be conditioned by the agent's knowledge of
men's feelings ......
27. But is not therefore removable at pleasure
28. The ideal conditions as fixed as the non-ideal
29. An egoistic interpretation still possible .
other
239
239
240
241
242
243
245
245
IV. The Rule of Conduct.
30. The true question, what is the law of feeling ?
31. The " greatest-happiness " principle of conduct
32. Virtual altruism of unreasoning instincts
33. How affected by intellectual development
34. The purely prudential maxim never absolutely observ-
35. But approximately observable when sympathy is neglected
36. Sympathetic motives are not necessarily divergent .
37. But can only conform fully so long as sympathy is dormant
or factitious ........
38. Systematic disregard of sympathetic virtues implies idiocy
39. Their law implies regard to happiness of others as an
ultimate motive .......
40. The prudential maxim is taken up into the higher as society
develops ........
41. Fallacies involved in egoistic statement .
42. The true meaning of " disengagement " .
43. Every end must correspond to a real motive .
44. Benevolence not explicable by a tacit reference to self
45. Hence comparison of sympathetic and non-sympathetic
agents .........
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
255
256
257
259
260
260
261
262
CONTENTS.
XXI
CHAPTER VII.
Merit.
I. T//e Conception of Merit.
1. Virtue implies more than simple benevolence .
2. Approval of virtue implies more than gratitude
3. Hence the various problems of obligation
4. Merit is proportioned to the intrinsic goodness of the agen
5. It represents a claim upon the universe .
6. The value set upon virtues varies with their utility .
7. Analogy in this respect to economical theory of value
8. Merit applies only to voluntary conduct
9. And to qualities capable of training
10. The merit of an action means the virtue proved by it
1 1. Morality cannot be independent of motives when true
morality is developed .....
12. Difficulties of distinguishing material and formal morality
I 3. The genuine moral law must classify actions by motives
14. Recapitulation .......
I'AGE
264
265
265
266
267
268
270
27 I
272
274
275
276
277
II. Free-will.
15. The nature of the free-will difficulty .... 278
16. The merit must depend upon the motive . . . 279
17. Hence "voluntary" means free from coercion, not from
determination. . . . . . . .280
1 8. Free-will theory, so far as separating motive from conduct,
is destructive of merit , . . . . .281
19. This includes responsibility . . . . . .282
20. The statement that we can form our own characters is
irrelevant . . . . . . . .283
21. T\\& causa causcB argument . . . . . .284
22. Causation does not lessen responsibility . . . 285
23. The difficulty arises from a false interpretation of causation 286
24. Cause and effect imply mutual dependence, and therefore
implication, but not coercion as something additional. 287
25. Necessity is the antithesis of chance, and both subjective. 290
26. Fore-knowledge is consistent with responsibility . .291
27. Thus the ^rt^ifji^ ^ra/^i'iS? argument is really irrelevant . .292
III. Effort.
28. Merit implies discipline . . . . •
29. A standard of action and membership of a class
30. The change of the standard gives rise to ambiguities
294
294
295
xxii CONTENTS.
PAGE
31. Difficulty of deciding the Standard applicable to infants . 296
32. And to madmen ; but motive in all cases the criterion . 297
33. The difficulty arises from the complexity of the facts, not
from ambiguity of principle . , . . .299
34. Hence the fallacy of measuring merit by effort without
distinguishing the cases . . . . , .299
35. The man is most meritorious to whom virtue is easiest,
provided that he belongs to the class . . .301
36. Hence the problem whether essential instincts can be bad 301
37. Development implies more than moral development . 302
38. Effort so far essential to virtue that liability to temptation
is essential ........ 303
IV. Knowledge.
39. The love of virtue for its own sake .... 304
40. How far does conformity to a law imply a recognition of
law? .........
4 1 . Reason, and therefore knowledge of law, implied in develop-
ment ......... 306
42. But the implicit obedience to law may precede conscious
acceptance of law ....... 306
43. Thus the problem becomes one of fact, not of principle , 308
44. Transition and recapitulation ..... 309
305
CHAPTER VIII.
The Conscience.
I. Theories of Conscience.
1. Merit implies intrinsically virtuous motive or conscience . 311
2. Difficulty of explaining the nature of conscience . .311
3. The deduction from pure reason ambiguous . . -313
4. The theory of a primitive faculty implies a wrong psycho-
logy 314
5. The moral judgment is a function of the whole character 315
6. Love of virtue for its own sake must be understood con-
sistently with this . . . . . . ,316
7. A separate faculty not a conscience, but a conscientious man 317
8. Conscience is therefore derivative, and not the less real
though generally weak in point of fact . . .319
CONTENTS. xxiii
II. Sense of Shame.
PAGE
9. Conscience implies an intellectual and emotional factor . 319
10. The sense of shame seems to be one element . . 3-i
11. Shame is excited by offences other than moral , . 322
12. By simply ridiculous, and even by right conduct . . 323
1 3. The general law depends upon heightened self-conscious-
ness .......•• 3-3
14. Hence implicated in conscience, but the relation to con-
science variable . . . . . . -3-4
15. The law of the feeling is not deducible from logical
definition . . . . . . . -3-5
16. It gives rise to quasi intuitions, which, however, are
variable . . . . . . . -3-6
17. Its possible variation limited by individual organisation . 327
18. And by the law of the social organism .... 3-8
19. Hence it is involved in moral development . . . 329
20. Its law and its utility definable only through social factor 330
III. Esthetic Judgments.
21. This distinctive quality of the ethical judgment consistent
with its composite character . . . . -33-
22. Esthetic judgments are equally composite . . . 332
23. An aesthetic judgment may involve every primitive instinct 333
24. It is differenced by form of gratification, not by instincts
gratified ........ 334
25. Hence the moral judgment must include an £esthetic
element . . . . . . . . -335
26. The assimilation of the moral law impHes the growth of
such a sensibility ....... 33^
27. Hence the so-called moral sense, which outruns the direct
moral judgment ....... 337
28. Questions of "taste" include a reference to objective
facts ......... 33S
29. The moral judgment an implicit judgment of types . . 339
IV. The Conscience.
30. The conscious ground of morality may vary widely from
the cause . . . . . . . .339
31. Every association implies the development of a highly
complex instinct of loyalty . . . . -341
32. The sense of duty as the corporate instinct of the '-social
virtue" is necessarily vague ..... 34-
33. But it is definite because all organisations involve the
fundamental instinct ...... 343
xxlv CONTENTS.
PAGE
34. And because the true school of morahty is the family . 344
35. The reference to the virtue itself unconscious though
essential ........ 345
36. Morality is rooted in family sentiment, though divergence
is possible ........ 346
37. Two points of view are thus necessary .... 348
38. The conflict of duties possible, though the question is
more of fact than morality ..... 349
39. Conscience is thus a modification of all primary instincts 349
40. Application to the case of maternal love . . • 35i
41. Transition to problem of happiness .... 352
J
CHAPTER IX.
Happiness as a Criterion.
I. Utilitarianism.
From the cause we infer the reason of morality . . 353
Problems of the criterion and sanction of morality . . 354
The utilitarian criterion . . . . . -355
4. Irrelevant objections ....... 356
5. Relevant objections to uncertainty, lowness, externality,
expediency of code . . . . . . -358
II. Limits of the Method.
6. Utilitarianism based on the empirical philosophy . . 359
7. Theory of " lots" of happiness ..... 360
8. Tendency to regard society as an aggregate, not as an
organism . . . . . . . .361
9. Inadequacy of method to give a scientific formula . . 363
10. It makes a wrong assumption as to constants . . 364
I I. The analogy of sanitary rules which refer to health instead
of pleasure ........ 365
I 2. The evolutionist morality makes the same change in the
moral criterion ....... 366
13. And thereby makes a code flexible and rigid in the right
places ......... 367
14. Utilitarianism represents instantaneous morality, but re-
quires correction when the organism varies . . 368
15. Analogy of individual and social growth . . . 370
16. Importance of similar considerations elsewhere . . 370
CONTENTS.
XXV
III, Variability of Morality.
1 7. The standard must be affected by the average estimate of
happiness ........
1 8. But does not assume the desirability of a maximum of
such happiness .......
19. This imphed in the nature of moral development .
20. The moral law implicitly commands an elevation of ideal
happiness ........
21. Another cause for lowness of utilitarian standard
PAGE
373
374
375
375
IV. Extrinsic Morality.
22. The utilitarian rule tends to be external
23. The egoistic utilitarian explains benevolence by extrinsic
motives .......••
24. Illustration of the miser ......
25. External morality thus explicable, but not internal .
j/
76
377
378
379
27.
28.
34.
35-
36.
37.
38.
39-
40.
V. Expediency.
The altruistic utilitarianism is still said to rest on expe
diency .....
It cannot make the conscience absolute
Importance of observing general rules as understood by
the utilitarian
Consequences are in fact relevant
A " categorical imperative " not applicable to external
morality .......
The sphere of casuistry when facts are not disputed
Utilitarian theory generally regarded as insufficient .
The analogy of military duty
Hence true principle in this case
Which applies to the moral law
The case of suicide
Moral pedantry .
In what sense " expedieney '' must be recognised
A fixed criterion still remains
Transition to problem of sanction
380
382
383
384
384
386
387
3881^
390
390
391
392
393
394
395
xxvi CONTENTS.
CHAPTER X.
Morality and Happiness.
I. T/ie Sanction,
PAGE
1. Why should a man be virtuous ? ..... 396
2. Morality unconditionally useful to the society, not to the
individual ........ 397
3. The problem of Job ....... 397
4. Presumption that virtue gives happiness to the virtuous . 398
5. The standard of the virtuous not a standard for others . 399
6. Nor is it possible to lay down an absolute and uniform
standard ........ 400
7. Various senses of question ...... 402
8. Assumption that honesty is the best policy . . . 403
II. Happiness and Virtue.
9. The temptation to exaggerate the coincidence . . 404
10. Health the primary condition of happiness . . . 404
1 1. Extension of the principle beyond bodily health . . 405
12. Deduction from correlation of painful and pernicious . 406
13. Equally true of the socially pernicious .... 407
14. It suggests the line of argument ..... 408
1 5. Happiness rewards obedience to law of nature, not to moral
law simply . . . . . ■ . . . 408
16. A neglect of this leads to many of the perplexities . . 409
17. This consistent with coincidence of happiness and virtue 410
18. A man cannot be too virtuous for happiness normally . 411
19. Confirmation from particular moral rule of temperance . 412
20. The extension of the principle to other moral rules . .413
21. This applies equally to sympathetic and non-sympathetic
motives . . . . . . . . .414
22. Question of virtue in advance of actual standard . .416
23. The coincidence less perfect in this case . . .417
III. Moral Discipline.
24. Natural aptitude for virtue . . . . . .418
2 5. The fact that virtue has to be acquired is generally irrelevant 4 1 9
26. Moralisation part of a process which has other advantages 419
27. Extension of the ordinary prudential argument . .421
28. Unity of virtue ........ 422
CONTENTS.
XXV 11
29. Moral idiocy possible ....
30. No external morality possible in such cases
31. The prudential argument still valid
32. A moral world generally desirable for all
PAGE
423
423
425
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
IV. Self-Sacrijice.
Self-sacrifice sometimes a necessary consequence of virtue :
the case of Regulus ......
No argument but the gallows available in some cases
This too follows from admission of real altruism
The ultimate discord .......
The general statement limits, but does not include it
426
429
430
431
432
I.
2
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9-
10.
II.
12.
13.
14.
15-
16.
17.
18.
19-
20.
21.
CHAPTER XL
Conclusion.
Further controversies ....
The insoluble difficulty
The art and practice in other sciences .
In ethics both a science and an art
" Ought " and " is " .
Beliefs about conduct imply laws of conduct
The scientific theory of positive laws
And of the moral law ....
The belief to become effective must stimulate the emotion:
Morality not universally binding de facto ^ but only dc ju}\
Scientific ideal of a perfect correlation .
Progress implies discord .....
Can the limits of the scientific inquiry be transcended?
Futility of ontology ......
Importance of disentangling the scientific question .
Metaphysical inquiry means the elimination of ultimate
fallacies, not the discovery of facts
Metaphysics related to ethical as to other sciences .
The moral code is formed by scientific observation .
INIetaphysics cannot affect this conclusion
The ontological and metaphysical theories are irrelevant
The theological theory adds nothing to the scientific theory
of permanence of morality . . , . .
434
435
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
446
447
447
448
450
450
451
452
455
XXVUl
CONTENTS.
22. The denial of the reality of evil . . . . ,
23. The science of morality does not give the art, nor, there
fore, the sanction of morality ....
24. Religion and morality ......
25. Belief affects conduct, but not the ultimate condition
26. The cause of belief must be considered .
27. Change of dialect not a change of ultimate belief .
28. The basis of morality unalterable ....
PAGE
456
456
457
458
459
460
460
THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
CHAPTER T.
PURPOSE AND LIMITS OF THE INQUIRY.
I. The Starting-Point.
I. At the outset of any inquiry it is proper to take stock
of the results obtained by previous explorers of the same
field, and in particular to ask how far they have reached that
unity of doctrine which affords a presumption, though not a
conclusive proof, of the attainment of definitive truth. If
we examine the history of ethical speculation for this purpose,
we are confronted by a fact which, were it not so familiar,
might appear to be anomalous. In one sense moralists are
almost unanimous ; in another they are hopelessly discordant.
They are unanimous in pronouncing certain classes of con-
duct to be right and the opposite wrong. No moralist denies
that cruelty, falsehood, and intemperance are vicious, or that
mercy, truth, and temperance are virtuous. Making every
deduction from this apparent unanimity — allowing that
similar names may be interpreted in very different senses;
that the general outlines of a moral code may be the same
whilst its spirit varies widely ; and that the moral codes
accepted at different times and places have been as different
as has ever been seriously maintained — yet it remains true
that there is an a})proximation to unity. The difference
between different systems is chiefiy in the details and special
application of generally admitted principles. It is not such
2 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
as we might anticipate from a radical opposition both of
method and principle. But if we turn from the matter to
the form of morality; if, instead of asking what actions
are right or wrong:, we ask, what is the essence of rio;ht
and wrong? how do we know right from wrong? why
should we seek the right and eschew the wrong; ? — we are
presented with the most contradictory answers ; we find
ourselves at once in that region of perpetual antinomies,
where controversy is everlasting, and opposite theories seem
to be equally self-evident to different minds.
2. This remark has long been familiar, but perhaps we
have not, even yet, familiarised ourselves with some of its
consequences. We must consider this protracted antagonism
in the light of a principle which grows more prominent with
the advance of historical methods of inquiry. Every widely-
spread opinion deserves respect by the bare fact of its exist-
ence. It is itself a phenomenon which requires to be taken
into account. We can no long^er be content with refuting;
our opponents; we are also bound to explain them. The
vitality of any doctrine supposed to be erroneous proves that
it cannot be entirely erroneous. It must have an element of
truth for which it is necessary to provide accommodation in
any satisfactory system. It is a recognised criterion of
successful speculation that it should explain not only the
phenomena considered, but the illusions due to a partial view
of the phenomena. The fact that the Ptolemaic system of
astronomy can be fitted into the Copernican system as re-
presenting an imperfect view of the facts, whilst the relation
cannot be reversed, is itself part of the evidence on behalf of
the more comprehensive system. The necessity of applying
this reflection to ethical doctrine has been widely recognised,
though the dif^culty of applying it is still enormous. Some
writers aim at the desired conciliation by eclectic systems,
which turn out to be mere tessellations of inconsistent frag-
ments, instead of being; harmonious wholes which absorb into
themselves the partial and so far erroneous doctrine. More
frcquentlv, writers who try to explain the theories of their
THE STARTING-POINT. 3
antagonists, explain only their own version of those theories;
\vhich is apt to be a very different thing. And this suggests
that, in order to attempt a satisfactory conciliation, we have
first to raise a preliminary question as to the most promising
method for reaching such a conciliation.
3. Now, if we ask what is necessarily implied in the
attainment of a theory at once satisfactory in itself and wide
enough to exhibit all preceding theories as imperfect and
one-sided views of the whole truth, the prospect is rather
alarming. For ethical controversies spring from the ultimate
problems of all thought. Full conciliation can only be reached
when we have attained a definitive system of philosophy.
To reconcile moralists, we have to solve the problems which
have ac^itated without beino- set at rest ever since men beran
to reflect upon the nature of truth in general. We have to
decide upon controversies- where the advance to unanimitv,
if it exists at all, is foreshadowed not so much in the un-
equivocal triumph of either partv, as in the gradual modifica-
tion of the old issues in such a sense that mutual understand-
ing is becoming rather more possible. The problems are
hardly being answered, but perhaps are being put into a form
in which they may some day admit of an answer. If an
agreement between moralists is to be adjourned until the day
in which all metaphysical puzzles will have been solved, we
must be content to hand them over to a future generation ; and
to say the truth, I believe that our hopes of a perfect conciliation
must be adjourned till that indefinitely distant millennium.
But another less disheartenino; conclusion is also suo-o-ested
by the reflection that, in spite of these difficulties, there has
been in other respects so much agreement. Is it not, in fact,
conceivable that we may so disentangle the perplexing threads
of controversy a\ to separate the questions which admit of
some approximate; answer from those which we must be
content not only to leave unsolved, but to consider as of
such a nature that even the method of solution, and the kind
of solution possible and desirable, must be regarded as hither
to unsettled problems ^
4 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
4. This will be clearer if we remark that the difficulty
in question is by no means peculiar to ethical speculations.
On the contrary, we may say that it is common to all
branches of knowledge. We possess a large body of estab-
lished scientific truths — established, that is, in such a sense
that their validity would be questioned by no school
of metaphysicians. Geometry, for example, includes a
vast body of propositions, which are admitted by all
reasoners to possess the highest degree of certainty. Yet
geometry involves the conception of space, and the true
nature of that conception is precisely one of the problems
upon which metaphysicians have disputed most eagerly and
interminably. The geometrician proceeds without troub-
ling himself in the least about such argumentation, and
in the judgment of the metaphysicians themselves he is
perfectly right. Space, according to some thinkers, has only
a phenomenal reality ; if so, the truths of the geometer are
only applicable to phenomena. Space, as we know it, may
perhaps be only one out of various possible kinds of space.
If so, the doctrines of geometry can only be regarded as
certain for that kind of space with which we are conversant.
The geometer postulates space, and (it may be) one particu-
lar kind of space ; but the validity of his reasoning, so long
as that postulate is granted, remains unaffected. He is not
concerned to inquire whether, in a different universe or in
some transcendental world, his theorems mav require modifica-
tion or mav cease to be in any way applicable. It is fortu-
nate that this is so, for otherwise we should have no know-
ledge until we had reached the ultimate jroal of kn()wledg:e.
Similar remarks are applicable to all the physical sciences.
We mav say, in mathematical language, that the formulae
obtained by the scientific reasoner include constants reo;arded
by him as ultimate elements, though the metaphysician
may discover that these constants themselves require further
analysis, and are possibly dependent upon some further
condition for their apparent constancy. But the formulae
may be equally valid within the sphere of science what-
THE STARTING-POINT. 5
ever may be the metaphysical interpretation of these con-
ceptions. The relation holds though the nature of the
things related mav be uncertain. If space be only phenome-
nal, the limitless properties will not hold in the noumenal
world ; but in this world, where phenomena are of so much
importance, they will serve as well as ever for our guidance.
Thus we may sav, in legal metaphor, that the man of science
does not go behind the record. He takes the authority of
his immediate perceptions as final, and leaves it to the meta-
physician to discover, if he can, some further justification of
the proceeding.
5. I am content, for the present, to assume this much, with-
out attempting to define more accurately the relation between
metaphysical and what are generally called scientific reason-
ings. However that line may be drawn, we may admit that,
in the case of the physical sciences at least, we can obtain
knowledge which, within its own sphere, is entirely indepen-
dent of the metaphysician's theories. Is not this true in all
cases, and therefore in those cases in which the science is
concerned with the conduct and character of human beings?
May we not discover propositions about the relations of men to
each other and the internal relations of the individual human
being which will be equally independent of metaphysical
disputes? As we assign the relations between parts of space
without asking what is space in itself, mav we not determine
rules about men without asking what is meant, for example,
by personal unity, or what is the true mode of distinguish-
ing object from subject? It is true that in these more com-
plex investigations we are constantly on the verge of meta-
physical abysses. The inquiry into the laws of thought is
very apt to complicate itself with inquiry into the nature of
thinking beings. The difficulty has given rise to many
controversies. From one point of view, metaphysics has
seemed to be merely a department of psychology, as the
nature of men's thoughts seems to be dependent upon the
constitution of the men who think. From another point of
view, the opposite extreme seems to be more tenable, as the
6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
laws of particular modes of thought must form a special de-
partment of the inquiry into the laws of thought in general;
and thus psychology must be taken up into and absorbed in
metaphysics. And, in fact, as the case of ethical speculation
itself proves, it is very difficult to reason about any question
involving psychology without gliding into the ultimate meta-
physical problems. And yet a discrimination of the two
elements, though harder to maintain, may be as conceivable
here as in the physical sciences. For it is a fact — and a
fact for which we may again appeal to these ethical specula-
tions— that there are a large number of propositions, which
we are daily and hourly using, which refer to human
nature, and which are presumably independent of meta-
physical speculation. Like the geometrical truths, they
involve elements which may require further analysis^ but,
like the geometrical truths, they will hold good, or at any
rate hold good within a very wide sphere, whatever the
results of such analysis.
6. Take, for example, any one of those theorems of which
we constantly assume the truth. Most mothers, we say, love
their children. That is a statement which conveys a distinct
meaning, and a statement of which we can discover and test
the truth without appealing to any metaphysical system. In
order to express it at all, we have to use some conceptions which
the metaphysician professes to explain. We tacitly assume a
distinction between subject and object, a distinction between
persons, a causal relation between certain phenomena, and so
forth ; and metaphysicians will proceed to deal with these dis-
tinctions and relations after their own fashion. They may tell
us, for example, that we can transcend the distinction of subject
and oljjcct; that persons, though phenomenally different, are
different manifestations of an identical substance; that the rela-
tion of cause and effect is a mere illusion, or that it implies a
transcendental power behind the phenomena. But all such
statements, true or false, have not the very slightest influence
upon our belief in the asserted fact. They state some-
thing supposed to be implied in the fact; but something also
THE STARTING-POINT. 7
remains unaltered, whatever be implied. Nor is there the
least reason to suj)pose that the phrase in question conveys
a different meaning to metaphysicians of opposite schools.
Solomon's famous experiment upon motherly love was not
suggested by nor did it require to be reinterpreted by metaphy-
sical theorems. The follower of Hegel means in all probability
precisely the same thing as the follower of Hume when he
says that a mother loves her child; though when they come
to reflect upon certain ulterior imports of the phrases used,
they may come to opposite conclusions. The formula
remains the same ; for all purposes of conduct it evokes the
same impressions, sentiments, and sensible images, and it there-
fore represents a stage at which all theories must coincide,
though they start, or profess to start, from the most opposite
bases.
7. I say, therefore, that without making anv metaphysical
assumptions, there is a region in which all metaphysical tenets
are indifferent. This is the recrion of science: and thoucrh
I cannot here attempt to define its limits, I consider that
there is at least a presumption that some of the moral ques-
tions of which we are to speak, fall fairly within this region,
and thus within a region to which the ordinary scientific
methods are applicable. In order that we may reach a
scientific conclusion in the sense here suggested, two con-
ditions are necessary. The first is that with which we have
been dealing, namely, that we should be able to discover rela-
tions that are unaffected by the metaphysical elements which
they contain, which shall be true so far as they go, whatever
our metaphysical theories. I do not dwell longer upon
this question, because the most satisfactory way of showing
that it can be complied with, is to comply with it; that is,
to lay down propositions to which, in fact, metaphysical
inquiries are plainly irrelevant. And this I shall attempt in
the following pages. But there is another condition upon
which I must dwell more fully. Scientific knowledge means
simply that part of knowledge which is definitive and
capable of accurate expression. It is merely the crystallised
8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
core of the vagi;ue mass of indefinite and inaccurate knovvlcdire.
It reaches the highest or most strictly scientific stage when it
admits of being stated in precise propositions of unconditional
vaUdity. By unconditional, I mean, of course, that the con-
ditions under which it holds are given in the proposition
itself. It may be as much a scientific truth that all mam-
malia are air-breathing animals as that all particles of matter
gravitate to each other. It is not necessary for the scientific
character of the proposition that the existence of mammalia
should be unconditional, but only that the existence of one
property should be the sole and sufHcient condition for the
existence of the other. But this unconditionality and pre-
cision represents an ideal which is seldom if ever realised;
and propositions are generally called scientific which make
some approximation to this quality. They are approximately
scientific when they are precise enough to afford a gener-
ally reliable rule, and require conditions which are gener-
ally fulfilled ; or, in other words, when they do not fully
reveal and formulate a "law of nature," but make some
approximation to that completeness of statement. We
should not call the proposition " Mothers love their children "
a scientific proposition in the highest sense, because it is
incapable of precise statement as an unconditional truth.
Some mothers do not love their children. We have no
means of giving any quantitative measure of the passion of
love, and when we compare this statement with a purely
scientific statement — as, for example, that gravitation varies
inversely as the square of the distance — we are at once
sensible that our formula falls altogether short of the re-
quirements of science as we understand it in other branches
of inquiry. Still the statement presumablv includes an ap-
proximation to son)e scientific truth, and it is worth while
to consider how far it may be rendered scientific, for in
the endeavour we shall throw some light upon the problem
before us.
DIFFICULTY OF MORAL SCIENCE.
II. Difficulty of Moral Science.
8. I shall only touch in the briefest way upon one objection
to the possibility of a scientific treatment of moral questions
which would be fatal, could it be sustained. I refer to the
objection founded upon the doctrine of the so-called freedom
of the will. I must decline to enter upon a controversy
already thrashed out to the very last fragments of chaff. It
is enough in such a case to indicate one's own position, and
to refer for the arguments by which it may be supported to
the innumerable writers who have considered it at length.
Hereafter, indeed, I shall be obliged to say something of
the questions under another aspect. For the present, I
may observe that the theory of free will is relevant so far
as it affects or is supposed to affect what has been called
the universal postulate. In all reasoning about facts, this
postulate, whatever its true nature, must be invariably
assumed. Whether we speak of the uniformity of nature,
or of the principle of sufficient reason, or of the universality
of causation, we are adopting different phrases to signify the
same thing. To me, indeed, it appears that the theorem, in
whatever form it may be most fitly expressed, is not so much
a distinct proposition, the truth or falsehood of which can be
discussed, as an attempt to formulate the intrinsic process of all
such reasoninjr. Unless we assume that identical inferences can
be made from identical facts we are simply unable to reason
at all. The alternative to making the assumption is not to
admit some other possibility, but to cease to think. If there
is nothing arbitrary in nature; if a thing can at once be and
not be ; or if the same cause may produce different effects, the
very nerve of every reasoning process is paralysed. We can
no more argue as to phenomena than we can make a formal
svllogism if we suppose that contradictory propositions are
not mutually exclusive. Further, I can see no ground what-
ever for excluding the case of human conduct. I infer a
man's actions from his character and circumstances, or his
lo THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
character from his actions with the same confidence as I infer
the path of a planet from the known determining forces, or the
forces from the path. If two men act differently there must
be some corresponding difference in the character or circum-
stances, as if two bodies produce different reactions there
must be some corresponding difference in their chemical com-
position. Now, if the doctrine of free will be inconsistent
with this theory, I must simply say that I reject it. If it be
consistent with the theory, I have at present nothing more
to do with it: for it is only in so far as it is inconsistent that
it affects the possibility of a scientific treatment of ethics. 1
shall only add that, in any case, to reason about conduct is to
assume that it is determinate. If actions be intrinsically
arbitrary, or in so far as they are arbitrary, a theory of action
must be a contradiction in terms. And thus, as it has been
said, that whether we are or are not free, we must act as
though we were free, I may say that whether conduct be or
be not determinate, we must reason about it as though it
were determinate.
9. Passing over this difficulty, the question still remains,
\vhether any science of human nature be possible in any other
sense than this : that its existence does not imply a contradic-
tion in terms. We have already the names of such sciences
as sociology and psychology. Are they anything more than
names, or is there any reason to suppose that they will ever
be anything more ? These problems are not impossible in
the sense in which the problem of perpetual motion is im-
possible; for there is an answer to them, if only we could
find or express it; but they may be impossible, in the sense in
which it is impossible for an infant just learning arithmetic
to calculate the movements of a planet. It can be made
intelligible to him that the proposed operation has a meaning
and an answer for more developed minds ; but even an
approximate calculation is altogether beyond his powers.
At present the so-called sciences consist of nothing more
than a collection of unverified guesses and vague generalisa-
tions, disguised under a more or less pretentious apparatus of
DIFFICULTY OF MORAL SCIENCE. n
quasi-scientific terminology. Can they ever be made precise
and certain ?
lo. It is easy to show how far we are at present from any
such consummation. The accepted test of true scientific
knowledge is a power of prediction. In the typical science of
astronomy that test has been satisfied. We can trace back-
wards and forwards through many ages the series of pheno-
mena of the solar system. That we can do so is owinci- to
the simplicity of the data and the conditions. Given the
law of gravitation and the masses and initial position of two
moving bodies, we can apply our formulae and work out their
movements. Yet even for this typical science it required
a vast genius, and such a genius inheriting the labours of
many generations of careful observation and acute reasoning,
to work out the elementary problem. Complicate the con-
ditions in the slightest deo-ree, add the attraction of another
body, and the problem becomes so unmanageable that the
severest labours of the acutest minds, during generations of
unparalleled progress, are unable to give us more than an
approximate solution. The law which is embodied in the
movements of a planet lies, so to speak, on the surface of
things; it is given in the greatest simplicity with the
minimum of over-ridino; and conflictino- influences: and
therefore it is that we are able so far to disentangle the
phenomena and reach an applicable result. In other cases,
we have to perform a process of abstraction which is here
done to our hands. Elsewhere we can obtain simple rules only
by disregarding the heterogeneous mass of modifying circum-
stances with which the simple process is inextricably involved
hi concrete cases. And therefore we can only obtain cer-
tainty of prediction when we can ourselves so modify circum-
stances as to make them correspond to our ideal constructions.
We can make a conditional prediction in regard to many
concrete events; we can say that such and such processes
will develop themselves if no interference takes place from
without ; or we can predict if we are able to obviate the risk
of such interferences. We can be sure of an experiment in
12 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
a laboratory, but our knowledge in regard to any series of
events not voluntarily prepared is limited by the constant
possibility of the interference of conditions which we have
not foreseen or are unable to appreciate. And, thus, even
where science is most perfect, our powers of proving it are
as a rule bound within narrow limits.
II. Is it not, then, a mockery to join in one phrase such
■words as science and human nature? Will Caesar cross the
Rubicon ? The problem is as determinate as the problem.
Will a projectile fall on the hither or the further bank ? But
consider for a moment the conditions which must be taken
into account in a solution. We must know the whole range
of operative forces which will allow play for his will to act, and
therefore have some neoative information at least as to the uni-
verse at large ; we must know what are the political, social,
geographical circumstances which may possibly affect his de-
cisions; we must know, again, how these complex facts
mirror themselves in his mind; what are his calculations, his
ambitions, prejudices, hopes and fears; we must know even
what freaks of memory or sudden associations of names
and incidents may stir the current of his meditations; we
must understand the laws of his character, and how it
depends upon the state of his liver, his digestion and the
electric tension of the atmosphere ; for " character " is the
name of an undecipherable mass of sensibilities, inherited and
acquired habits of reasoning and feeling, changing from day
to day, baffling all calculations and eluding the shrewdest
observer. The wiliest diplomatist trusts to crude generalisa-
tions, which fail as often as they are verified; our most
confident anticipations of the friend whom we knew to his
heart's core are put out by a toothache or a grain of sand in
the wrong place ; history is a record of " fears of the brave
and follies of the wise," of confident anticipations falsified,
and revelations of character which astonish no one more
than the agent himself. Is it not as futile to apply the name
of science to our guesses about the shifting and uncompre-
hensible network of thouoht and feeling which makes a
DIFFICULTY OF MORAL SCIENCE. 13
character as to give it to the vague guesses of a shepherd who
hopes a fine morrow from a red sunset? Even the "scien-
tific" meteorologist can scarcely foretell a day's weather; and
vet his problem is simple and his knowledge accurate when
compared with the vague surmises which we dignify by the
name of sciences of human nature.
13. But let us look a little closer. We are pitching our
standard too high. The test of predicting the result of any
concrete set of processes is, as I have said, rarely if ever satis-
fied. There is always the tacit condition, that no interference
will take place with our assumed data. I know that a stone
thrown into the air will descend ; I can calculate its path
with minute accuracv, and define its range and velocity.
But this is, of course, upon the hypothesis that it meets
with no obstruction. As every event in the universe
may be said to be more or less connected with every other
event, it is plain that this condition can rarely be secured
with absolute certainty. But I do not refuse the name
of science to the general propositions which enable me to
make this conditional prediction. On the contrary, they
form the great mass of scientific knowledge. We must, there-
fore, consider more closely how far we can discover such rules
about human conduct. It is impossible to say whether
Ceesar will or will not pass the Rubicon. It may be pos-
sible to sav that most men would or would not cross ;
or, asrain, to sav that Caesar will cross under certain conditions,
which again may correspond to the conditions most com-
monly fulfilled, and which may therefore give a certain de-
gree of very useful knowledge. We may make some such
statements with absolute confidence. Man, so far as he is a
ump of matter, obeys certain mechanical laws. Throw him
out of a window, and he will fall as though he were a lump
of lead or a corpse. Chemical changes may be worked in
his tissues as assignable as though he were simply a gas or a
salt. So far as he is a living organism, we have to consider
another set of conditions. He is the embodiment of a set of
processes which are always taking place, and which are not
14 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
tlcduciblc from the external circumstances. To know how he
will act, we must sometimes know at what stage they happen
to be. When he is thrown out of a window, this considera-
tion is irrelevant. If we want to know how he will act when
food is presented to him, they become relevant. We must
know whether he is hungry or satisfied, awake or asleep, and
so forth. But further, as he reasons and has motives, he res-
ponds to any external stimulus after a more complex fashion.
His actions are regulated not only by the immediate action of
his senses, but by innumerable anticipations of the future,
recollections of the past, and inferences as to distant objects.
So far as he is a thing or an animal, it is comparativ^ely easv
to determine his conduct. Given a starvino; doo- and a
lump of meat in contact, and vou can predict the result.
But to determine the behaviour of a human being with a glass
of water presented* to his parching lips, vou must be in posses-
sion of an oro;anon for calculating; the action of human motive,
and be able to unravel the tanoled skein of thought and feel-
ing which varies enormously from one man to another, and
is determined by innumerable subtle influences, each of which
sets all calculation at defiance.
13. 7\) attack such problems as these, we require some
tenable psychology. We may say that conduct is determined
by pain and pleasure. W^e may repeat all the little maxims
which have been made popular by the observers of human
character. But, to gain anvthing like scientific knowledge,
we require some mode of estimating these pains and pleasures,
and the faculties to which they appeal. If we had but a
sincrle passion, if we were only locomotive stomachs like a
polyp, the problem would be simple. But man is a complex
of numerous passions, a little hierarchy of conflicting, co-
operating, mutually interacting emotions, which it is simply
impossible to tabulate and measure. Numerous classifica-
tions have been made by acute observers. Yet I do not
suppose that anv of these can be regarded as more than a
rouah account of the most obvious facts. To ask which are
the primitive and elementary passions, how they are related.
DIFFICULTY OF MORAL SCIENCE. 15
and how the derivative passions are compounded, is to ask
questions which admit of no definite answer. We are simply
feeling about in the dark ; putting rough guesses into preten-
tious shapes, or dressing poetical symbols in the language of
science; but we are far, indeed, from anything which can
for a moment deserve our confidence as a scientific analysis.
14. If, again, we could rely upon any such analysis, we
should still be at the very outset of our task. Who can say
what is the relative importance of the various parties in the
little internal parliament which determines our policy from
one moment to another, or by what subtle and inscrutable
ties they are connected? Take, for example, the simple
physical appetite of hunger. No doubt hunger determines
many human activities, and we have a strong probability that
a hungry man will eat when he has a chance. But how are
we to say what felt hunger will play in any given organisa-
tion? What are the conditions, external or internal, which
determine its strength and its influence upon our actions?
It depends upon innumerable and indefinable conditions ;
upon the state of the constitution ; the condition of the palate,
and upon the various habits which we have acquired. It
may be suspended entirely by grief, or by the affection of
some bodily organ not obviously or normally concerned in
deteijmining its strength. Under certain conditions it be-
comes an overpowering impulse, capable of overcoming every
moral and prudential restraint. It causes mothers to desert
their children, and breaks up the bonds of the discipline which
has become a second nature. Under other circumstances, it
loses all power. The glutton turns with loathing from the
food which enthralled him a moment before, not merely if he
is satiated, but in obedience to some accidental association
which has called up a spasm of disgust. What is true of
hunger is even more obviously true of the higher and intel-
lectual emotions, of which we can only say that their com-
position is apparently complex in the highest degree, and the
relation to other parts of the system vitally important and
yet hopelessly obscure. So, again, if we know something of
-16 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the constituent passions, we should still have to investigate
the laws of what may be called mental perspective. It is a
familiar fact, that the intensity of a passion varies in some
way with the proximity of the appropriate object. The
prospect of a pain at a certain distance scarcely affects us at
all, though we may be perfectly convinced of its approach;
and the immediate prospect of the same pain may be over-
powering. A man may be utterly indifferent when he knows
that he is to be hanged to-morrow, and yet be a hopeless
coward on the gallows. His neighbour may tremble at the re-
mote prospect, and yet meet death with all imaginable courage.
The law, according;: to which distance diminishes the corre-
sponding feeling is inscrutable In itself, and varies according
to inscrutable differences of temperament. And again,
pains and pleasures of different classes vary in this intrinsic
power of calling up the premonitory foretaste. A purely
physical enjoyment, intense at the moment of fruition, Is
often unintelligible in the absence of the immediate condi-
tions. A drunkard can easily deny himself his pleasures in
prospect, and yet may be impotent in the presence of tempta-
tion. At a distance the dlssfrace of drunkenness is strono-er
than the appetite for drink. When the drink Is at hand
the appetite overpowers the most vivid sense of degrada-
tion. The same is equally true of the higher motives.
A man habitually careless of duty and little inclined to
benevolence may be capable, at moments of excitement, of
heroic self-sacrifice. He may, like Falstaff, make a mock of
honour when he is cool, and yet when under the stress of
immediate shame may throw away life rather than break a
code of honour which he regards as ridiculous.
15. To mention one more familiar difficulty — for I am
saying nothing which has not been a commonplace with all
observers — I have hitherto spoken as though we always acted
upon some conscious motive. But in a large part of our lives
we are mere automata. We go through many, perhaps
most, of our dally occupations with little more consciousness
than a machine; and therefore it is impossible to foretell
DIFFICULTY OF MORAL SCIENCE. 17
whether a given passion will or will not operate under certain
circumstances. Were a man's consciousness always awake to
all the consequences of his actions, we could say that he
would act in a certain way. But consciousness acts fitfully ;
it goes to sleep or rouses itself in obedience to conditions
which we are unable to assign. A man would act in one
way if the results of the action were present to his mind, but
he acts in another way simply because it is easiest for him to
act to-day as he happened to act yesterday, l^he momentum
of his past life causes him to continue in the groove in which
he has placed himself. We are therefore unable to infer
conduct from character unless we know what are those
accidental chains by which it is bound. A man gives money
or savs his prayers, not because he is charitable or devout,
but because he has been brought up to do so. Thus the
data from which his conduct must be calculated include not
only his true character but the special circumstances of his life.
His conduct is probably a kind of diagonal between that
which would be dictated by his instincts when fully conscious
and that which is determined by another independent set of
causes. If he were purely mechanical or purely rational in
his actions, we could predict his behaviour; but he is alter-
nately one and the other, and passes fitfully from the automatic
to the conscious stage in obedience to conditions which alto-
gether elude our powers of observation.
16. The conduct of man is as much dependent upon his
moral and mental orcjanisation as the various reactions of a
body upon its chemical composition. To make this general
admission the ground of a science, we must know something
more. We must know what are the elementary faculties;
what their relative stren2;th ; what relations hold amonirst
them in virtue of the unity of the subject ; and what are the
laws by which they respond to any given stimulus, come
into the foreground of conscious motive, and again pass for a
time out of sight, to leave blind habits to occupy their vacant
places. And upon such points we are in ignorance so profound,
that, far from knowing the answers to our questions, we
B
1 8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
scarcely know how to put them intelligibly. If our psycho-
logical armoury is so scantily provided, can we find effective
weapons in the nascent science of sociology? Can we reach
certainty by studying the social instead of the individual
organism ? We do not, as might at first seem probable, find
that the difficulties increase in proportion to the extent of
the field of observation. We can often lay down trustworthy
propositions in regard to an aggregate or an organic whole
when we know little of the sejmrate parts. We can deter-
mine the properties of a body though we should find it hope-
less to trace the movements of a particular molecule; and the
idiosyncrasies which make the study of individual character
so perplexing neutralise each other, or become unimportant
when we are dealing with a whole society. But this only
proves that the difficulties do not increase in a compound
ratio; it does not show that they are actually less. In
truth, when we have to deal with a societv, and try to
tabulate and to measure the forces by which it is held to-
gether, we find ourselves in presence of perplexities resem-
bling those which beset our psychology, whilst the vastness
of the data required and the indefinite possibilities of
:hange introduce other and apparently insoluble problems.
What is the relation, for example, between the religious
creed of a nation and its political sentiments? What is the
force of the selfish or antisocial passion, and the force which
restrains it within such bounds as are consistent with order ?
What are the conditions of moral and intellectual progress,
and what will be the probable action of any new belief, or of
a chanjre introduced in the material conditions of life? To
ask such questions is to suggest the extreme vagueness of all
our guesses and the immense complexity of the problem. I
need not say how shortsighted are the ablest statesmen, and
how constantly that which happens is precisely the one thing
which nobody foresaw, but which, after the event, appears to
have been just what every one should have foreseen. What
will be the effect of tcachinc; readino; or writino; ? If the
DIFFICULTY OF MORAL SCIENCE. 19
question be asked in regard to an individual, we are perplexed
because the variability of character and understanding makes
it difficult to judge of the effect upon a given intellect. We
can speak more confidently of the average effect, because the
individual variations will correct each other when we are
dealing with a mass. But when we ask the further question,
in what way this ascertainable effect (we suppose it to be
ascertainable) will react upon the whole social structure? we
have another set of problems of the most intricate kind.
Will the increase of knowledge make men content or dis-
contented ? Will it confirm or shake the beliefs upon which
the social order depends? Will it simply strengthen the
impulse towards a higher culture, or will it also increase the
tendency to self-indulgence and weaken the bonds of discip-
line ? If we can give some vague answer to such questions,
it is clearly not such an answer as can be called scientific, or
as enables us to give any definite prediction of results. It is
difficult to predict what will be the effect of special circum-
stances upon an individual; but if the society of which he is
a member remains approximately unaltered, we can give a
fair guess as to the probable consequences of an ascertained
modification of his character. But that which is a very slight
change in each individual may involve a vast and incalcul-
able alteration in the social equilibrium when we suppose
that a whole class is affected and the conditions of national
life modified through its whole extent. When we reflect
upon the extreme difficulty of obtaining the necessary know-
ledge, of appreciating the state of mind of millions of men,
of discovering the latent passions which may be smouldering
amonirst them, their state of accessibilitv to new ideas and
new conditions of life, we may well feel the untrustworthiness
of our so-called scientific methods. The discovery of a new
principle in mechanics or the promulgation of a new reli-
gious creed may alter the whole social state or bring about
political and social convulsions. But how can we predict
new discoveries or new creeds ? To foretell a discovery is to
make the discovery yourself, and to make it before its time.
20 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
To foretell the new creed is to be yourself the potential religious
reformer ; and to foretell the effect of both upon the society
in which they are promulgated is to trace out a complex series
of actions and reactions, to appreciate the state of mind of
masses of men, and the mode in which they will be affected
by a given thought, and^ moreover, to be provided with a
quantity of information as to facts for which there can hardly
be room in any individual brain. Any one who should have
prophesied the history of the present century at its beginning
with any precision would have had himself to foresee the
course of science, the attitude taken by the greatest thinkers,
the influence upon men's imaginations of new conceptions of
the world, and to have traced out an incalculable series of
chang-es in the relations of classes, and to determine the effect
of all these changes upon the material conditions of existence.
Any shortcoming might omit some essential point. In short,
the prediction of the course of history, even in general terms
and for a brief period, would require an intellect at least as
much superior to that of a Socrates as the intellect of a
Socrates is superior to that of an ape. Indeed, we may say the
greater the intellectual development, the greater is the difficulty
of foreseeincr the results which the intellect will obtain. And
therefore there is a kind of natural limit to the development
of the powers of human nature. For as the intellect becomes
more capable of grappling with the old problems, the com-
plexity of the problems presented tends itself to increase.
17. I have dwelt upon such considerations partly to
illustrate the nature of the difficulty, and partly to obviate
the impression that in using the word " science " I supposed
that a science of human nature could either now or at any
future time make any approach to the accuracy or certainty
of the physical sciences. A shorter road to the same con-
clusion might have been taken by simply challenging be-
lievers, if such there be, in such sciences, to produce any pro-
position which possesses, or even claims, the same sort of
authority as belongs to the doctrines of a fully constituted
science, or to justify such claims by adducing any instance
ATTAINABLE RESULTS. 21
of scientific prevision. But I do not anticipate any serious
objections to this part of the argument, and it is perhaps
more important to consider the more positive results. We
have briefly surveyed the ground upon which our super-
structure is to be reared, with the result, so far^ that it is too
treacherous and unstable to bear any solid edifice. Let us
consider next whether anv trustworthy space is left after all
these deductions, and what kind of confidence may fairly be
challenged for any philosophic construction.
III. Attainable Results.
1 8. After all that has been said, it must be admitted, as I have
incidentally admitted, that we do in fact possess a consider-
able deo-ree of knowled<re as to the conduct of our fellow-
creatures. A confidence that our neighbours will act in
accordance with certain anticipations is essential to almost
every part of our conduct. I do not carry weapons in
London now, as I should carry them in barbarous towns,
because I am as certain that the passengers will behave
peaceably as I am that the houses will not fall on my head.
I trust my whole fortune with complete confidence to my
bankers or lawyers, because, though I know that there are
such thincTs as knavish men of business, the risk is not ereat
enough to afiect my conduct. I act as confidently upon the
assumption that mothers love their children as upon the
assumption that London Bridge will bear the weight of the
passing crowds. I have as little doubt that a toothache or
a liver complaint will diminish a man's happiness as I have
that a stone is indigestible. Moreover, such knowledge
sometimes reaches a hioh decree of discrimination. The
great dramatist, we say, knows the human heart ; he does not
know it as the man of science knows the properties of a
chemical compound; that is, he cannot draw out any specific
set of propositions to express his knowledge — he cannot give
chapter and verse for his conclusions; but he can feel, though
he cannot explain, how a selfish or a heroic character will
22 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
think and act under given circumstances. His power over
our sympathies is proportioned to the truth of his divinations,
and therefore to the degree in which we too recognise the
truth of his portraiture. So the diplomatist or the attorney
who watches every phrase and gesture of his antagonist
draws conchisions as to their feelincrs and character which
are often of startHns; accuracy. He relies, it may be, too
much upon certain principles which are frequently inaccurate
and never infallible. He can assign them and consider them
collectively to embody a knowledge of the world. And
though the shrewdest of such men, statesmen, courtiers,
solicitors, or confessors, is liable to innumerable blunders,
the very capacity of reasoning upon such matters implies
that there is some such knowledo-e. There is, in fact, a vast
O 7 7
difference in the acuteness with which men judge of character;
and as some are acuter than others, it must be that they
have at least implicit canons of judgment which are not
entirely valueless.
19. The knowledge thus assumed does not differ in kind
from scientific knowledge. There is, in truth, only one
kind of knowledge; and knowledge gradually passes into the
scientific state as it becomes more definite and articulate.
We can hardly distinguish in respect of certainty between
much of the knowledge called scientific and much of this
floating and indefinite knowledge. A very vague proposition
may often give rise to certai-nty inasmuch as it excludes many
conceivable hypotheses. I do not know exactly how long
a man may live, but I am quite certain that he will not live
for a thousand years. If I know a man to be a coward,
I cannot say exactly what will frighten him, but I can be
very certain that he would run away from a fiery flying
dragon. But knowledge, however certain, remains in the
unscientific stage so long as a proposition is of such a nature
that I cannot define the conditions under which it will hold
true. My certainty that a boat into which I am about to
step will support my weight is not greater than my certainty
that a mother will try to save her child from drowning. In
ATTAINABLE RESULTS. 23
both cases my knowledge as to the particular fact is imme-
diately founded upon a rough estimate of the facts before me.
I rehearse the events in imagination, and my imagination
may be able to rehearse them accurately. But there is this
difl'erence : that in the case of the boat I can state the general
conditions of floating and sinking with an accuracy which
may pass for absolute. I know that the result will depend
upon the relations between the weight of the boat and the
weight of the water displaced, and upon other precisely mea-
surable and ascertainable conditions. I cannot make a similar
statement in the case of the mother. My psychology aifords
me no tenable analysis of the passions called into play, and
no measure of their intensity. There are such things as " un-
natural " mothers, and I cannot say what innate sensibilities
or what subsequent culture are required in order to develop
the more normal intensity of feeling. Thus, though the
strength of my conviction in a given case may be fully justifi-
able, it does not afford a safe generalisation. I know that
the rule will fail occasionally, and I cannot tell when. If,
therefore, I try to discover a principle of universal validity
under which the particular case may be ranged^ I am at a loss.
I may, in my ignorance, be omitting the essential conditions
and retaining those which are contingent. I explain the sink-
ing or floating of the boat by referring to a theory which, upon
whatever grounds, the man of science holds to be immutably
or unconditionally true. But I cannot regard the principle.
Mothers love their children, as having this degree of validity,
as it is liable to exceptions and to limitations dependent upon
some hitherto unknown principle. Thus the highest degree
of certainty obtainable is represented by the assertion that
most mothers, and not that all mothers, love their children.
20. Now for many practical purposes this conclusion is
amply sufficient, and I must refer for its logical justification
of the belief which it represents to works upon the theory of
induction. In any case, it represents one of those beliefs
upon which we are in daily and hourly reliance. But the
difficulty which I have noticed is one which must be felt
24 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
when we try to give any scientific theory of human conduct,
and which, as I need hardly observe, is constantly brought
forward against all empirical systems of morality. For the
scientific reasoner must endeavour to show not only that
things are so and so, but that they could, not have been
otherwise. I do not mean by this that he is called upon to
give an a priori deduction of the laws which he investigates.
It is clear enough, after my previous remarks, that this, in
the case of psychological inquiries at least, would be to
demand impossibilities. But he must at least give some
answer to the question why are things so and so ? So long
as his generalisation merely amounts to a statement of
average behaviour of the phenomena, it does not give us
a law. It does not tell us under what circumstances the
rule will hold good, or what would be the consequences of a
deflection from the rule. In the assumed case, it is only
when a man can tell us, however va2:uelv, what are the
conditions of maternal love, or what organic change is im-
plied by its absence, that we approach a scientific theory of
the passions. It is just this question which is made so diffi-
cult by the absence of any tenable psychology. The bare
fact that, according to our experience, maternal love is the
rule, does not enable us to say whether it is a mere accident,
or fashion, something which might be present or absent
without any material difference, or, on the other hand, a
passion rooted in deepest grounds of human nature, and only
to be removed by a radical alteration in the whole organic
system. In short, human nature, vipon this first superficial
examination, seems to be a mere aggregate of faculties which
take one form at one moment and another at the next, but
which does not afford a sufficiently plain ground for scientific
inquiry.
31. Without asking at present how far this affects any
ethical system, I may next observe that the diflSculty is
sometimes attacked by simply extending the area of observa-
tion or increasing its accuracv. The facts of conduct are,
it is suggested, determinable, and determinable with a great
ATTAINABLE RESULTS. 25
dcoree of accuracy. Little as we know of the psvcho-
lo'TV of maternal love, we may discover, by simply counting,
what proportion of mothers commit infanticide in a given
space of time, and we may prophesy as to the number who
will commit infanticide in a similar period of the future.
Relying upon such facts, we may pass over the psychological
difficulties already noticed, or the metaphysical puzzles about
free will; for we have a definite basis of objective fact, which
at any rate supplies us with many necessary data. I do not
for a moment desire to under-estimate the importance of such
a procedure, and yet it must be noticed that it does not help
us very far towards a solution of our problem. The general
fact which is revealed by such observations is one which we
have already taken for granted. It is proved, for example, that
the number of infanticides bears a fixed proportion to the
population. If it were proved, as people sometimes seem to
fancy, that this proportion is always observed whatever the
social condition in other respects, we should indeed be in
presence of a very startling fact. But it need hardly be said
that this is not proved, and that the very purpose of statistical
inquiries implies a belief that it is not a fact at all. What
is proved is what we have taken for granted, namely, that
under the same circumstances — including both external cir-
cumstances and the character of the race — human conduct will
not alter. This is the doctrine of the uniformity of nature,
already assumed in all our arguments; and the utmost that
can be said is that statistical inquiry proves that circumstances
are more constant than we might have supposed. There is
nothing strange in the fact of our guesses on such matters
turnino- out to be more or less erroneous. Our problem,
however, lies beyond this. We count the number of infan-
ticides because we hope to find the law according to which
the number varies; to show how it depends upon the density
of the population, its comfort or misery, its state of civilisa-
tion or barbarism, and so forth. Unluckily the facts which
we have thus ascertained with numerical precision only
briniT us in face of new difficulties. We are trying to find
26 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
an answer to a very complex problem, and are applying what
is called the method of " concomitant variations." It appears,
let us suppose, that the number of infanticides is greater in
one place and period than in others. Then we have to ask,
why is it greater? And we immediately discover that the
relevant conditions are so numerous and intricate that we are
scarcely further advanced than before. The religious convic-
tions of a race, its social arrangements, its state of material
prosperity, and so forth, may all exercise an influence, and we
are generally left to conjectures, every one of which mio:ht
excite controversy. It may certainly be doubted whether
any plausible theory has really been suggested or confirmed
by this method ; nor will this cause surprise if we consider
how numerous and varied are the experiments necessary to
reveal a new property in some substance capable of scientific
treatment, and how exceedingly limited is our power of trying
scientific experiments upon human society. The difficulty,
in fact, is so great, that the ablest representatives of empirical
methods have agreed to give up the effort as impracticable.
32. They have sometimes professed to meet the difficulty
by a method illustrated by the case of political economy.
We may, it is said, discover certain truths by an indirect
method, though the application of direct methods is im-
practicable. Political economy is said to be founded on
the hypothesis that human beings are actuated by the desire
for wealth, and thus involves conclusions which are true so
far as that assumption is true. Inversely, therefore, we may
discover from the conformity of our deductions to observed
facts how far our primary assumptions were justifiable. To
me it appears that the statement is inaccurate. Economists
undoubtedly assume that most men prefer a guinea to a
pound in commercial transactions; but they also assume
beyond this that men are influenced by all those passions,
whatever they may be, which enable them to live together
peaceably, to co-operate in innumerable ways, and to put con-
fidence in each other's dealings. This implies far more than a
desire for wealth — as, for example, respect for property — and
ATTAINABLE RESULTS. 27
therefore the existence of all that complex system of regula-
tions which prevents the desire for wealth from manifesting
itself in cutting throats; and thus the science — if it deserve
the name — may give results which are valid so long as the
existing organisation holds together, that organisation being
manifestly dependent upon countless instincts, beliefs, and
so forth, which lie altogether beyond the scope of the
economist. But the organisation may change, and has in
fact changed within historical times, in consequence of the
development of processes upon which he can throw no light.
Thus his power of dealing with any series of social pheno-
mena is confined within narrow limits. It is concerned, I
should say, with the external and mechanical relations
between different parts of the social organisation, not with
the principles of vital growth. The economist can investi-
gate with great advantage such problems as the incidence of
a tax or the effects of free trade. He can show what
are the channels alonec which wealth circulates whilst the
existing system is unaltered ; but as soon as he goes further,
he is in presence of the old difficulties. He shows, for
example, that an increased population means a diminished
share of wealth to each person, and that an increase
of wages means a diminution of employers' profits. For
short times, and assuming no correlative social change,
his doctrine may be unassailable; but if we ask what will
really be the effect of limiting the population or of a
sudden rise of wages, we have to ask other questions of most
vital importance. Will the increased prudence mean a
general lowering of energy? Will it imply the adoption
of practices fatal to national morality, and therefore to
its industry ? Will an increase of wages increase drunken-
ness or stimulate saving? and if so, within what limits and
with what results ? These problems, again, involve innumer-
able moral, social, and religious questions, to which the eco-
nomist, as such, has no answer to give ; and yet, if unable to
answer them, he cannot fully solve even the economical
question. These considerations are enough to show the
28 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
feebleness of the supposed attempt to isolate a particular im-
pulse and consider its consequences apart. The intricate
actions and reactions between different elements of the indi-
vidual and the social organisation set all such attempts at
defiance. The economist is really forced to consider as con-
stant precisely those forces which the sociologist has to regard
as incessantly changing, and whose mutual relations are the
very subject-matter of his inquiry. And thus the results of
economical inquiry, however valuable in themselves, are
restricted to a limited sphere, and take for granted the very
points which we are concerned to investigate.
23. Meanwhile, however, the establishment of the fact that
such laws are ascertainable, even if their significance be
exaggerated, has undoubtedly been of great service towards
advancing scientific methods. The remark generally elici-
ted by their enunciation, though founded on a miscon-
ception, explains their real value. They are regarded, in
fact, as tending to confirm a fatalistic theory. If murders,
it is said, are constant in number, and yet murderers are
not moved by any desire to make up a given tale of crimes,
the observed uniformity must be due to some mysterious
agency. Some dark fate must pick out a certain number of
men every year and order them to cut (or, as we must add in
equity, to abstain from cutting) their neighbours' throats.
And the criticism would be just if it were asserted that the
number was constant whatever the social state. The paradox
results from the fact that, on the one hand, a regularity in a
number of events implies that the events have a direct influ-
ence upon each other, whilst, on the other hand, it seems
clear that in the supposed cases each man acts in complete
independence of his neighbour. There would be nothing
strange in the fact of a fixed number of murders if there
was such a relation between the events that each murder
successfully achieved diminished the temptations in some
given proportion; if, for example, there was a limited number
of tyrants who united together, and the murder of one enabled
the others to guard themselves more effectually. But it is
ATTAINABLE RESULTS. 29
easy to remark that uniformity of this kind may equally well
result where each event is a collateral and independent eflect
of certain fixed causes. One mother does not commit in-
fanticide, nor does another give birth to a blind child, because
another has murdered her child or had a blind babv. But
the numbers will be uniform so long as the predisposing
causes are uniform and act upon similar material. If cer-
tain unhealthy conditions of life remain constant, so will
the diseases which they produce. Where there is a certain
quantity of undrained marsh, there will be a certain quan-
tity of agU'';, and (as some philosophers have urged) a cer-
tain quantity of belief in hell-fire, until the discovery of the
virtues of bark may eradicate both evils. Now the condi-
tions which produce murder are not of this palpable and
material kind, but it does not follow that thev are not
equally fixed. Society, in fact, is a structure which, by its
nature, implies a certain fixity in the distribution and relations
of classes. Each man is found with a certain part of the joint
framework which is made of flesh and blood instead of bricks
or timber, but which is not the less truly a persistent structure.
There is room for so many rich and so many poor, for such
and such fixed numbers of lawyers, and clergymen, and
scavengers. The structure can be modified, and is always
being gradually modified; but it can only change gradually,
for each change involves the reorganisation to some extent
of the rest of the body, and a complex system of action and
reaction. The social body is no more liable to arbitrary
chancres than the individual body, thoucrh its oraanlsatlon is
not so extern-ally conspicuous ; and it is really no more
surprising that there should be throughout long periods a
fixed proportion of paupers than that through much longer
periods animals should be produced with the same bodily
proportions. Whilst this is so there will be an approximately
constant number of persons in the same bodily and mental
state, exposed to the same conditions and temptations; and
therefore, again, there will result a number of minor uni-
formities which appear surprising so long as we take each
30 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
man separately and regard him as a being independent of
his neighbour, but which are perfectly intelligible in so far as
they are the natural products of many underlying uniformities
due to the social structure. Consider each atom of a tree bv
itself, as the plaything of an intricate chaos of forces of
bewildering perplexit)^, and you may wonder that the same
number of leaves is produced every year; but when you
remember that each atom is part of a structure bound to-
gether by a number of mutual relations, the wonder vanishes.
And it is equally true of that more obscure structure which
we call human society.
24. Thus our previsions as to human conduct are not simply
statements of an averacre result. If I know that there are
ninety-nine blanks in a lottery and one prize, I am certain that
only one of a hundred drawers will be successful, though quite
uncertain as to which it will be. I could know only if I knew
a number of details as to the distribution of tickets and the
movements of men's hands of which I know nothing. In
regard to manv social phenomena, I have the same kind of
knowledge. I know that there must be a fringe of destitute
people hanging upon the skirts of society, a small number
of prizes to be won by the most energetic or fortunate, and
a number of intermediate places into which the remainder
will be distributed by mutual pressure. There are so many
officers, privates, and hangers-on to an army, though I
carmot say which place will be occupied by a given man. The
members of a given society are forced to accommodate them-
selves to certain fixed conditions as much as the iron which
is poured into a given mould. There is a causal connection
underlying the apparently arbitrary movements of the indi-
vidual. The social struggle is thrusting down the weaker
into the position where want of food is most felt and stealing
most tempting; and character is being determined in count-
less indirect ways by the mutual pressure of the various
classes. Men are not only more or less alike, and so far approxi-
mate to a certain average, but they are also being constantly
educated in a thousand ways by the persistent conditions of
THEORY OF SOCIAL EVOLUTION. 31
the social organism; and thus there are secondary or derivative
laws of conduct dependent upon these conditions and pro-
ducing uniformities not affected by the variation of indi-
vidual idiosyncrasy.
IV. Theory of Social Evolution.
25. A full realisation of this truth, which is of course
a very old truth in substance, a perception that society is
not a mere aggregate but an organic growth, that it forms
a whole, the laws of whose growth can be studied apart
from those of the individual atom, supplies the most
characteristic postulate of modern speculation, and we
may note its general bearing upon the problem before
us. The explicit and constant recognition (for there has
always been a kind of recognition) that society forms such
an organic growth, that its properties can be studied
separately, and cannot be inferred directly from the
characters of the component individuals, does not in-
deed relieve us from the difficulties already noted — for
by recognising that the laws are there we certainly do not
discover what the particular laws are — nor does it, in any
case, suggest the possibility of any a priori theory upon the
subject. We cannot say, previously to any study of the
oro-anism, that it is so, and that it could not have been
otherwise. On the contrary, we may suppose that many
other forms of society besides those with which we are
acquainted may be possible, and may be actually realised
under difierent conditions. If anybody should maintain that
in some other planet the propagation of the inhabitants may
be carried on by a totally different method, and that there
may be no distinction of the sexes, I do not see how it would
be possible to confute him, and under such circumstances the
whole social structure would be organised upon very different
principles. The utmost to which we can aspire is to show
how different parts of the structure mutually imply each
other; so that, given the whole, we may see that any particular
32 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
part could not be otherwise ; and this, though a less ambitious
conclusion, would be amply satisfactory for scientific purposes.
I know of no a priori proof, and for my part I cannot con-
ceive one, which should establish the necessity for a human
being consisting of just so many organs, of a stomach, lungs,
heart, legs, and so forth ; still I am quite able to show that
under existing circumstances each part of the framework is a
highly convenient part of the whole, and I can more or less
determine the conditions which — still upon that understand-
ing— best fit it for playing its part. Nor, again, has the
assumption which we are considering enabled us to acquire
that degree of knowledge which would enable us to predict
the future course of history, nor — if I am ri<rht in what I
have already said — ^made it even conceivable that such know-
ledge will ever be attainable.
26. What advantage, then, is gained by accepting this
theory? The first gain is the simple recognition that there
must be laws, and that there may be discoverable laws of
social growth which are essentially relevant to our inv^esti-
gation, but which previous methods of inquiry have tended
to ignore. So long as reasoning has been conducted upon the
tacit assumption that social phenomena can be satisfactorily
explained by studying their constituent atoms separately,
attention was diverted from some most important principles.
If we could have studied the body on the assumption that
each organ had an independent vitality which required no
reference to the other organs to make its laws of growth
intelligible, we should gain a good deal by simply recognising
the existence of the whole orc-anism. There are cases in
which we may study a number of units separately, and
thence infer the properties of a whole figured from such units.
There are other cases in which the properties of each part
are so dependent upon the whole that it is impossible to
understand them separately without reference to the proper-
ties of the whole. If the problems of human conduct really
fall under the second category, and if at the same time we
assume them to belong to the first, we shall manifestly
THEORY OF SOCIAL EVOLUTION. 33
neglect some essential conditions. The symptom of the error
will be, that, as we have omitted a reference to certain
regulative principles, some of our data will appear to be
arbitrary, simply because we have not attended to the condi-
tions by which they are actually determined. My statement
must necessarily be vague at this stage of the argument, but
I shall endeavour to work it out hereafter. I may, however,
add already, that the assumption in question gives a new
sio-nificance to the facts before us. It shows how facts
which we w^ere previously content to leave unexplained, and
perhaps to set down as ultimate and inexplicable data of the
problem, may be important embodiments of the principles to
be discovered. Vast importance has been given to many
apparently trifling facts by the theory of evolution, as applied
to all the sciences which have to do with organised beings.
What was formerly set down as a freak of nature, or
dismissed from the sphere of the explicable by some verbal
reference to a special creation, turns out to be an important
link in a chain of evidence as to past conditions of organic
life. And so in sociological inquiries, we find that some
apparently trifling and arbitrary custom, wliich to certain
observers passed for a mere barren curiosity, gives a sudden
and effective illustration of remote social states. And what
is true of exceptional peculiarities is equally true of the
more permanent properties of social organisation. I am
now enabled to see that a statement which seemed only to
describe the averao-e mode of behaviour of independent beings
has really a vast significance when considered as describing
a quality of a persistent organism. For the theory of evolu-
tion brings out the fact that every organism, whether social
or individual, represents the product of an indefinite series of
adjustments between the organism and its environment. In
other words, that every being or collection of beings which
forms a race or a society is part of a larger system -, that it is a
product of the continuous play of a number of forces con-
stantly shifting and rearranging themselves in the effort to
maintain the general equilibrium, and that consequently every
C
34 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
permanent property represents, not an accidental similarity,
but a correspondence between the organism and some per-
manent conditions of life.
27. It may thus be said that the whole history of the
world and its inhabitants represents a problem of stupendous
magnitude. A being of vastly superior powers might con-
ceivably work out that problem, if he were acquainted with
the data at any particular moment, and capable of unravel-
ling all the inconceivably complicated forces which are con-
flicting and co-operating, and calculating their resultants. To
us, who are only infinitesimal parts of the system, the im-
possibility of any such attempt is almost ludicrously obvious.
We work out the problem bv living, or rather we work out
our own little bit of the problem. We are utterly incompe-
tent to grasp the whole, or to rise above it and say why such
and such data must have been given, and what will be the
further stages of the process. But when we once recognise
the fact that the problem is being worked out, we see also
that an answer is actually given in some degree by the very
facts before us. Our own lives are the answer. We can
thus obtain certain results, a posteriori, by recognising the
sense in which the evolution of history is really the solution of
the problem. If we can succeed in putting the question fairly,
we shall find the answer to it ready written upon the facts.
This is really the nature of the change in the point of view
implied in the acceptance of the evolution theory. It tells us
what is the proper mode of interrogating nature. When we
know the laws of gravitation we can prove that planets must
move in ellipses. If we knew nothing of the law of gravitation
or were unable to calculate its effects, but yet knew, in general
terms, that there was some such law, and that it was the sole
law in operation, we might be able to infer that elliptical move-
ment was a necessary consequence of its action. The planets,
it has been said^ are constantly engaged in working out complex
differential equations. They give us the answer to a set of
problems which no human brain may be sufficiently com-
prehensive to solve without such experience, lliis kind of
■STATE NOfiMAi SCHOOL.
THE ETHICAL PROBLEM, 'os Angeles, €3135
solution is equally given by the incomparably more complex
phenomena of human life ; and when we fully recognise the
fact that a problem is being solved, we have only to gain
some appreciation of its general nature and conditions in
order to obtain some important, though it may be very
limited, conclusions as to the meanino- of the answer which
may fairly be called scientific. They are not scientific in
the sense of giving us quantitative and precise formulae, but
they may be so far scientific as to be certain and verifiable.
V. The Ethical Problem.
28. We may apply this briefly to the special problem before
us. That problem is, in fact, to discover the scientific form
of moral itv, or, in other words, to discover what is the
general characteristic, so far as science can grasp it, of the
moral sentiments. The difficultv by which we were met
was the apparently arbitrary and fluctuating nature of all
human instincts. We could see our way to saying that, as a
general truth, and in the average, people did in fact have
such and such feelings. But the uncertainty of the data
seemed to paralyse any further inferences. We had no
apparent reason for saving why they might not have an
entirely different set of feelings. And, in one sense, the
difficulty is irreconcilable, or at least unanswerable from the
purely scientific point of view ; for I do not now ask how
far it mav be met by an assumption of transcendental or
metaphysical principles. But the conception which I have
just endeavoured to explain may show how, when we consider
human beings to be the product of a long series of processes
of adaptation or adjustment, acting either upon the individual
or the social organism, we may hope to discern that anv giv'en
set of instincts corresponds to certain permanent conditions,
and how one part of the organism implies another, or how,
the whole being given, the relation between its facts follows,
and thus how the general system hangs together. We can
attack the problem, what part do the moral instincts play in
^6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the general system of human society, which is itself part of
the wider system of the world in which we live ? And this
brings us back to a proposition from which I started. For,
in fact, it is obvious that the variation in moral beliefs which
presented itself as a great difficulty must be a part of the
problem to be solved. We have not to consider a number
of different and irreconcilable opinions held by equally compe-
tent persons, and to strike a rough balance between them, and
arbitrarily exclude some from a hearing. We must ask, in fact,
what is the cause of these opinions, which, again, is some-
thing very different from the reason as perceived by those
who hold them. The evolution of opinion is part of the
whole evolution; and it mav appear upon further investiga-
tion that opinions which present themselves as radically
opposed, are, when properly considered, nothing more than
the partial views of the truth which have commended them-
selves to persons under different conditions. The true law
of belief will account for the erroneous as well as for the
accurate opinions. If the evolution of moral sentiment is
a work in which manv minds in many generations co-operate,
it is plain that the opinions held at any given period will
correspond in some way to the corresponding stage of evolu-
tion, and that the variation will appear not as arbitrarv,
but as confirmino- the o;eneral law.
29. It must be the work of the following chapters to give
more precision to these general remarks. One observation,
however, must be premised, of which I have had to feel the
importance. Starting, as I profess to do, from the scien-
tific point of view, it follows that I have to deal, in the first
place, with facts of observation. I have, that is, to con-
sider the moral sentiments which have, as a historical fact,
exercised an influence in the world, and to ask what part
they play in the general process of evolution. I hav^e, there-
fore, nothing to do, in the first instance, with those moral
principles which are or profess to be deduced from transcen-
dental considerations or from pure logic independent of
any particular fact. The distinction, which cannot be fully
THE ETHICAL PROBLEM. 37
considered at this stage, is one which must yet be noticed,
because I am convinced that a neglect of it leads to a vast
amount of ambiguity and misunderstanding. That there
is, upon any theory, a great difference between actual and
ideal moralitv, I take to be an admitted fact. In anv given
society there are, as a rule, several moral standards : there is
that which is tauirht in churches ; that — not alwavs identical —
which actually determines our approval or disapproval ; that
which is current in the most cultivated, and that which is
held by the most barbarous classes; that which is approved
by the advanced thinkers, and that which commends itself to
the thorouo-ho-oino- conservatives, and so forth. The difference
COO ''
is universally allowed to exist. The utilitarian moralist
considers that to be moral which makes for happiness, but
he admits that the average calculation of happiness is often
very wrong. His opponent holds that moral principles are
deducible from pure reason, but he admits that most men
are very poor hands at pure reasoning. Perhaps he appeals
to the voice of conscience, but he does not assert that the
voice is not capable of misinterpretation. The distinction is
recognised on all hands, but the ordinary mode of recognition
leads to much confusion. Each man thinks that his own
moralitv is the rio-ht moralitv, and that the ordinary standard
is mistaken and immoral so far as it deflects from it. He
does not say that your moralitv is erroneous, but denies it
to be morality at all. I do not object at present to this
mode of speech, but it may lead to misunderstanding. Thus,
for example, one moralist asserts that the moral code varies,
whilst another says that it is fixed. Yet they mav, and
sometimes do, mean the very same thing; for both may
allow that the actual code varies, and both may agree that, if
men were better reasoners or better calculators of happiness,
the code would be fixed : the variability is predicated of the
actual, the fixity of the ideal code. Thus the question of
what ought to be moral (if I may be allowed the phrase) is
often confused with the question of what actually is moral.
The various controversies as to international law illustrate
38 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the confusion. When a writer holds that a certain custom
ought to be observed by different nations, he at once declares
that it is the law. He attributes to it a kind of potential
existence, though he allows that it is not actually operative.
His opponent denies it to be the law, because he gives that name
only to laws which are actually observed, though he may be
willing to admit that it is desirable that it should be the law.
A similar misunderstanding perplexes many problems in
casuistry. So, for example, we ask what judgment we are to
form of conduct which is "materially" wrong but "formally"
right; or, as the words are sometimes interpreted, of conduct
which is in conformity with the moral law as accepted by the
agent, but not in conformitv with right moralitv. A man
deserts his wife, sincerely believing that marriage should not
be permanently binding. Such cases are often perplexing;
and at present I have only to remark that the perplexity is
increased by the ambiguity in question. If we understand
that by 7'ight we mean right according to the ideal code, and if
the ideal code — however constructed — implies indissolubility
of marriage, then the man clearly acts wrongly. We may
still ask whether his non-recognition of the true principle
makes his conduct better or worse; whether a man who
knowingly breaks the law from conviction is better or worse
than a man who breaks it unknowingly? This, in my
opinion, amounts to asking which man would, on the whole,
observe the genuine moral code with fewest exceptions.
And this, again, is a question of fact to be settled by psycho-
logists and direct observation. If, on the other hand, by
right we mean simply conformity to the moral code which is
actually operative at the given time, it is simply a question
of fact whether that code does or does not prescribe indis-
solubility of marriage. The further question then remains,
whether the new rule upon which the man acts is a better
or a worse rule than the accepted rule ? And this is to ask
whether it would or would not form a part of the ideal code,
however that is to be constrvicted ? The problem is then of
necessity complicated, but it becomes hopelessly perplexed
THE ETHICAL PROBLEM. 39
^vhen we have not settled as to the sense in which we use tlic
word moral, for the man may be right in one of the senses
and wrono; in the other.
30. It is desirable to avoid this ambiguity as much as pos-
sible ; and therefore I give notice of the fact that, until I
state the contrary, I wish to be understood as referring in all
cases to the actual law. I mean by the moral code that set of
rules which, as a matter of fact, is respected in a given society,
and so far determines the ordinary approvals and disapprovals
as to be an effective force in governing conduct. It will be
an important inquiry at a future period, what is the relation
of this to the ideal code, and what it precisely is that I
understand by the ideal code. I mention the fact explicitly,
because I think that few ambiguities in the whole inquiry
have been more fruitful of misunderstanding.
( 40 )
CHAPTER II.
THEORY OF MOTIVES.
I. The Problem.
1. Ethical speculation must, as thus understood, be Impli-
cated in psychological and sociological inquiries; that is to
say, its foundations must be laid In the treacherous region
where the vague doctrines of common sense have not yet
crystallised into scientific coherence. Perplexing ambiguities
beset the simplest primary propositions. We accept from
the language of ordinary life some statement which serves
well enough for a working maxim. As soon as we apply It
to purposes of accurate inquiry, we find that it savs too mvich
or too little ; that it causes a hopeless ambiguity or pushes an
undeniable truth into obvious error. We are trying to split
hairs with a carving-knife. We must, therefore, look closely
to our initial steps, and scrutinise some apparently obvious
and harmless propositions.
2. We have to deal with human conduct. So far as a
man is a material thing, his conduct. If It can properly be
called conduct, is determined by purely mechanical conditions;
so far as he Is a sentient being, his feelings, and so far as he
is a rational being, his reasoning powers, must be taken into
account. We are already in presence of a difficulty. How
are we to conceive of the relation between reason and feel-
ing, or of the relations between the vital and the mechanical
forces? As we understand these words, in one sense or
another, we find ourselves impelled towards one of the two
opposite poles to which all ethical speculations converge.
According to the principles already stated, wc must distinguish
THE PROBLEM. 41
between the scientific and the underlying metaphysical pro-
blems. The metaphysical are, for my purpose, irrelevant. I
do not, for example, enter into the discussion between the
materialist and the idealist. The materialist regards man as
an automaton worked by mechanical forces, which, accord-
ino" to him, are the sole realities, and considers consciousness
to be in some sort a superfluous spectator. Without dis-
cussing the tenability of such a theory, I take it for granted
that pains and pleasures have an influence upon human con-
duct; that men eat because they are hungry, strike because
they are angrv, and act upon reasoned plans because they
have certain convictions as to the nature of the world and the
consequences of their actions. The materialist may show, if
he can, that all the processes thus described have a mechanical
aspect; that hunger corresponds to certain organic states
which involve certain cerebral changes, transforming impulses
received from the nervous system into messages determining
mechanical changes in the various organs of the body. In
any case, however, we are in complete darkness as to the
nature of these mechanical changes, and are long likely so to
remain ; and, moreover, in any case — according to my con-
tention— a statement of them will not supersede the other
mode of statement. The proposition, that is, that hunger
makes men eat, will express a truth whatever material impli-
cations may be involved in that simple statement. The
ultimate reality may be something different, but at least the
formula gives, and, so far as I can see, is always likely to give,
an intelligible and simple account of the facts. And the
same will be true if we adopt the opposite theory of idealism,
and in some sense deny reality to the mechanical entities
called brain and stomach and food. They may be simply
clusters of sensations, but the formula will still express a
relation which will hold good as to their reciprocal action.
We have to inquire what is the most general formula of
this kind discoverable.
42 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
II. The Emotions as Determining Conduct.
3. After emerging from the purely metaphysical regions, we
have still to look carefully to our footing. Conduct, I have
said, is determined by feeling 5 we fly from pain; we seek
pleasure; life is a continuous struggle to minimise suffering
and to lay a firm grasp upon happiness ; " good " means every-
thing which favours happiness, and " bad " everything that
is conducive to misery; nor can any other intelligible mean-
ing be assigned to the words. To some minds these pro-
positions appear to be self-evident; they cannot be denied
without self-contradiction; the difficulty of proving them is
the difficulty of proving any of those primary doctrines for
which we must appeal to what is called the direct testimony
of consciousness. Yet, in laying them down, I have already
made assertions which seem to beg the question, and the
appeal to consciousness may be rejected as virtually an appeal
to common sense, or, in other words, to unreasoning prejudice.
I shall, however, venture to assume that the assertions are
in some sense valid ; and I make that assumption upon the
ground already taken — the ground, namely, that no meta-
physician would really deny that they express truths, though
he may deny that they express ultimate truths. The only
real question is in what sense they are valid. Nobody who
has ever had a toothache — nobody, one might rather say,
who has ever had a sensation — will deny that he avoids pain
as such and seeks pleasure as such. And, in fact, if we
examine the ordinary criticisms of these simple propositions,
we shall find that the critics deny not so much the propositions
themselves as certain interpretations which tacitly introduce
some further and more questionable assertion.
4. Thus, for example, it is frequently admitted that pain
deters and pleasure attracts, but it is at the same time denied
that pain and pleasure are the sole deterrent or attractive
qualities. We shrink from fire or the knife, but some other
motive may overpower our spontaneous dread. What, then.
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 43
is the nature of this different motive? It must, by the
argument, be something which admits of a comparison with
pain and pleasure, which has its equivalent in terms of
feeling, and which represents, therefore, a force of the same
order. Is this not virtually to admit that it is still a pleasure
or a pain ? The dread of shame or remorse overcomes the
martyr's dread of the fire. Is not that because shame and
remorse are themselves painful, and in some men more
exquisitely painful than physical torment? The pain and
pleasure may be higher in kind, but it is still a pleasure or a
pain. The true statement is that one emotion may be over-
come, not by a something which is altogether disparate from
emotion, but by an emotion of a different kind ; and this is
of course indisputable. It does not traverse the proposition
that emotion can be limited by nothing but emotion. Or,
again, the conclusion is sometimes evaded by showing, not
that pain or pleasure do not determine conduct, but that
conduct is not determined by certain modes of estimating
pain and ])leasure. A man, it is often said, may deliberately
prefer a life of pain to annihilation, and in so doing he
would choose a clear balance of painful sensation. But if we
look closer, this is simply to say that the prospect of annihila-
tion is more painful at the moment than the prospect of
future misery. This, indeed, is highly probable. The
instinct which revolts ao;ainst the thought of annihilation is
so powerful that the imagination of future evils is unable to
overcome it. Perhaps this proves that the instinct is a
foolish one; but who ever denied that we had foolish instincts —
instincts, that is, which lead us to sacrifice a great future to
a small present pleasure, or to choose an evil rather than
make the effort to wield the bare bodkin ? All that is
proved is that we are not always determined by a calculation
of pleasure to come ; or, again, that the estimate of future
pleasure does not always produce a corresponding pleasure;
and this will be admitted on all hands.
5. We have to meet these objections by the sacrifice of
much of the apparent import of our statement. We are com-
44 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
pelled to widen the significance of our words until we admit
every conceivable form of agreeable or disagreeable feeling ;
and we are forced to allow that pain and pleasure may deter-
mine us to act so as in the long-run to sacrifice happiness
and court misery. And hence arises another, and in some
ways a more formidable, criticism. Granting, it is said,
that happiness is the sole aim of all human conduct, what
are we the wiser ? The proposition is valueless unless
universally true; and if universally true, it is nugatory.
Happiness is known to us solely as that which men desire :
to say, then, that they desire happiness is to say that they
desire what they desire. The force of this familiar argu-
ment is undeniable. The proposition, I agree, is nothing if
not universal ; it must cover all the actions of all human
beings, at every moment of their lives and throughout their
whole range of conscious motive; it must be equally true of
our sensual appetites, our purest emotions, and our intellec-
tual activities. Happiness guides us when we are eating
our dinners, or studying metaphysics, or feeding the hungry;
when we sacrifice all prospects of future happiness to the
loftiest or to the most grovelling motives; when we destroy
our health and ruin our families for a glass of gin, or walk
up to a battery to buy one more chance of victory for a good
cause. The love of happiness must express the sole possible
motive of Judas Iscariot and his Master ; it must explain the
conduct of Stylites on his column, of Tiberius at Capreae,
of A Kempis in his cell, and of Nelson in the cockpit of
the Victory. It must be equally good for saints^ martyrs,
heroes, cowards, debauchees, ascetics, mystics, cynics, misers,
prodigals, men, women, and babes in arms. Truly it must
be an elastic principle. Can it be more than this that men,
so far as they act from motives, have some motives for their
action ?
6. I admit that the proposition is one which would have
been scarcely worth an explicit assertion had it not been
explicitly denied. But it is not an empty proposition. It
asserts, in the first place, the general proposition already laid
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 45
down, that human actions are no more the product of
chance than any other observable phenomena. But beyond
this, it makes another assertion which it is essential to bear
in mind. To assert, in fact, that the quality of any conscious
state in respect of its pain or pleasure is the essential con-
dition of its being desired or dreaded, is to deny that the con-
dition of conduct can be found in anything; which has no
relation to pain or pleasure. And as attempts have been
made to find the condition elsewhere, it becomes necessary
to deny the possibility of their success. To say that action
is determined by feeling is not to enable us to determine
which particular feeling will be most efficient. As the state-
ment is true of all motives, it throws no light upon the
relation between different motives. Nor, again, does it lead
us to any fertile proposition as to the nature of conduct in
general. Pain and pleasure are words which it is impossible
to define ; as they are names of the highest class and not a
species of some more general class, we can no more define
them by genus and difference than we can define light and
darkness, or subject and object, or past and future : but we
can still know what they mean ; and it is conceivable that
we might be able to assign the physiological conditions of
their existence, in which case we might be able to advance to
some fertile conclusions from a statement which is at present
nugatory by its excessive generality. At present, we can
only say that psychologists distinguish — and their distinction
has at least a scientific if not a metaphysical validity — between
the emotions and the intellect, or between feeling and
reasoning. We assert that conduct is determined by the
feelincrs, not as denyino; that it is also in some sense deter-
mined by the reason, but as maintaining that a state of con-
sciousness which is neither painful nor pleasurable cannot be
an object either of desire or aversion, and that, so far as it is
painful or pleasurable, it will produce one or the other. We
shall, I think, see that this doctrine, however vague, is by no
means without an important bearing upon ethical specula-
tion 5 but it also suggests the necessity of entering more
46 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
fully into the meaning of the distinction in question. Since,
as I have said, man is both a sentient and a reasoning being,
we have to ask how we are to conceive of the mode in which
these separable, or at least verbally distinguishable, faculties
co-operate in determining conduct. The inquiry will lead to
a fuller answer to the difficulties upon which I have briefly
touched in the last paragraph.
7. Moralists who regard happiness as the sole aim of all
conceivable action have accepted a simple analysis of
reasoned conduct. Conduct, as the old reasoners said, fol-
lowed the "last act of the judgment." Though men fre-
quently, perhaps generally, act without much conscious choice,
the typical and fully developed act of decision consisted in a
judgment that one action would produce more happiness
than another. The intellect, to use the ordinary metaphor,
weighed different "lots" of happiness in its balance; the
will inevitably inclined to that conduct which weighed the
heaviest in these scales. Reasoned conduct differed from
merely instinctive conduct in that it implied an adaptation
of means to ends, and therefore a possibility of following
courses of conduct not agreeable in themselves, but promising
a greater total of happiness. The characteristic of the reason-
ing being was the power of acting with a view to distant ends,
instead of being the slave of immediate impulse. Now I do
not deny that it may be possible to use this phraseology so as
to express the facts with tolerable accuracy. But I think
that it is apt to sanction certain erroneous hypotheses which
have done much to perplex the whole subject.
8. We may have to consider some of these hereafter. For
the present I may observe that at the very outset there is
apparently one defect in the statement. It seems to assume
that a deferred pleasure is as potent as an immediate pleasure.
So long as "I "am to have the pleasure, it matters not, so
far we have gone, whether it be the " I " of to-day or the " I"
of next year. The influence of mental perspective appears
therefore to be entirely ignored ; and yet there can be no
doubt, so long as we are dealing with facts, that this influence
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 47
is of the highest importance, and that every removal of a
pleasure in time and place has an immense effect upon its
power of determining conduct. But if we try to rectify our
formula so as to allow for this difficulty, we become aware
that it is of the very essence of the statement. The
happiness which determines the will is always regarded as
future, though it may be in the immediate future. The
normal state of man is that of the proverbial ass, who con-
stantly pursues and never obtains the wisp of hay fixed at
the end of the shaft. The popular maxim, " Man never is,
but always to be blest," is converted into a scientific formula.
Conduct, you say, is always determined by feeling; but the
doctrine consistently applied is fatal to the analysis assumed.
For on this analysis, reason, regarded as a faculty altogether
distinct from the emotions, determines conduct by reference
to a feeling which does not yet exist, or, in other words, does
not exist at all. The actual feeling is taken to be a mere
consequent which does not affect conduct. The feeling which
is hereafter to be is the sole determining influence.
9. To express ourselves accurately, and to carry out con-
sistently our initial assumption, we must modify the state-
ment. No feeling can affect us except so far as it is felt.
An unfelt feeling is a nonentity. Many of our feelings, it
is true, are regarded by us as prophetic foretastes of a feeling
to come. We shudder at the edge of a cliff because we fore-
see the consequences of a fall, and thus the shudder implies
the belief in those consequences. But though this intellectual
perception is an essential part of the process, it would not
affect our conduct if it were a perception entirely divorced
from feeling. It affects us because the perception is itself
painful, because it involves an anticipatory realisation of an
approaching pain. It is more accurate to say that my con-
duct is determined by the pleasantest judgment than to say
that it is determined by my judgment of what is pleasantest.
And though in such cases the remark may seem to be
hypercritical, and one formula to be equivalent to the other,
there are many cases of the highest importance in which it
48 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
is essential to any intelligible account of the process. A
man, for example, acts in a given way under the influence
of vanity. Although he knows that he would be happier
in the long-run if he abandoned some burdensome honour,
his self-esteem nails him to his post. He is governed by
the instantaneous feeling, by the immediate sense that a
resignation would expose him to ridicule or contempt. And
though this generally includes a foretaste of future suffering,
he is determined by the actual painfulness of the choice,
not by the belief that he is choosing something which will
produce pain. This is equally true of all the feelings which
we may roughly call aesthetic feelino-s — feelings which contain
no special reference to the future, but which are prompted
by immediate perception. The same, again, may be said
of a large class of actions which seem puzzling to many
observers, and which is conveniently illustrated by the case
of games. When we speak of conduct as determined by the
pursuit of ends, it seems to be contradictory that a man
should take a keen pleasure in the pursuit of an end admit-
tedly trifling, the slaughter, for example, of a fox, or the
solution of a conundrum. The true explanation, however,
seems to be different. The pleasure of a game, speaking
generally, is the pleasure of a discharge of accumulated
energy. We are "bored," that is, we suffer a painful sensa-
tion, if we do nothing when we are in vigorous health, and
therefore we receive pleasure in doing anything, even if that
anything brings us no additional pleasure in itself. The
so-called end is pleasant simply because the pursuit affords
a convenient pretext for a regulated discharge of energy.
The life and death of a fox is absolutely indifferent; the
exercise of the powers necessary for catching and killing him
may be momentarily delio-htful. The stimulus comes from
within, not from without; from a change m our state, not
from a change in our circumstances. We might try to
describe the difference by distino-uishiniT between " sub-
jective" and "objective" ends. In some cases, we should
then say, we wish to relieve our feelings; in others, to bring
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 49
about some state of things which does not at present affect
our feelings. The distinction would be erroneous, because
every end must be at once objective and subjective. It must
be objective, because in all cases our conduct has certain
objective consequences, that is, consequences other than a
state of our own consciousness; and it must be subjective,
because it cannot be an end unless we desire it. But the
distinction corresponds to a real difference. In every case of
rational action we foresee a certain set of consequences as
dependent upon our conduct. The "intention" of the agent is
defined by these foreseen consequences. His "end" is defined
by that part of the foreseen consequences which he actually
desires, and the end defines the "motive," that is, the feeling,
which actually determines conduct. Now it is true that in
some cases the immediate feeling is all that is consciously opera-
tive, and we care comparatively little for the consequences
in any other relation, though we may distinctly foresee them,
and even call them our end. In other cases, on the contrary,
the conduct is only adopted in view of certain pleasures to
be obtained hereafter. But even in that case we adopt it
because the foretaste of the pleasure is itself pleasurable.
We like the labour which is to bear fruit hereafter. Hence
we easily speak of ends in the latter case, because we over-
look the existing pleasure which exists only as a foretaste of
the future pleasure, whilst in the former case the reference
to an end seems to involve a desire for an end not in itself
desirable. In fact, however, though one element or the
other may be more or less prominent, though the motive
may be more easily definable in objective or subjective
languao-e, and the pleasure be dependent or independent
upon the representation of future states of feeling, the two
elements must always be present, and the motive be an
actually existing feeling.
10. I think, then, that the metaphor of the balance is
misleading, and that the conception to which it corresponds
leads to many fallacies. It is misleading because it implies
an erroneous analysis, and separates different aspects of a
so THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
single process, as though they were different processes succeed-
ino; each other in time instead of beino^ mutually involved.
The intellect and the emotion are in reality related as form and
substance, and cannot be really divided. To judge of plea-
sures is to feel the pleasures themselves, or to feel represen-
tative pleasures. The process is at once feeling and think-
ing, and may be regarded from either point of view. The
emotion is something determinate, and therefore its logical
formula may be given, but the logic without the feeling
would be a mere blank nonentity, a form without substance.
This is equally overlooked when we regard the pleasure as a
kind of independent thing which the intellect weighs and
measures, or whether we try to resolve it into a perception in-
stead of regarding it as bound up in the perception. It seems
to me, for example, inaccurate to say that vanity is the belief
that we are superior to our neighbours. It is equally inaccu-
rate to say that it is a pleasure which results from that belief
as a consequent in time following an antecedent. It is the
emotional side of a process which, upon its intellectual side,
is a belief; it is a feeling evolved by bringing together in
certain ways a perception of our own qualities and those of
our neighbours, and implies equally a conviction and an
emotion.
II. Falling back, then, upon the original principle, I repeat
that pain and pleasure are, according to me, the determining
causes of action. It may even be said that they are the sole
and the ultimate causes. They are the sole causes in this
sense, that where two courses of conduct are otherwise pos-
sible, and the choice of one depends upon the agent's own
decision, his will is always determined by the actual painful-
ness or pleasantness of the choice at the moment of choos-
ing, and that there is no different kind of motive. They are
ultimate in this sense, that it is impossible to analyse pain and
pleasure into any simpler elements. We might conceivablv
find the physiological causes of pain and pleasure; we might
show, that is, that each state corresponded to certain organic
conditions; but such a discovery, however important, would
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 51
not alter the fact that the pain and pleasure are the imme-
diate causes of conduct, and that they admit of no further
analysis from the subjective point of view, whatever may be
the physical correlates. We mav, again, investigate the his-
torical causes of the pain and pleasure, that is, we may trace
the previous stao-es throu2;h which the sentient bsino- has
come to be what it is. But this, thoucrh a^rain a most inter-
esting inquiry, would not alter the fact that at the given
moment the feelino-s, beino- such as thev are, determine the
conduct. If we could analyse, in short, the forces which
maintain the existing order, the feelings considered as painful
or pleasurable would represent the ultimate elements in the
analysis. Any attempt to analyse further only lands us in
contradiction and confusion. The fact that any state of con-
sciousness is painful, is so far a sufficient reason for avoiding
it — a reason which may be overpowered by others, and which
may in its turn admit of explanation; but so far as it goes,
it represents a true cause, and one which must always operate.
I admit that so far as the act of choice implies a weighing of
pains and pleasures, the pains and pleasures are alwavs repel-
lent and attractive, and the sole measure of the repulsion and
attraction. I only deny that this gives an adequate account
of the intimate nature of the process.
13. How, then, must we conceive of the mode of action
of these forces? The most obvious fact seems to me to be
that in all cases pain as pain represents tension, a state of
feeling, that is, from which there is a tendency to chano-e;
pleasure represents so far equilibrium, or a state in which
there is a tendency to persist. Some such statement repre-
sents most nearly the characteristic of all emotional states,
from the lowest upwards. The worm writhes on the hook,
and we inevitably interpret the writhing as indicative of ao-onv.
The mind (if I may say so) writhes under a painful emotion.
It makes an effort to writhe into some more tolerable posture.
Fear implies an effort to get away from the painful state of
anticipated pain, and as it becomes intense, the spasmodic
struggle becomes so desperate as to render any definite action
52 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
impossible, even though we know that our only hope lies In
cool and regulated effort. The pain of continuous illness
produces a restlessness, a vague unguided effort to secure
some change, even though no specific change presents itself
as desirable. Similar remarks miirht of course be made about
O
the inverse case of content and satisfaction. When I choose
I go through a process of a complex but still similar kind.
Two modes of feeling are more or less distinctly present to
my mind. Each is recognised perhaps as the foretaste of
a feeling about to become actual. So far as my power of
volition goes, I am decided by the relative painfulness or
pleasurableness. I try each mode ideally, and settle down
into that which is on the whole the easiest. What in the
actual feeling is the "writhing" and spasmodic struggle is,
in the representative feeling, a difficulty in admitting the
suggested course of conduct. When I am satisfied, my mind
acquiesces and slides into that mode of action which causes
the least disturbance.
13. The analogy which naturally offers itself and seems to
give the best account of the facts is the mechanical principle of
least resistance. A body under the influence of several forces
moves in that direction in which the resultant of the opposing
forces is a minimum. Similarly the various desires operate
in such a way that the volition discharges itself along that
line in which the balance of pleasure over pain is a maximum.
The pleasurable state is one of stable, the painful one of un-
stable equilibrium. Alter the conditions slightly in the latter
case, and the agent spontaneously adopts a new attitude,
like a spring relieved from pressure. Alter them in the first
case, and there is a tendency to revert to the previous state.
In one case we have a body balanced on a ridge by external
forces, and ready to fall at once if the supports be removed;
in the other we have a body so balanced that after a slight
change it will always tend to fall back to the original position.
It is, perhaps, not superfluous to remark, in order to avoid
possible misconstruction, that the volition may exercise a very
small influence, even when the limiting conditions are in
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 53
great part ideal. The more painful is not necessarily the
less permanent condition. It is one in which there is an
additional chance against permanence. A painful thought
may fascinate the attention. Terror sets up, as I have said,
so disturbed a condition that the mind cannot settle into any
definite course : the hand shakes when it would aim the
necessary blow. To determine even the subjective conditions
of conduct we have to consider the fascination as well as the
mere painfulness and pleasurableness of the emotions. We
can no more alter arbitrarily the circumstances of our micro-
cosm than of the external world. The painful thought cannot
be included simplv as painful if it excites an intense emotion
and is associated by many links with all our habitual objects
of thought, even though we may know that the pain can-
not suggest a remedy. It is as difficult to avoid brooding
over vain regret as to evade a physical constraint. The will
becomes paralvsed, and the brave man feels that the best
course is to face the pain till his sensibility becomes deadened
by persistent familiarity.
14. To explain the theory fully it would thus be necessary
to consider the sphere of volition, or to analyse what, accord-
ing to one theory, is called an act of Free Will. I have
to make some simple choice, say, between a glass of wine
and a glass of water. The process, according to me, consists
essentiallv in rehearsing the two modes of conduct which pre-
sent themselves to my mind. I am moved by the foretaste
of the pleasure of drinking, the difficulty of reaching either
crlass, the dislike to expense, the moral and medical scruples
in which T indulge, and so forth ; and the decision takes
place according to the principle of least resistance. To
analyse all the operative motives may be impossible even
in so simple a case; to weigh and compare their importance
in general terms may be impossible ; but in any case, I
decide by the simple process of feeling one course to be the
easiest. It often happens that each course will be the easiest
if it happens to be the one most directly contemplated ; and
it will in that case be a matter of chance — that is, it will
54 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
depend upon other circumstances than my will — whether I
take the wine or the water. If now I am desh'ous to know
what will be the result of some process entirely independent
of my volition — sa}'', the choice of another person in the same
case — I shall equally rehearse all approaching signs of events.
But in the latter case my mind works automatically upon
the data provided. It takes certain facts, arranges them
according to logical rules, and brings out a conclusion which
does not follow with more or less certainty because the result
is painful or pleasurable. My volition determines, of course,
whether I shall or shall not reason. If I choose to reason, I
apply a fixed rule which (if rightly applied) brings out a fixed
conclusion. One and only one result can follow from the
one set of data. In the other case, my intellect shows two
courses to be equally possible. The sequence of events which
terminates in wine is as consistent with all the facts as the
sequence which terminates in water. One of the series then
follows by introducing the additional fact that it is the
pleasantest. I may say that it follows because I know or
perceive it to be the pleasantest. But this, as I have explained,
seems to me to be a roundabout way of saying that I feel
it to be pleasantest, or, more simply, that it is the pleasantest
to me ; for the knowledge is here the very same thing as the
feeling in a reflective mind ; or, if knowledge be used in a
wider sense to include the represented feeling, the feelino- is
the fundamental fact, and the knowled<re the reflected feelinjr.
We may then say that in this case the prediction fulfils itself.
In the other case, I foresee a fact because it is about to
happen. In this case, it is about to happen because I foresee
it. My anticipation is the essential condition of its happen-
ing; and in this case the foresight becomes a volition.
15. The believer in free will (according to me) misinterprets
these facts. The foresio-ht of events is of the same nature
in the two cases up to a certain point, and at that point a
further condition is required in one case which does not apply
in the other. As this condition depends upon the person
who foresees, it appears to be arbitrary, although in fact it is
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 55
simply an expression of his constitution. When we see another
man about to act, we assume his taste to be one of the data,
and calculate his action as we calculate any other future
event. When it is our own, we fancy in some obscure sense
that it is in our power that it should exist or not exist, and
therefore regard the whole decision as arbitrary. I do not
wish, however, to dwell upon this argument, but to point
out another fact which is sometimes neglected — the difficulty
we have in drawing; the distinction between the two kinds of
foresight accordingly. Slow experience teaches us what is
the true sphere of volition. Our prevision of our own conduct
is exceedinfrlv fallible. Nothing:; is more common than to
mistake wishes for anticipations and dislikes for disbelief. A
perfectly logical mind would draw conclusions unbiassed by
pain and pleasure. The hatred of error would overbalance
the painfulness of anticipation. Its emotions would decide
it to add up its accounts; but they would be unable to
persuade it that two and two make five. But nothing is
easier than to find a mind which never permits its anticipations
to intrude beyond their proper sphere. The logical mill once
set going must grind out results irrespective of their pain or
pleasure; but we dread to set it going or tamper with its
action. We are apt, in vulgar phrase, to "cook" our accounts.
The reluctance of the mind to gaze upon painful facts prevents
us from setting the sum precisely; and as we tamper with the
materials at every stage of the process, we end with that mass
of contradictions and baseless prejudices which we know as
human beliefs. It is only by long experience, in short, that
we learn what are the predictions which can fulfil themselves,
and those which have no effect upon the future. If it is still
hard to resist the illusion that a thing will happen because
wc desire it, it is intellio-ible how all the reli(2;ions which are
rooted in early stages of mental development sanction the
propensity to hold that fate can be conquered by will, and
that prayers — the embodiment of desires — can govern the
stars in their courses. Anticipation and volition spring from
the same root, and it is by a very gradual and difficult process
56 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
that we learn to assign to each its proper sphere in our inental
operations.
1(5. The difficulty of knowing what we desire is as great as
the difficulty of estimating the efficacy of our desires. The
play of motive is beyond measure complicated. We may
meet even with apparently contradictory cases, such as the
apparent delight of many people in contemplating the darkest
probabilities. The full explanation must be left to psycho-
logists. It is partly perhaps that there is an actual pain in
trying to reconcile the belief in a particular form of good
fortune with a general reputation of evil. It requires a
painful effort to shake off doubts and fears which have become
familiar. More frequently perhaps it is the shrinking by
anticipation from the shock, so trying to a sensitive nature,
which follows the disturbance of a pleasant dream ; we would
rather have bad dreams than encounter the possible jar of a
sudden awakening ; or vanitv, for some reason, makes the
effort to throw off the painful emotion still more painful
than persistence ; or perhaps, most frequently, we are simply
making a convenient pretext for a display of bad temper or
melancholy which has been generated by some other cause.
To follow out such arijuments would lead me too far. I must
conclude this discussion by repeating once more the main
conclusion which I have sought to establish; for it seems to
me that a clear theory of ethics can only be attained by a
clear understanding of a proposition which, as misunderstood,
contains the ererms of countless fallacies.
17. The true proposition, then, that conduct is determined
by the feelings, has been constantly confounded with the
erroneous proposition that it is determined by the agent's
judgment of his happiness. This is expressed in the form
that the will is determined bv a kind of syllogism. The
major premiss is invariably — I will adopt the course of con-
duct which will j^roduce the greatest balance of happiness.
I am unable to admit the accuracy of this statement,
although I do not deny that in many cases it is an
approximate statement of the case. So far from admit-
THE EMOTIONS AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 57
ting the second proposition to be an expansion of the
first, I hold them to be really inconsistent. The feeling
which determines conduct is not a judgment at all, though
it is inseparably bound up with serious judgments. It is a
simple unanalysable fact. If we would, not define, but de-
scribe the feelino- in other words, we should rather call it a
psychical force. Love and hatred, desire and aversion, deter-
mine our conduct as physical forces determine the move-
ments of a bodv. Thev have a definite more or less ascer-
tainable value, of which we can form a judgment, but which
is not itself a judgment. The sense of fatigue, for example,
puts an absolute limit upon my energies, and implies no
direct reference to any future pains or pleasure. It is
there in such and such a degree, and we can say no more
about it. It is, or may be, the subjective correlate of
certain objective phenomena which might be described in
terms of nervous force, muscular tension, and so forth, and
is equally definite in its relations. The same is equally true
with all the direct emotions and sensations. They are
what they are, and underlie all judgments, instead of being a
product of those judgments. The possibility of forming any
judgment as to future pains or pleasures presupposes their
existence as the existence of forces is presupposed in calculat-
ing their actions and reactions. So far, again, there is no
ground for supposing that our pains and pleasures are in any
way regulated with a view to future enjoyments or suffer-
ino-s. This consideration beg-ins to su^rgcst itself so flir as our
immediate pains and pleasures are recognised as foretastes of
pains and pleasures to come. In that case, which is, of course,
more or less the case of nearly all the actions of reasoning
beings, the actual enjoyment, and therefore the conduct, is
more or less affected by our previsions of the future. A
secondary action is set up which tends to regulate the play
of the passions. It may happen, but, so far as we have gone,
it may also not happen, that the passions may be so regulated
that the conduct dictated by our immediate feelings may coin-
cide with that which would be dictated by a judgment of our
58 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
total happiness. And this leads us to the next problem to be
attacked. We can only be affected by the prospect of the
future in so far as we are reasoning beings. We must, there-
fore, consider in what sense the mere blind action of imme-
diate feelino; is o;overned and reo-ulated bv the reason: for
the principles hitherto considered do not imply a conscious
regard to general rules. A man's action at each point is
determined by his feelings, and therefore his whole course de-
pends upon the varying feeling, or, in other words, upon its
law. But this is equally true of man and beast, and does not
show what is implied in the acceptance of a general rule.
III. The Reason as Determining: Conduct.
18. We have therefore to consider in what sense the
conduct of every man is determined by his reason. I must
begin by taking note of one obvious but important distinction.
There is a sense in which we all admit that the universe is
reasonable throughout — the sense, namely, in which we simply
assert the validity of the universal postulate ; a sense in which
there is no distinction in point of reasonableness between the
fill of a stone and the workino: of a loo-ician's brain. As we
rise from the inoro;anic to the oro-anic, and a2:ain from the
lowest to the highest organism, the working formula, if I
may give that name to what is generally called the law of
the phenomena, becomes continually more complex, and
soon surpasses all our powers of statement. Every conceiv-
able event is, however, in this sense reasonable; which is
only to endorse once more the familiar assertion that chance
is but a name for ignorance. In this sense, again, no conduct
could be more or less "reasonable" than any other. The
most foolish vagaries of the most illogical mind have their
cause, and would be explained if we could look into the
mind of the agent. The errors of the puzzleheaded have
their ^' reason " as much as the soundest judgments of the
clearest thinker. It is plain, therefore, that we must use the
word in a different sense when we make it the basis of a
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 59
distinction between one thing and another. When we sav
that the conduct of Plato is reasonable, and that the dog or
the stone acts instinctivelv or mechanicallv, we incan that
Plato has a mind capable of apprehending a general rule, and
carrying on certain logical processes, and that these circum-
stances determine his conduct. He is a conscious and
reasoning subject as well as an object; and the distinction
might perhaps be expressed by saying, that whereas everv
conceivable phenomenon is objectively reasonable, or, in the
common phrase, has an assignable " law," intelligent beings
alone are subjectively reasonable, or determined in their
conduct bv perceptions and inferences. In this latter sense
men may be reasonable or unreasonable in the most varying
degrees. In the former, the unreasonable is the contradictory,
or, in other words, the non-existent.
19. Taking reason, then, in the only sense in which it
affords a basis of distinction, we shall find, I think, that
conduct is generally called reasonable in several connected
but not identical senses. Sometimes we are told that a man
is reasonable in so far as his reason controls his passions. The
reason is a separate faculty which in some way rules or sup-
plants the other faculties. A man, again, mav be called
reasonable so far as he possesses the faculty in a high degree,
as he apprehends certain general rules, and as they affect his
conduct; and this, again, may imply, on the one hand, that
he reasons accurately, and so has conceptions of the world
corresponding to the realitv, or, on the other hand, that his
judgment of what is most desirable is fixed and consistent.
In this, too, it is implied that he acts in such a way as really
to brino; about what he desires, or that he knows how to
proportion means to ends. And, finally, we may mean
something beyond all this, namely, that his ultimate ends
are "reasonable" or worthy in some sense not yet defined.
Reason, in short, may be opposed to passion or to want of
thought, or to want of proportion between mean and ends, or
may indicate consistency and loftiness of purpose. The animal,
the man of sudden and incontrollable impulse, the simple
6o THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
dunce, or the consistent and calculating man who yet aims
at some purely sensual or selfish end, may each be called
unreasonable. In trying to answer the question before us,
what, namelv, are the characteristics of reasoned as dis-
tinguished from unreasoned action ? we shall incidentally
consider these various senses.
30. The supposed conflict between reason and passion is, as
I hold, meaningless if it is taken to imply that the reason
is a faculty separate from the emotions, and contemplating
them as an external spectator. Reasoning and feeling are,
according to me, bound together in an inseparable unity.
Every act of choice is a struggle between passions involving
more or less reasonins:, but not resolvable into an emotionless
process. The man who is distracted between the charms of gin
and duty is not divided between passion and reason, but
between a sensual pleasure and the love of home, or the fear
of hell, or the diso;ust of conscious degradation. If resistance
to these emotions gave him no pain he would not resist.
There must be emotion on both sides, as well as reason on
both sides, or a struggle would be impossible. It may be
that a reasonable man is more likely than an unreasonable
to resist the temptation to drunkenness — that is, that the
greater the development of the reasoning faculties the less
the love of gin — as the inverse proposition is pretty generally
true. But this is a very different statement, and points to a
different process of indisputable reality. Reason, in short,
whatever its nature, is the faculty which enables us to act
. with a view to the distant and the future. Consequently,
in so far as a man is reasonable, he is under the influence of
motives which would not be otherwise operative. The
immediate bodily appetite is held in check by a number of
motives to which only the reasoning being is accessible. His
mind's eye sees not only the public-house but the absent wife.
The reason so far leads a man to multiply the data from
which his conduct is calculable, or the more reasonable a
man may be the greater the variety of ways in which his
feelinsrs will be interested.
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 6i
2T. The impression, however, which leads us to oppose
feeling to reason is partly due to another fact. A large part
of our conduct is automatic; it is either not detcraTiined by-
conscious motives, or it is determined by motives which,
though they rise for a moment to the surface of consciousness,
are forgotten as soon as felt. Of our conscious conduct,
again, part may be caljed instinctive and part reasonable,
according as the motive does or does not include some refer-
ence to ulterior ends. These modes of action pass into each
other by imperceptible degrees. We say that the bird
building a nest acts instinctively, meaning to denv that it
has any view of the consequences, and to assert that it builds
because the act of building is in itself pleasant or the not
building painful. A man may, in the same wav, eat his
dinner instinctively, that is, without contemplating the con-
sequences to his health, and the same act may be reasoned
when those consequences are taken into account; w^hen,
for example, he eats purposely to gain strength for a special
contingency. The instinct may be converted into reason as
the consequences become manifest, and the reasoned action
become instinctive as the consequences are left out of account.
So, again, the instinctive action becomes automatic when it
is done without leaving any trace upon consciousness. It
raav still be voluntarv in the sense that the ag^ent may be
able to refrain if his attention happens to be aroused.
Habitual actions pass through all these gradations. We do
a thing first with some conscious motive; we come to do
it without reference to other consequences, and even without
consciousness; and the difference is, that w^hereas the action
previously required some effort, it now requires an effort to
refrain from the action. We are like a man walkino- in
chains, who for2:ets their existence until somethins: leads
him to diverge from the line imposed, and consequentlv to
be galled by the restraint. The motive is thus a latent force
which only manifests itself in consciousness under some
opposing action.
22. Let us now return to our gin-drinker. He feels the
62 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
desire, we may suppose, but the desire is instantly quenched
by the bare thought, say, of duty, or of the injury to his family.
We say, in popular language, that his passion has been
quelled by reason. The mere intellectual perception, however,
could have no effect if the sense of duty and love of family did
not represent a strong fund of emotion capable of being called
into vigorous operation. His conscience or his family affec-
tions have generated a habit. He has become an intellectual
automaton. He acts by a certain rule without calling into active
play the feelings by which the habit was orginally generated.
It now reqnires an effort to break through that rule as it
formerly required an effort to act in accordance with it. The
thought of family or duty is enough to convert the act of
drinking, which just before was simply the satisfaction of a
natural instinct, into a breach of a settled rule. The habit
probably acts without converting more of the latent force into
an active form than is necessary for the purpose of counter-
acting the temptation. The intellectual operation brings his
action under a new category, and so far it is quite true that
his passion is conquered by reason ; but it is not in virtue of
the purely logical operation, but of the fact that the reason
reveals a new set of forces ready to spring into action to the
necessary degree.
23. We may thus be said to feel by signs as well as to reason
by signs. When we are conducting a logical operation we
easily call up the full meaning of the symbols by which the
operation is conducted. Symbols are useful precisely because
they enable us to dispense with that laborious process. In
the same way our feelings are determined without callino-
into active operation the full meaning which they may con-
vey. The sight of a red flag may deter me from crossing a
rifle range without calling up to my imagination all the
effects of a bullet traversing my body. If the motive which
prompts me to run the risk be strong, it may be necessary to
convert a greater volume of latent into active emotion; and
as we frequently fail to do this, we often run risks which we
should avoid were the consecjuences distinctly contemplated-
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 63
We steer our course bv au apparcutly insiguificant rudder, and
only call out forces sufficient to overcome the actual resistance.
But it would be a great error to assume that the mere call
would be sufficient if the force were not at hand and ready to
supply the necessary assistance. And thus, if I may say so,
the game is generally decided as experienced players decide
games, bv a simple show of cards on both sides without
actuallv playing out the moves.
24. No theory can be tenable which virtually asserts reason
and feeling to be two separate and independent faculties, one
of which can properly be said to govern the other. The
reason is not something superinduced upon the emotions as
something entirely new. There is no absolute gap between
the lower and the higher organisms. The animal instinct
may be regarded as implicit reason, or the reason as a highly
developed instinct. Instinct is reason limited to the imme-
diate, and incapable of reflecting upon its own operations ;
and reason an extended instinct, apprehending the distant
and becoming conscious of its own modes of action. The
development of the whole nature implies a development both
of the intellectual and the emotional nature. The growth of
new sensibilities implies a power of detecting new qualities
and new relations between phenomena; and the growth of
mechanical power implies the capacity of bringing things into
fresh combinations, and so developing new sentiments. The
increased range of thought due to the power of forming
abstract conceptions and reasoning by symbols is associated
with an equal growth in the complexity and variety of the
corresponding emotions. That we may have a nature capable
of being stirred by such words as patriotism, philosophy, and
religion, we must not only have an intellect capable of opera-
tions utterly beyond the reach of the lower being, but we
must also have sensibility capable of a vast variety of equally
new sensibilities. It is natural, however, that we should
look upon the intellectual development as constituting the
essence of the change, and interpret the finer methods by
which the conflict of feeling is decided in the more developed
64 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
nature as implying that feeling is superseded by reason.
This interpretation, however, is really as erroneous as would
be the opinion that the finer instruments which enable us to
attain great mechanical results by a trifling expenditure of
force enable us to dispense with force altogether. A child
can raise a vast weight, with the help of certain machinerv,
by touching a spring or starting an electric current. We do
not infer that the effort is produced without force. Similarly,
the delicate and complex mechaiiical operations of a highly
oro-anised intellect may govern the conduct of the a(»;ent
without evolving any great expenditure of emotion. But it
is not that he acts without emotion, only that his emotions
act by more complex and refined methods. A word governs
them where the duller mind would require the actual stimu-
lus of a powerful passion.
25. Our problem, then, is not how does a reasoning differ
from an unreasoning being, but how does the being at a
higher stage of development, both intellectual and emotional,
differ from the being who is in both respects at a lower
stage? But it must also be observed that, in spite of the
close connection between the two elements, it is possible to
consider them separately. The intellectual faculties, for ex-
ample, may vary, whilst the emotional remain constant. It
is common to speak as though the reason might grow at the
expense of the emotions, and vice versa : and though we
may criticise the form of the statement, it represents the
undeniable fact that emotional activity is, in particular cases,
vuifavourable to certain forms of intellectual activity. In-
capacity for certain modes of fueling must limit our sphere of
experience in the matter of knowledge, but great excitabilitv
of the same feelings may hinder us from performing the
logical operations which always require a certain calm. The
most obvious measure of intellectual power is the accuracy
with which our ideal constructions represent the actual world
outside, and this may vary greatly in different moods with-
out a corresponding variation in its emotional quality. We
may conceive, for example, that two beings might be equally
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 65
absorbed by the passion of hunger; both might regard the
world as a gigantic kitchen, and arrange all possible objects
under the simple categories of eatable and non-eatable. But
one mi<j;ht difl'er widely from the other in the accuracy of his
judgments as to what was and what was not eatable, and his
skill in devising; means for conveying; the eatable into his
stomach. The reasoning- being; lives in a larg;er world than
the unreasoning, and he is so far more reasonable as his world
is more real. The height of unreason, in this sense, is repre-
sented by the case in which a man is under an illusion, and
supposes his limbs to be glass, or fancies that he can hold a
fire in his hand by thinking; on the Caucasus. Still the most
perfect sanity and the most delicate adjustment of means to
end, though it includes certain modes of conduct, leaves a
very wide margin of character; and men may be, in this
sense, equally reasonable whilst varying indefinitely in con-
duct.
2,6. The same considerations apply if we take a different test.
The accurate representation of the world implies an accurate
representation of our own feelings. A reasonable man, we
say, knows his own mind, a knowledge which, as satirists
and philosophers agree, is of the rarest. The sentiment
excited by any general name should represent that which is
actually excited in each particular case. If I accept the
principle of loving all men, I am inconsistent in hating any
individual of the class man. It would be extravagantly " un-
reasonable " to be charitable to every sufferer unless he had,
say, red hair or a black skin. In many such cases the eccen-
tricity amounts to a temporary change of character. The
sight of some hated symbol has a kind of physiological influ-
ence which rouses the wild beast within the man, and for the
time turns the philanthropist into a ruffian. The man, as
the phrase goes, is no longer himself. So, in other cases, the
man who is a stoic in his ideal world gives way to senti-
ment in the world of realities. This is, of course, possible
and common enough, and the development of reason will
tend to restrain such oscillations, as the widened area of
66 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
observation, the increased tendency to view the world as a
connected whole, and to bring all observations under general
principles must give continuity and consistency to the conduct
of life. We perceive that we act at different moments upon
different principles; that at one time our conduct is deter-
mined by such purely superficial considerations as the dislike
to a particular colour, whilst at another we go beyond the
superficial consideration to the interests of the human being
which are independent of such trifles. Reason will tend to
make such real inconsistencies vanish. But it does not ap-
pear that the bare condition of logical consistency is suffi-
cient to eliminate eccentricities. There is always some cause
for the wildest vagary or the most unreasonable prejudice.
To give a merely formal consistency to my conduct, it is suffi-
cient that this cause should become a reason; that the motives
by which I am actually determined should be represented in
the general rules which I frame. If hatred to the red-haired
actually influences me, I have only to dislike the red-haired
man in theory as much as I dislike him in fact to make my
conduct consistent in a formal sense. It is, of course, true that
this process of conscious representation of my actual character
will tend to modify the character itself; for it may be that
the motives by which I am in fact prompted will no longer
commend themselves when I try to generalise the principles
which they embody and to fit them with a code of conduct.
Still it would seem that the most eccentric set of pre-
judices might be stated coherently inasmuch as they do
in fact represent real qualities of a single individual. In
other words, the bare condition of logical consistence, of the
absence of direct contradiction from the feelings by which
I am prompted in my ideal constructions, and in the actual
occurrence of the case represented, does not suffice to define
my conduct any more than the accuracy with which my
ideal constructions correspond to the outside world. And
for this reason, as it seems to me, it is impossible to deduce
laws of conduct frovn the bare condition of consistency.
Any kind of conduct will satisfy that condition if the objective
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 67
reason or course of actioii be converted into the subjective
cause or reason for action.
27. But the development of our reason doubtless implies
more than a mere process of formulating our existing senti-
ments— something beyond a mere superioritv in the adapta-
tion of means to ends or in the knowledge of our own
characters and the external world, l^hat this must be so
follows, indeed, from the connection between the intellectual
and the emotional development. The man differs from the
beast, not simply by the addition of a faculty which enables
him more effectually to gratify the same passions, but by the
growth of a new set of emotions, which only exist in germ,
if they exist at ail, in the inferior beings. We have to ask,
then, how far this consideration will help to determine the
nature of reasoned conduct. We come upon the track of
the old discussion as to the siimmum bonum, that chief o-ood
which, it was conceived, must be desired by every one in
virtue of his being reasonable. If, in fact, it were possible to
define any such end as is implied in all reasoned conduct, we
should be at least on the way to a highly important conclu-
sion. Let us see how the difficulty presents itself at this
point of the inquiry.
28. We will assume for a moment that we may consider all
human conduct as determined by some single end ; that there
is some constant and definable object towards which all
desires converge, and which is common to all men. This is
to assume, if we look at the problem from the other side,
that all the feelings by which we are prompted may be reo^arded
as modifications of some single instinct. Man will resemble
the conventional miser whose sole object in life is to make
money, or, in the other mode of statement, whose sole passion
is avarice. So far as this can be re<rarded as at all representing-
the facts of the case, the influence of increased rationality
will be obvious. For it is plain that so far as the man
becomes more reasonable, all his activities will be brouo-ht to
converge upon a single line of action. Since the various
subsidiary ends have a common measure, his reason will enable
68 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
him to compare them, as the miser compares different courses
of action, simply in respect of the pecuniary profit. This
increased rationality will thus manifest itself in an increased
skill in proportioning means to ends, and in a more com-
plete knowledge of his own character. He will have to learn
by experience how far new combinations of circumstances
will gratify his ruling (or rather his sole) passion, which is
the same thing as discovering what is the law of the passion.
He is comparing modes of feeling identical in kind, and to
discover how he feels under given circumstances is to discover
what circumstances he prefers. This may often be difficult,
inasmuch as it mav be difficult to brins; tocrether in thouo-ht
two different states; but the criterion is always simple,
namely, the balance of gratification in one way or the other.
Finally, the fullest development of the reason would not, so
far, serve to determine the problem what is this sole or
master passion. That still remains as an arbitrary or entirely
undetermined element in the problem ; though if it could
once be fixed, the remainder of the problem would be deter-
minate. Given the love of money, or of any other definite
object as determining all the activities, and the rest is a
question of calculation. All the rules of action would appear
as co-ordinated into a systematic whole as different applica-
tions of the one fundamental principle, " Get money ; " as in
scientific inquiries all the particular cases appear as em-
bodying (and in that sense obeying) certain simple universal
rules.
29. Here, then, the criticism recurs that the happiness
which all men desire is not a simple end, but a name for
many and radically different forms of gratification. The de-
scription just given would hold good in strictness of nothing
but a polyp, an organism swayed by a single desire, say, a
love of warmth and a dread of cold, and representing not a
whole composed of parts but an indivisible atom. If such a
beinti^ could be supposed to be endowed with reason, its
actions would lu) doubt have a single end, and there could
be no dispute as to its siunmum honum. But as the growth
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. (g
of reason implies the development of a vast complexity of
feeling, this apparent unity is illusory. Man, in fact, is a
microcosm as complex as the world which is mirrored in
his mind ; he is a federation incompletely centralised, a
hierarchy of numerous and conflicting passions, each of
which has ends of its own, and each of which, separately
considered, would give a different law of conduct. He is in
some sense a unit, but his unity is such as to include an
indefinite number of partly independent sensibilities ; and
consequently it is impossible to lay down any single end,
even for the individual, and still more obviously impossible to
lay down such an end as that which is in fact desired by all
individuals whatever their constitution. Whether we can
lay down such an end as that which all " ought " to desire is
at present not the question; for we are simply dealing with
the facts, and have not come within view of the meaning to
be attributed to " ought."
30. Now the difficulty thus suggested undoubtedly makes
it difficult to lay down any simple formula of conduct : it
rather tends to prove that any formula which professes to be
simple must be illusory. And, moreover, we have this diffi-
culty, that our psychology is at present utterly inadequate to
decide what are the elementary passions of which the organic
federation is composed, or in what sense they can be regarded
as distinct. We must be content with the vaguest and most
general propositions upon the subject. We feel that the
different physical appetites are in some sense distinct, and
perceive them to correspond to different bodily organs. Yet
thev are not independent ; for each organ and each appetite
depends at every moment upon the whole organism, or upon
the state of the other organs of which it is composed. The
difficulty becomes still greater when we come to the higher
or intellectual instincts, whose limits and differences are so ill
defined, and which have no distinct physical correlates. Leav-
ing it to the psychologists to describe as well as they can the
complex constitution of this mysterious federation, we may here
be content with one or two remarks. We may assume that we
yo THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
are roughly describing facts when we say that the man, consi-
dered upon the emotional side, is built up of a certain small
number of primary sensibilities, each of which may be stimu-
lated in a vast variety of ways, and is subject to a number of
intricate actions and reactions from its neighbours. More-
over, it is the very condition of organic unity that they form
in some sense a whole, so that the action of each is dependent
at every moment upon the state of the others. A superior
being who could examine our characters would be able to lay
down the formula of our conduct, in which the determining
instinct would appear as the resultant of various subordinate
instincts, each actino; according to the stimulus of external
circumstances, and limited by its dependence upon the other
constituent parts of the organism. However different the
feelings may be in kind, they must be commensurable : they
have a certain value in terms of each other, and as parts of a
single whole they have a single and (by the superior being)
definable resultant. The formula would be beyond measure
complex : it would not depend upon the conditions of grati-
fication of a single instinct, but upon the gratifications of
several instincts, themselves connected by complex laws ex-
pressing the organic constitution of the agent. Instead of
supposing, according to my former illustration, that a man's
conduct is determined simply by the love of gold, we should
have to suppose that he wished for gold and silver and any
other metals in certain varying proportions, dependent upon
the laws of his own character, whilst the pursuit of each in-
volved more or less incon'sistent modes of action. But how-
ever complex the resulting formula, and of course it would
be indefinitely more complex than the illustration suggests?
it would still give determinate rules; and though the end
would be harder to define, it would be still definite.
31. Hence, when we return to the question of rationality,
we may say that the general result is not affected. For the
operation of reason will still tend to bring about a certain
unity in the result. So far as any instinct, whether simple
or complex, is dominant, the reason will tend to proportion
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 71
means to ends, and so far to bring about unity of action and
purpose. The various actions directed to the gratification of
that instinct will form parts of a coherent and intelligible
system. Further, as the emotions are closely connected, as
they blend with each other, and the whole process of develop-
ment is a process of forming a certain hierarchy in which the
separate and special instincts are subordinated to the more
central and massive, the reason will develop, if not a unity, at
least a harmony of action. For, so far as we reason, the action
of each separate instinct is controlled by a constant reference
to the requirements of others. We may act like the lower
animals under the immediate impulse of hunger, but our
huno-er is restrained, not onlv by the foresight of to-morrow's
appetite, but by the knowledge that this indulgence may be
at the expense of other pleasures. The passion is regulated
and restrained bv our desire of a more intellectual or emotional
enjoyment. Reason supplies, if we may say so, the flywheel
which makes every part of the machinery act under the in-
fluence of the other parts with which it is organically con-
nected. A caprice — such as the dislike to the red-haired — is
checked, because such a caprice implies obedience to the
sincrle emotion without reference to other considerations.
We act absurdly because we forget that the redness of
hair is not inconsistent with the persistence of the same
feelings and svmpathies which determine our conduct in
the case of men of a different complexion. So far as we
are reasonable we are able to consider our conduct, and
to consider in anv given case all that is implied in it. In-
stead of being guided exclusively by the superficial considera-
tion, we see in the mind's eye all the deeper and more im-
portant circumstances which it involves; and therefore the
strongest feelings, whatever they may be, the most permanent
emotions, are being constantly called into play to correct and
dominate the trifling ones. Each instinct has its voice in
determining the action of the federal government, but no one
is allowed to take the command exclusively without reference
to the wishes of the others.
72 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
32. But such considerations, which might be expanded
to much greater length, and which would require expansion
in a psychological treatise, still leave the important question
open. The reason brings the whole conduct into harmony
and unity; it forbids us to pursue trifling objects at the
expense of important; for instead of allowing each instinct
to operate exclusively in turn, it subjects each to the implicit
and explicit control of the others. And the very mode by
which our rational and emotional nature is evolved implies
this constant centralisation proceeding pari passu with our
reason in the complexity of thought and feeling. The great
central emotions become stronger as the discovered laws,
whether of our own or of external nature, become ranged
into a consistent hierarchy of principles. But we may still
ask, how is the relation between the different instincts de-
termined ? What settles the influence exerted by each member
of the federation ? What do we mean when we speak of one
interest as trifling and another as important? One passion,
as a matter of fact, is less powerful than another under given
circumstances, but the weaker is not therefore suppressed.
Hunger will still overcome love under certain conditions,
though the relative importance of the part which it plays in
the whole organism will be diminished (let us assume) as
the reasoning power increases. The character is determined
for each individual by its original constitution, though the
character is modified as the reason acts, not only because
reason accumulates a constant reference to certain motives,
and so gives them greater influence in determining conduct,
but because it enables us after a time to judge even of our own
character as a whole, to rehearse not only particular acts but
moods, and so become spectators of ourselves, and regard our
own feelings with disgust or complacency. Every such reflec-
tion tends to modify future action by revealing to us more dis-
tinctly its social consequences, and by investing it with cer-
tain associations of approval or disapproval. But, after all,
we start with a certain balance of feeling, with certain fixed
relations between our various instincts; and however these
THE REASON AS DETERMINING CONDUCT. 73
may change afterwards, our character is so far determined
from the start. Again, it is plain that this varies greatly
with different people and gives rise to different types. In
one man the sensual passions have a greater relative import-
ance than in his neighbour, and so forth. And the question
arises, whether we can determine which of these types, or
anv of them, is most reasonable ?
^^. So far as we have gone, I do not see how any conclu-
sion of this kind can be drawn. Assuming a certain end, as
I have said, we may say what is the most reasonable mode
of conduct, and what therefore will be the conduct of the
most reasonable man with a view to that end. But nothing
hitherto stated will enable us to define the end which is itself
most reasonable, or to give any meaning to the phrase. And
this argument becomes, if anything, stronger when we admit
that the end is exceedingly complex, instead of being simple
and uniform. Each tvpe of character has its own end, which
may determine the persistent and harmonious action. The
sensualist has purposes as definite and intelligible from his
point of view as the ascetic. The rule, " Let every one care for
me," is quite as simple, and, in a logical point of view, defines
conduct as consistently and reasonably, as the rule, "Love your
neighbour as yourself." That motive is most important for
any man which corresponds to his strongest and most fre-
quently stimulated instinct; but we have so far no means of
saying why reason should determine any particular relation
between the instincts, or why any one character should not
be just as reasonable as any other. In short, there is so far
an arbitrary element in our data which we have found no
means of determining. Man is both a reasoning and a
feeling animal. We can say what it is to be more reason-
able, in so far as reason implies a conformity between the
actual world and the ideal world by which it is represented ;
and this holds good whatever the precise meaning attributed
to those words by the metaphysician. We are still at a loss
to determine the other element of the problem : what is
that criterion, if any, by which we can judge of feelings?
74 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
They exist, and so far cannot be called true or false. They
are actual or they are nothing. If actual, in what sense is
one feeling, or set of feelings, or one type of character, better
than another ? That, of course, is the vital problem of all
ethical speculation, which will recur in various forms here-
after. To answer it at all, we must, as I hold, have recourse
to a different set of considerations, and they must be those
already indicated in the previous chapter, where I have
pointed out that the arbitrariness of our data is corrected by
the theory of evolution.
IV. Types.
34. Every reasoning agent, I have said, represents a certain
tvpe. Since his conduct is regulated in each particular by a
certain regard to the purposes of his life, and his sentiments
are constantly correcting and blewding with each other, there
is a certain unity of character in spite of the complex consti-
tution of his nature. Each impulse is subordinated to the
whole, and there is a subjective unity of sentiment corre-
sponding to the objective unity of organisation. The phrases
thus used are necessarily vague, and a kind of mystical sense
has been sometimes imported into them. We must try to
give them a little more precision; and, in particular, we must
ask what is meant by a " type," an expression which fre-
quently recurs in these discussions. Consider, for example,
a simple mechanical contrivance, such as a bow. The bow
was, we mav suppose, originally discovered by some simple
experience which revealed to some primitive savage the
properties of a special combination of wood and sinew.
Successive experiments gradually led to improved forms, by
some such process, it may be, as that which is illustrated in
Lamb's philosophical apologue of roast pig. Every improved
form would be used because it saved trouble. To have the
best form of bow was a matter of importance to each tribe
for use against beasts or enemies. The tribe which had the
best bow would have an advantage in the struggle for exist-
TYPES. 75
ence. Whenever accident revealed an improvement, it
would be adopted whenever the powers of observation w^ere
keen enouo-h to note the savings of labour required for a
given effect. As men became intelligent, experiments
would be tried with more conscious and deliberate purpose,
and in time they might be carried out upon system, and
general formulae would be laid down. Discovery w^ould
become invention as the foresight and powers of calculation
developed, and in time mechanical theorists would become
able to lay down general rules, stating the relation between the
power and the materials of bows and arrows, and the range,
accuracy, penetration, and so forth, of the weapons.
^^. Without pursuing this conjectural history, it is clear
that in any case there is a definite problem to be solved.
Given the materials and the purpose to be attained, one form
of bow would represent the maximum of efficiency. If, for
example, the archer has at his disposal a particular kind of
wood and has to pursue a particular kind of game, he will
have to satisfy a particular set of conditions which might be
expressed in mathematical formulae. Whether he has to work
out the best form of bow by rule of thumb, or whether he
is able to apply general rules, the process is essentially the
same, though in the latter case he can reason about whole
classes of cases as well as about particular cases, and can
understand more precisely what he is about, and be guided
against attempting impossibilities or satisfying contradictory
conditions. Even in so simple a case the complexity of the
data is so great that it might exceed the powers of the most
skilful mechanist to deduce the result from general principles.
But in any case the problem is determinate. The bow, we
may say, is there ; and in some way or other it may be formed,
however tentative or systematic the method.
;^6. The bow, then, which represents the best solution of
the problem may be called the typical bow. It is that form
to which bows approximate so far as perfect, and every devia-
tion from which implies a defect. The actual may differ,
either as simply worse in all respects, or as gaining some
76 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
advantage at the price of others, such as a longer range with
less accuracy. The problem as to the degree in which it is
worth while to sacrifice range to accuracy can only be deter-
mined by its use, and presumably by a series ot" experiments.
And assuming the use and the materials to be constant, we
may regard the evolution of bows as a long series of attempts,
extending, it may be, over many generations, to solve the
jKoblem. The discovery of a new material or the applica-
tion of the bow to fresh purposes would set up a new process
of development. No bow is an actual realisation of the
type, for every bow, like every man, has its faults; nor is
the average the same as the typical bow, for deviations may
take place more frequently in one direction than another.
But the tvpical and ideal bow represents that maximum of
efficiency to which the bow tends to approximate, either by
the direct perception of its utility by the archers, or by the
fact that the archers who have the best bows are likely to
exterminate the others.
37. It is not irrelevant to observe that an instrument
which thus approximates to a type as the product of a slow
elaboration has a special beauty. The idea of the bow has
been rolled in countless minds till it is rounded to perfection,
like the pebble on the sea-beach. Everything superfluous
has been removed, as the trained athlete gets rid of super-
fluous tissues. It is exquisitely adapted to its purpose; and
the pleasure of contemplating it implies that we can perceive
this adaptation and derive from it that subtle sense of harmony
which governs our intellectual emotions. The pleasure, in
, fact, is another aspect of the skill implied in the so-called
"rule of thumb." Though we cannot calculate, we can feel
the utilitv. The recognition of the perfect adaptation reveals
itself to our feelino^s as aesthetic satisfaction. The instinct
outruns our power of scientific statement of the conditions;
for, in fact, the scientific knowledge corresponds only to that
small part of our knowledge which is capable of definite
articulate statement.
38. We may trace a similar principle in forms infinitely
TYPES. 77
more complex. A Greek statue, we say, represents a type
of physical excellence. We cannot explain precisely how
the sculptor discovered the type, nor how we recognise it
when presented; but we do, in fact, recognise the solution
of an amazingly complex problem. The anatomist can tell
us, within certain limits, why one combination of bone and
muscle is more efficient than another. The artist is able to
present us directly with the form which represents the maxi-
mum of strength and agility possible to human flesh and
blood. The figure, we say, is perfectly graceful, because it
can perform any given task with the least expenditure of
strength, or make a given amount of strength do the most
work. Nothing is superfluous and nothing deficient.
The being represented could leap a given height with the
least exertion, or leap the greatest height with a given
exertion. And here too we see that the form is the best rela-
tively to certain conditions. The Hercules or the Apollo
may each be the best form as we require the greatest possible
strength to wield a club or the greatest possible activity of
locomotion. So, in fact, every athlete is generally best
at some particular exercise, or in some special department
of that exercise. The typical athlete represents rather a
typical group than a single form. Most defects are disquali-
fications for every kind of excellence, but, as between diff'erent
representatives of the typical group, we cannot say positively
that one is best unless we can define the function excellence in
which is to supply the criterion. And when this function
is determined, we have equally to assume certain data. If
the best athlete is to be the best runner, or say the best runner
for a given distance, we still have to remember that the athlete
has not only to be a runner, but a breathing, thinking, digest-
ing animal, to have lungs, brains, and stomach; and we tacitly
assume, in speaking of the typical form, that the resulting
conditions have to be satisfied. We do not speak, or rather
we cannot speak with any intelligible meaning, of the
greatest speed absolutely, but of the greatest speed obtainable
78 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
consistently with the general conditions implied in the other
wants of the human frame.
39. We can give, then, a precise meaning to the word
" type " so long as the end and the conditions can be regarded
as fixed. The bow has to bring about a certain result under
certain conditions. It is part of a whole, and may be con-
sidered as a supplementary limb discharging a given function
in the organism. But when we take the whole organism,
the meaning requires modification. The eye is useful to the
hand and to the whole organic system; the hand, again, to
the organism, including the eye. Each part is good or bad
relatively to the whole; but what is implied by the whole?
When there is some external criterion the answer is easy.
We can say what is the typical sheep from the point of view
of the butcher, or again from the point of view of the wool
merchant; but, what is the typical sheep considered ab-
solutely ? If the word " absolutely " be used in such a sense
as to exclude a reference to any conditions whatever, the
question ceases to have any meaning. It is intelligible to ask
what is the greatest speed of an animal, or of a steam-engine,
or of an electric message, because in each case I assign a
limit of possibility; but to ask what is the greatest speed
possible for anything is to ask a question which by its nature
has no answer. What then is the criterion bv which the
sheep is to be judged? We may say that it is the sum total
of all the sheep's relations to the external world, for we have
no means of regarding one relation either than another.
Again, each form of sheep plays its own part in the general
system, and the judgment of butcher, wool merchant, or hunter
will differ according to his particular needs. How are we to
decide which judgment is right or in what sense we can apply
risrht or wrons; to such estimates?
40. The answer to this question, which I must accept, for
I cannot inquire into the ultimate grounds, is that supplied
by the evolutionist. That theory, I take it, implies the
following statements. The organism — sheep or man — is not
a simple aggregate of independent parts which might be put
TYPES. 79
toc-cthcr accordins: to one confio-uration or another. In that
case all that we could say of it would be, that an organism
was composed of such and such parts or that a conscious being
had such and such instincts; but that, for anything we could
say, the same elements might be put together in any other
way. The ultimate constitution would remain as a perfectly
arbitrary set of data. We should be unable to get beyond
the difficulty in which we have been already landed. But
we learn from the theory of evolution that as the individual
organism is composed of mutually dependent parts, and that
its existence involves the maintenance of a certain equilibrium,
so each organism supports itself as a part in a more general
equilibrium, and that its constitution depends at every
moment upon a process of adaptation to the whole system
of the world. And this may be expressed by saying that
every animal represents the solution of a problem as well as
a set of data for a new problem. As the bow is felt out, the
animal is always feeling itself out. The problem which it
solves is how to hold its own against the surrounding pressure
and the active competition of innumerable rivals. A species,
indeed, does not simply adapt itself to absolutely fixed con-
ditions, like wax poured into a rigid mould. In altering
itself it alters to some extent its environment. By extir-
pating a rival race it sets up a whole series of actions and
reactions, implying a readjustment of the whole equilibrium
amonffst all the races with which it is in contact, and to
some extent an alteration of the inorganic world. A new
state of things slowly substitutes itself for the old, but in
such a way that each species is continuous with the preceding,
and has been slowly remoulded by an incessant series of
unconscious experiments conducted under the constant con-
dition that failure means extirpation. Hence, though we
cannot say that either the end or the conditions are absolutely
constant, and though any full statement would have to be
unendingly complex in consequence, the whole process is
describable as a slow elaboration of types. The material at
any moment is a species, a group of organised beings, capable
So THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
of varying within certain limits, placed under conditions
which, for the moment, are apparently fixed, and succeeding
in so far as it realises the condition of maximum total
efficiency. The capacity for holding its own replaces the
condition of fitness for a fixed external end.
41. We assume, then, that, although we cannot apply an
d priori method, although we cannot define the materials
of which men are made, or the end which they have to
fulfil, we can determine to some extent their typical excel-
lence. Recognising the general nature of the great prob-
lem which is being worked out, we can discov'er what is
implied in some of the results. The process of evolution
must at every moment be a process of discovering a maxi-
mum of efficiency, though the conditions are always varying
slowly, and an absolute maximum is inconceivable. At
every point of the process there is a certain determinate
direction along which development must take place. The
form which represents this direction is the typical form, any
deviation from which is a defect. This typical form, again,
so long as evolution continues, cannot represent an ultimate
result ; it is not (if I may say so) at the summit of a peak,
but on the summit line of a perpetually ascending ridge.
The actual forms are almost always more or less defective ;
the individual is below the ridge, not at a higher point of a
ridge. Gradually, indeed, if development continues, the type
itself will improve ; one particular form will differ from the
previous variations by being at a higher point of the ridge,
and in that last it will represent the advance towards a new
species.
43. To take into account all the corrections which would
be necessary for an accurate statement would be very diffi-
cult, and for my purpose the task would be superfluous.
The exposition and establishment of the theory of evolution
lies beyond the ethical problem, and is one of the data
which we must be content either to repudiate or (as I do)
take for granted. I will merely add one remark which
may indicate some of the difficulties involved in a complete
TYPES. LosAtiguu^ 8 1
statement. I have said that every type must be relative to
the assumed end. As one form of athletic excellence is best
for one exercise and another for a different exercise, so in
the higher qualities there is room for an indefinite variety
of qualities, each of which may be best in certain relations.
There may, indeed probably there must be, properties com-
mon to all the typical forms, but they must be such as to
be reconcilable with great individual variation. So, for ex-
ample, a man may be a poet, a philosopher, a statesman, and
so forth, and we may say that to each function there corre-
sponds an appropriate type. Now it is conceivable that the
highest excellence in different departments of conduct may
imply consistent conditions. The greatest philosopher may
also be the greatest athlete and the greatest poet. It is
equally clear that there is no necessary connection. Brains
of abnormal power may be associated with puny muscles.
The sensibility of a poet, the preoccupation with abstract
principles of a philosopher, may unfit either for business.
The statement, indeed, is always ambiguous ; for it does not
follow that the poetic sensibility might not be combined
with the qualities of a man of business, as (apparently) was
the case of Shakespeare. It seems, however, to be a highly
general rule, that great excellence has, as it were, to be bought
at a price, and that efficiency in one direction implies de-
ficiency in others. Here, then, occurs the question — only
to be solved by experiment — What is the relative value of
different kinds of efficiency ? And a complete answer might
bring out the fact, which seems on other grounds probable,
that it is an advantage to a race to include a great variety
of different types. To take this into account would require
a new complexity of statement. It is enough, however, to
say here, that by speaking of a type I do not mean to assert
that there is one special constitution, conformity to which
by any individual of a race is a condition of efficiency, but
simply that the process of evolution is always the working
out of a problem which implies the attainment of general
efficiency by the acquisition of certain general qualities.
F
82 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
IV. The Principle of Utility.
43. These considerations^ however, lie rather outside of
the relevant argument. Before proceeding, it may be well
to call attention to the nature of the position here adopted.
I have, in fact, shifted my point of view. Speaking of
motives, I have argued that conduct is determined by pain
and pleasure. The painfulness of a state is a sufficient, ulti-
mate, and sole reason for avoiding it. But in speaking of
the elements of character, I have substituted for the considera-
tion of pain and pleasure the consideration of conditions of
existence. The fact is simply that the constants in one
problem are variables in the other. Given a certain char-
acter, the agent does what gives him pleasure. But if
we ask how he comes to have that character, the only mode
of answering is by referring to the conditions of existence.
His character must be such as to fit him for the struggle of
life. The reason of conduct is always its quality in terms
of pain or pleasure. The cause of its being painful or
pleasurable is the constitution of the agent ; and for this
constitution we can only account, so far as we can account
for it at all, by considering it as a variable, dependent upon
the conditions of life. Only in this way does the problem
from which we started become determinate. If we take
character as fixed, the development of reason can only imply
a harmony, an adaptation of means to ends, and so forth,
leaving the end or the dominating instinct in itself a positive
or arbitrary datum. As character varies, so will the ends
vary; and from the simple consideration of consistency, or
of pain and pleasure, we cannot by any ingenuity determine
what will be the general law of conduct. Hence the neces-
sity and the importance of the other mode of investigation,
as enabling us to assign more or less precisely the conditions
of this constitution, which, from the other point of view,
must be taken for granted. This double mode of reasoning
involves, therefore, no inconsistency, and is forced upon us
^-^
THE PRINCIPLE OF UTILITY. 83
by the conditions of the case. We may regard conduct
either as painful and pleasurable, or as conducive or not
conducive to the permanent existence of the agent. And
hence we have the consideration that there must be a corre-
lation between painful and pernicious actions on the one
hand, and pleasurable and temporal on the other. A man
will do what pleases him, and, if he is to live, must do what
is good for him, or at least what is not destructive. The
" useful," in the sense of pleasure-giving, must approximately
coincide with the " useful " in the sense of life-preserving.
This is a fundamental doctrine from the evolutionist point
of view, and requires a little further consideration.
44. We may remark, in the first place, that all conduct
may be considered as a set of habits, to each of which^ so far
as it is voluntary, there is a corresponding instinct. I use
both words in the widest possible sense. By a habit I mean
any mode of conduct which can be brought under a general
rule, and this, of course, would include the automatic as well
as voluntary actions. I use instinct, again, to include all
conscious impulses to action, whether including more or less
reasoned choice, and whether innate or acquired. Some
mode of feeling conditions all conscious action. Whether
the immediate action is pleasant in itself, or pleasant because
regarded as part of a whole system of actions, involving
remote consequences discoverable by refined calculations, it
still involves in the last result some pleasurable emotion.
The operative instinct may be an animal instinct, such as
hunger, or an instinct involving high intellectual develop-
ment, such as patriotism or religion. Where an action is
simply an end to some remote purpose, and absolutely in-
different in other respects, it is the foretaste of the pleasure
derivable from the remote consequences which determines
the action; and, of course, it is often difficult to decide
what may be the true motive. But in any case, there is
some motive, and the instinct means the sensibility to that
class of motive. We may then compare habits and their
corresponding instincts, in respect of their painfulness and
84 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
pleasurableness, or in respect of their utility, so far as they
imply total efficiency or the reverse; which means, again
(when we consider the organism primarily and not the con-
sequences of action), in respect of their essentiality or super-
ficiality.
45. There are, in fact, some habits which are essential to
the organisms — such habits (if the word may be used in
so strained a sense) as breathing or digesting. They are
the processes which constitute life rather than maintain it,
and are, for the most part, automatic, or beyond the direct
reach of our volition. We can kill ourselves as we can kill
another man, and so suspend digestion; but our volition
does not immediately affect the digestive process in our
own more than in another man's stomach. From this point
of maximum necessity the habits graduate to the most super-
ficial and transitory. Some may be changed or abolished
by a transitory change of feeling, whilst others can only be
altered by a reconstruction of our whole character. And
this suggests a remark, familiar enough, but worth the
explicit statement, because many fallacies spring from its
neglect. It is simply this : that every theory about an organ
or any property of an organism must be understood with a
reference, tacit or express, to the mutual interdependence
of every part of the organic whole. If, for example, I say
that a certain habit is pleasant or painful, useful or perni-
cious, I must remember that the habit cannot be simply
deducted as from a sum total of independent wholes, and
that, on the contrary, its removal must involve to some
extent a readjustment of the whole organic equilibrium. It
is therefore essential to take into account all the indirect or
underlying consequences involved in this consideration, as
well as to strike an average of the good or bad effects of the
habit itself. In order that the proposition, ''This habit
is a bad one," may have any real meaning, we must assume
that the organism can exist without the habit. If this be
possible, then wc must take into account all the differences
necessarily involved. Wc must compare the whole man as
THE PRINCIPLE OF UTILITY. 85
he exists with a certain quahty to the whole man as he exists
without it. To suppose that any given characteristic can
be simply subtracted, is to argue as though cutting off a leg
had no other consequence than removing a crutch. In
one case the whole character of the man is affected, in the
other it remains constant. The fallacies which result from
an oversight of this obvious truth are so common and pesti-
lent, that it is necessary to take note of their nature. We
are always tempted to assume that we can take off a habit
as we can take off a coat, and to suppose that some political
or social evil can be remedied by simply removing the most
obvious source of the mischief without troubling ourselves
to ask what other organic changes will be set up. This
error is indeed so common as to be almost the master-error
of a crude sociology, and it may be described as a virtual
confusion between oro;anic and merelv mechanical wholes.
46. It is important to remember this in considering the
principle just laid down of the correlation betweeen painful
and pernicious habits. Some such process, I have said, is
necessarily implied in the evolutionist theory, and is implied
at every stage. The highest organism has been built up from
the lowest under the constant stress of this condition. From
the vague wriggle of the worm who acts upon the implicit
formula, "Any change may be for the better," though one
wriggle may save and another slay, as it takes him into or
out of the beak of the bird, up to the most refined motives
and delicate calculations of the philosopher or statesman
who meets a danger by a specific series of carefully co-
ordinated actions, the general principle must still be the
same. So far as the instincts of any agent lead him into
danger, they are a point against him; so far as they lead him
into safety, a point in his favour in the ceaseless competition.
In every case, too, we must consider the total effect. The
growth of a new instinct brings fresh dangers as well as fresh
advantages. The problem which is always being worked
out is whether the new form is on the whole more or less
capable of holding its own. It does not simply drop out one
86 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
instinct and insert another^ but is more or less modified
throughout, so as possibly to develop unsuspected qualities
in directions very remote from that which is most conspi-
cuously concerned.
47. This suggests the problem as to the true theory of
pain and pleasure. Granting the general truth of this prin-
ciple of correlation between the two kinds of utility, we
may ask whether it cannot be pushed further? May it not
be possible to show from the nature of the case that pain
and pleasure are necessarily connected with pernicious and
beneficial processes respectively? It has in fact been main-
tained, and with a considerable show of evidence, that there
is some intimate connection between pleasure and a state of
heightened vitality on the one hand, and between pain and a
state of lowered vitality on the other. I will not go into an
argument which is not strictly relevant to my case, and
which would lead me far beyond the limits of my knowledge,
and, as I imagine, beyond the limits of all established science.
The connection, whatever it may be, can only be discovered
by careful and prolonged investigations; it takes us into the
perplexing region of obscure physiology; it gets mixed up
with controversies as to the ultimate metaphysical problem
of the relation between subject and object. I will only venture
one observation, bearing upon the limits within which the
principle is applicable. We may certainly say, in general
terms, that there is as close a connection between health
and happiness as between disease and misery, and that the
anomalies which present themselves in attempting to gene-
ralise this theory might be cleared up by a more accurate
investigation. But this does not tend, properly speaking,
to explain the connection, nor docs it show with any pre-
cision how close the connection must be. The principle
may reveal a tendency and as exhibiting certain conditions
of organic life, but it does not in any sense explain the
existence and the intimate nature of pain and pleasure.
48. Thus, in the first place, if we use the word "utility"
in the subjective sense, it means, as I have said, nothing
THE PRINCIPLE OF UTILITY. 87
but painful and pleasurable. Every pleasure is so far good,
every pain so far bad; and it is a contradiction in terms to
speak of a pain as useful. The only admissible meaning of
such a phrase emerges when we regard the system as a whole,
and admit that a certain pain is useful because a loss of the
susceptibility to the pain in question would involve a greater
pain on the whole. The being enjoys the maximum happi-
ness possible under its conditions of life, although its con-
stitution involves a certain admixture of pain. If, again, we
speak of utility in the other and objective sense, a pain may
be useful so far as it determines to preservative actions,
although this, again, only implies utility in the first sense
so far as preservation implies a balance of happiness. Now
we must assume that, in some way or other, painful or
pleasurable states are dependent upon the material conditions
of the organism, and, moreover, dependent upon its actual
state at each moment, and upon its mode of working, not
upon its absolute strength or ability. The absolute strength,
in fact, means its potential capacity of resisting any strain
to which it might be subjected. If the strain is not actually
present, the capacity to bear it may not be required. Many
diseases are painless; weak lungs, for example, often give
little pain unless the patient is called upon for some exertion.
The healthy lung, we must suppose, has great reserves of
power; but so long as they are not called into action, it
matters not whether they exist or not. It is the right work-
ing of the machinery which is relevant, not the power of
the machinery to bear work under different circumstances.
Till the crash comes, the weak fibre which does all that
is needed is as useful and produces no more pain than the
strong fibre. And so, again, the fact that any mode of conduct
may lead to bad consequences hereafter does not of itself
produce either pain or pleasure, though to the reasoning
animal the anticipated evil is already an evil. In the absence
of that anticipation we have only to ask whether the organic
equilibrium is maintained, and have no concern with results.
I walk with equal comfort whether I am advancing to a
88 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
pitfall or along a firm path, or whether I am or am not
weakening some vital part, so long as I am not weakening it
in such a way as to interfere with the maintenance of a cer-
tain equilibrimn.
49. We must suppose, then, that pain and pleasure are
the correlatives of certain states which may be roughly
regarded as the smooth and the distracted working of the
physical machinery, and that, given those states, the sensa-
tions must always be present. So far we do not come in
sight of any question of utility or of any sense in which
pain can be regarded as useful. We reach that point of
view where we take into account the principle already stated,
but incapable (as it seems to me) of any proof except that
of observation, that pain corresponds to unstable and
pleasure to stable states of equilibrium. So far, that is^ as
our feelings determine our conduct, they determine us to
avoid pain and retain pleasure. And this is quite enough
to show that there is a tendency to correlate painful and
pernicious, pleasurable and beneficial. The agent which
delights in states which generally love pernicious conse-
quences is so far self-destructive. An animal which liked
poisonous food would be unable to exist when the food was
easily obtainable. And it is clear that this condition, which
has been always operative from the earliest stages of evolu-
tion, must maintain the correlation within certain limits.
It is equally clear that the correlation is very far indeed
from perfect. The growth of a new taste involves new
dangers as well as new advantages, and may establish itself if
the new animal as a whole is better than the old as a whole.
If external circumstances change, new relations are developed
which may bring out new evils. The taste of a savage for
stron<i" drink may be harmless because dormant until the
civilised man introduces firewater. There is, again, no
obvious reason why a perfectly useless pain may not endure
indefinitely. The agony caused by certain diseases must
remain as Ions; as the constitutional state which it reflects is
producible under actual circumstances; and to bring about
THE PRINCIPLE OF UTILITY. 89
such a change in the organism as would make this' state
impossible may involve such a total change in its whole
construction, involving all manner of collateral changes, as
may never be realised, or be realisable only at the price of
developing other evils. And, again, many actions once
pleasurable tend to become automatic, and so there is
apparently at least a loss of happiness without any obvious
compensation. We may perhaps guess that there is even
in this case an advantage, inasmuch as the automatic per-
formance of any action tends, so to speak, to set the con-
sciousness free for other purposes; and thus, although the
most highly developed agent is the most perfect automaton,
he has also for that very reason a greater range of conscious
thought and feeling. Such considerations are enough to
remind us how limited is our knowledge and how rapidly we
are reduced to vague conjectures. This only may be said, that
the correlation in question does not imply that all our
pleasures and pains are useful in the sense of tending to
self-preservation, as indeed such a correlation would be
manifestly contradictory to all our experience; and, again,
it does not tend to explain in any way whatever the
existence of pain and pleasure, for this existence is presup-
posed, and is presumably dependent upon a direct relation
between the feelings and the organic processes, which is
to us absolutely inscrutable ; but at the same time it re-
presents a highly important condition, which must regulate
at every stage the process of evolution. It only justifies us
in saying, that so far as any agent takes pleasure in things
conducive to his preservation, he has a better chance of
survival, and, therefore, that we may regard compliance
with this condition as one cardinal point in the theory of
organic development.
50. How much further can we proceed ? One remark is
of course obvious. So far as any instinct is deeply seated,
so far, that is, as a being would require a complete recon-
struction to exist w^ithout it, we may consider that it has a
presumption in favour of its utility. It may be absolutely
90 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
essential to the existence of the organism ; and even if
plainly non-essential, we may fairly argue against its being
pernicious. An institution which has flourished in many
different ages and races under the most various conditions
must presumably fulfil some want and correspond to some
deeply seated instinct. So, to take a familiar example, it is
possible that the taste for stimulants may be injurious, but
it has in its favour the number of healthy and vigorous races
in which it is found, showing that at least it cannot be
destructive of vigour under all circumstances ; and, again,
we must admit that it satisfies a very widely spread desire,
which may be dependent upon a profound constitutional
necessity, and which will have to find its satisfaction in
one way or another. The problem, therefore, is not solved
by a simple summation of good and bad results, but involves
an inquiry as to the place filled by a desire for stimulants
in the whole economy of life. Whether any conclusions
assuming to be called scientific can be reached by such
methods need not be considered at present. The illustra-
tion may at any rate give some general indication of the
true import of the question to be put and the data required
for a satisfactory answer.
V. Social ajid Individual Uiiliti/.
51. I have spoken of instinct, habit, and so forth, as being
essential or non-essential to the organism, and have added
that between these two relations there may be an indefinite
number of gradations. What, then, is precisely meant by
*^' essential " in this connection? At a 2;ivcn moment anv
instinct may be essential in this sense, that the agent
could not exist without it. A man's life may depend upon
his possessing abnormal speed, strength, and eyesight. The
life of the organism depends at every instant upon his rela-
tion to the surrounding world, and by varying them we may
vary the requirements indefinitely. In speaking, therefore,
of any organism generally, we tacitly assume the existence
SOCIAL AND INDIVIDUAL UTILITY. 91
of the appropriate medium. A capacity is only essential if
it is essential under these normal conditions. A power
of breathing air is essential to certain classes of animals.
They cannot live in any other medium, and they cannot
live in air if they are incapacitated for this function. The
bare existence of the animal implies the existence of certain
conditions and of certain corresponding powers, and those
faculties are properly essential without which it could not
live anywhere, not those without which it could not liv^e in
some particular set of cases. Admitting this, there occurs
another difficulty. The process by which the correlation
of pernicious and painful states is worked out is one which,
by its very nature, must take a considerable number of genera-
tions. Races survive in virtue of the completeness of this cor-
relation. But the quality which makes a race survive may
not always be a source of advantage to every individual, nor
even, if we look closer, to the average individual. Since
the race has no existence apart from the individual, qualities
essential to the existence of each unit are of course essential
to the existence of the whole. If one animal cannot live
without lungs, a million cannot. But the converse proposi-
tion does not hold. In fact, there is a large and important
group of instincts in regard to which it is manifestly untrue.
The sexual and parental instincts are essential to the race,
for without them the race would cease in a single generation.
It is equally certain that they are not essential to the indi-
vidual. An animal deprived of them may not only live and
thrive, but will avoid many dangers to which it is exposed by
possessing them. The " unnatural " mother has the great
advantage that she will not give her life for her young. And
it is at least conceivable, though it may not happen actually,
that some creatures thus devoid of passions upon which the
continuance of the race absolutely depends may be not only
happier under certain special conditions, but may, on the
averas:e, enjoy more happiness than their neighbours. In such
cases, the parents virtually sacrifice themselves for the good
of the race. They may be unconscious of the sacrifice, and
92 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
we cannot call them unselfish. They are rather in a state
of mind in which^ as devoid of all prevision of consequences,
the question of selfishness and unselfishness has not yet pre-
sented itself. They act in a way not calculated to bring in
the greatest amount of happiness, but they act in obedience
to an instinct not guided by any calculation as to the fall of
the balance.
53. Here then is a case, and one of the very highest
importance, for it concerns the germ of all social life, in
which we see that the correlation between the benefi-
cial and the pernicious must be interpreted in a sense
different from that which we miijht at first siijht take for
granted. An instinct, that is, grows and decays not on
account of its effects on the individual, but on account
of its effects upon the race. The animal which on the
whole is better adapted for continuing its species will
have an advantage in the struggle, even though it may
not be so well adapted for pursuing its own happiness.
Here, then, it becomes desirable to attempt to bring into
greater distinctness the true meaning of the contrast between
the individual and the race, in order that we may endeavour
to determine in what sense there can or cannot be a conflict
between the individual who is the product of the race, and
the race which is itself formed of individuals, and in what
way the principle already laid down must be explained or
modified when we take this distinction into account.
( 93 )
CHAPTER in.
SOCIAL MOTIVES.
I. The Individual and the Race.
I. The last chapter has brought us to a distinction of
vital importance. We have had to distinguish between the
effects of the interests of societies and the interests of
individuals. An action or an instinct may, it seems, be of
essential importance to the whole, and of little or none to
the individual, and this distinction will obviously affect
our reasoning at many points. If we assert that the survival
of an instinct is determined by its utility^ we must
further decide how the utility is to be measured, whether
we are to consider the utility to the individual or the utility
to society, and in what sense any distinction is possible.
Other difficulties may reveal themselves as we proceed. We
will, therefore, begin by attempting to define as clearly as
we can the true meaning of the distinction in question.
We may thus be able to understand the nature of the social
bond so far as is necessary for our purpose, and to consider
what language will be best adapted to express the relations
involved.
■2. It is of course obvious that the individual and the race
are not two separate things capable of coming into collision.
The individual, as I have said, is the product of the race ;
and the race the sum of the individuals. And the fact that
the immediate interests of an individual may be incom-
patible with those of the race does not necessarily affect
our statement. The existence of such incompatibility is
of course only too familiar a fact. The prosperity of a
94 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
Napoleon may involve the degradation of his country. But
when I speak of " the individual " as being better or worse
adapted to his circumstances, I am not speaking of any
particular person, but of the average person. A Napoleon
may conceivably thrive by possessing qualities which are
injurious to his fellows. But it would be something very
like a contradiction to suppose that the average man might
be improved by conferring upon each qualities prejudicial
to the rest. If the average person is more intelligent and
richer, the whole of which he forms a part ,^ssesses a
greater sum of intelligence and wealth. If the qualities of
any society may be regarded — and in some sense it seems
that they must be regarded — as the sum of the qualities of
its constituent units, it follows that whatever strengthens or
weakens the average unit must also weaken or strengthen
the whole. This, indeed, would be accurately true if
we were justified in considering each unit as so far inde-
pendent that what is true of each might be applied to
all by direct multiplication. The difficulty begins to show
itself when we regard society, not as a mechanical aggregate,
but as an organic whole. In that case, we cannot regard
the efficiency of the whole as a simple sum of separate
efficiencies. The qualities of each unit may then be depen-
dent for their nature and for their efficiency upon their
relations to the organism. Thus, for example, if we take
an army, its efficiency will depend partly upon the strength
of the soldier, and partly upon his discipline. Double the
marching power of each soldier, and you will double the
length of marches possible for the army. But an increase
in the spirit of discipline produces an effect upon the army
which cannot be determined by simple multiplication ; for
not only may the efficiency of the army be enormously
increased by a slight increase in the spirit, but such an
increase may operate very differently under different states
of the army. It might diminish its efficiency in warfare
which required separate action, as it might enormously
increase it where the first necessity was unity, and there-
THE INDIVIDUAL AND THE RACE. 95
fore blind obedience. A quality useful to the whole when
acting together might be prejudicial to the individual mem-
ber when acting independently. Hence, it would seem,
we have in this case a datum which could not be determined
without some knowledge of the total organism, as well as of
its separate parts. The distinction, therefore, between the
race and the individual, though not a distinction as of two
separate things, may be of great importance as correspond-
ing to a distinction in the mode in which the efficiency is
affected hy^ different qualities. For some purposes a body
may be regarded as an aggregate, whilst for others it can
only be understood as an organic whole. And this has
evidently an important bearing upon our reasoning.
3. Let us see how this difference must be expressed upon
the theory already laid down. I have spoken of qualities,
instincts, organs, and so forth, as being either essential or
non-essential to an organism. It is plain that it w-ould be
idle to ask what any organism would be without any of its
essential qualities. We should in that case be referring to
a mere nonenity. When we say inan, we mean, amongst
other things, a living being with a stomach, and environed
by eatable matter. To say that a man would be better or
worse if he had no stomach, is to put together words which
have no real meaning whatever, or, in any case, to speak of
some creature so radically different from a man for most
purposes, that it would lead to mere confusion to apply the
same name to it. You might describe a statue as a man
without organs, but this is simply to play with words,
unless we confine our reasoning to properties dependent
exclusively upon external forms. By "man," we mean a
being belonging to a given class, and varying within the
limits determined by the essential properties of the class ;
and amongst these essential properties we must, of course,
reckon dependence upon a race. Man means a being born
of woman, and perhaps a being ultimately descended from a
monkey. It would, therefore, be sheer nonsense to speak
of a man as if he either might or might not be in some
96 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
respects independent of society. He may be in the position
of a Robinson Crusoe, and living in a desert island ; but
even so he must have been begotten, born, kept alive
through infancy, and have inherited whatever qualities are
implied in those processes. A man not dependent upon a
race is as meaningless a phrase as an apple that does not
grow upon a tree. The words have no sense in a purely
arbitrary sense. And further, it is equally clear that the
best type of man must mean the best type of man developed
under those conditions. The best kind of bread means the
best food that can be made out of grain; and though a lump
of granite might have some qualities which in a different
relation are better than those of bread, it would be a mere
juggle if we said that the bread least likely to spoil was
" bread " made of granite.
4. It follows that the distinction drawn between the
social and the self-regarding qualities, or^ again, between
qualities as useful to the race and useful to the individual,
cannot possibly be ultimate distinctions. Every man is
both an individual and a social product, and every instinct
both social and self-regarding. To say that a man is an
organism is to say that each of his organs is so dependent
upon all the others that it cannot be removed without alter-
ing the whole organic balance ; or, as I have said, that a leg
is not, or is not solely, a crutch. If we speak, then, of one
instinct as referring to the society and another as referring
to the individual, we must always remember that each of
necessity implies the other. In speaking of them apart, we
are using the artifice of the mathematician who considers
one set of symbols to be variable and another as constant,
not as meaning that the quantities which they represent are
really fixed or in reality independent, but simply as enabling
him to calculate more easily by disentangling separate sets
of consequences. The social qualities are developed on the
invariable condition that the self-regarding qualities exist, and
vice versd, and the " best " qualities mean the best consistent
with this condition. We may, as I have already said, con-
THE INDIVIDUAL AND THE RACE. 97
sidcr any organ by itself, and, for example, say that one man
has perfect lungs ; but the perfection is relative to their form-
ing part of an organism which has also a stomach, whilst the
best form of stomach means also the best for a man with
lungs. And precisely the same reasoning applies also to the
mental or emotional faculties. Whatever distinctions may
afterwards be drawn between them, we must never ignore
their necessary connection or mutual implication. As the
man is an individual, the process by which he is developed
is a single process; and in speaking of any one instinct,
property, organ, or faculty, there is always a tacit or express
reference to the whole organisation.
5. How, then, does the distinction arise ? The answer
may be suggested by the illustration just vised. The depend-
ence of an apple upon a tree is absolute. It admits in this
sense of no degrees. I cannot say, therefore, that an apple
owes certain qualities to the fact of its growing upon a tree,
for it owes all its qualities to that fact. The non-tree-grown
apple is a nonentity. But it is equally plain that, in another
sense, the dependence admits of many degrees, for the
possibility of distinguishing between the two classes implies
that for some purposes they are separable. And this must
mean that the apple has certain qualities which are inde-
pendent of its relation to the tree, not in the sense that they
would exist if that relation were abolished, but in the sense
that they may vary whilst that relation remains approxi-
mately constant. In some respects I may treat of the apple
as though it were an independent unity, because it may
change without a corresponding change in the tree ; in
other respects, I can only understand the changes in the
apple by taking into account its dependence upon the tree.
And hence, as these properties and the proportion between
them may vary in different kinds of apples, I may say that
some apples are more dependent upon the tree than others ;
not as denying that in every case the dependence is absolute,
but simply as asserting that in some cases the qualities
which are only intelligible through that dependence, or
G
98 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
which vary directly with its variation, are more prominent
than others. The comparison is not drawn between an
apple growing on a tree and others not growing upon trees,
but between the apple in which these properties immediately
dependent upon that relation are more prominent, and
others in which they are less prominent. And this general
statement will hold equally true in regard to the essential
properties of any organism whatever.
6. Let us see, then, how this applies to the general pro-
blem of the relation between the individual and the race.
There are, or there may be, organisms in which the distinc-
tion so far disappears that we need not take it into account.
Every living thing must be capable of propagating its kind,
and must so far have a property useful to the race. But we
may suppose the existence of organisms in which the rela-
tion between individuals is limited to this reproduction. The
insect may lay eggs which come to life in the next season ;
the successive generations may inosculate without overlap-
ping ; whilst during life each insect may exist in complete
independence of its fellows. If we further suppose that the
production of eggs be essential to the insect life — which,
whether an actual case or not, is a conceivable case — we
should have a case in which the interests of the race and the
individual would be identical. The successive individuals
would be so many links in a chain, and each would potentially
contain the whole series of descendants. Whatever hurt the
individual would necessarily so far hurt the race. Now, it
is to be observed that even in such a case the dependence
of the individual upon the race is absolute. Without repro-
ductive powers the race would not exist. And, further,
since an insect with superior powers of reproduction would
so far be more efficient, the type must be elaborated with
reference to this condition ; an increased power of locomo-
tion might be a disadvantage on the whole if it involved a
diminished power of reproduction. But we may be justified
in supposing that a variation In the locomotive faculties may
take place, whilst the reproductive power remains approxi-
THE INDIVIDUAL AND THE RACE. 99
mately constant. This is expressed by saying tliat the insect
would be better so far as it could fly better. We do not for
the moment attend to the collateral results ; and so far the
efficiency due to better flying is measurable by the results
to the individual insect. Supposing the occurrence of a
new form with greater powers of flight, it would so far be
a superior insect as those powers adapted each insect better
for obtaining food, avoiding its enemies, and so forth.
7. To advance a step, we may take the famous case of bees,
which has afforded so many parallels to poets and philo-
sophers. In such a case the sexual relations, though they
cannot be more essential — for essential does not strictly
admit of degrees — are more prominent. The queen-bee, the
drones, and the workers are each dependent upon the others
for their continued existence. The individual insect is not
intelligible by himself. The race can only be continued by
the co-operation of different individuals with corresponding
differences of organisation. The best insect must now mean
the best relatively to the society of which it forms a part.
That form of bee will flourish which forms the most efficient
hives. The hive, in other words, will be the unit which
must be taken into account in considering the general pro-
blem of surviv^al. It would be therefore as idle to ask which
would be the best form of bee considered apart from the
hive, as it would be in the previous case to ask which would
be the best form of insect considered apart from its power
of reproduction; for in either case we are abstracting from
an essential property. Here, again, as in the former case,
we have certain faculties which may be supposed to vary
whilst the social qualities remain fixed. The bees which fly
better are so far better, assuming the power of flight to be
gained without a compensating loss of the qualities which
fit the bee for society. The difference is that we now have to
consider an organism which has more functions dependent
immediately upon the whole of which it forms a part, and
intelligible only through that whole. The hive, we may say,
is at once an aggregate and an organic whole, and we may
loo THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
consider it in either character for purposes of analysis,
though we must not overlook the tacit implication that
each set of qualities is valuable only by reference to its com-
patibility with the others.
8. At this point, however, occurs a consideration which
is of vital importance to the argument. The individual
bee, I have said, is intelligible only through its relation
to the hive. Its properties, the individual as well as the
social, are developed, either indirectly or directly, by refer-
ence to the constitution of the hive. Now, in every case,
every quality of the organism is intelligible only through the
environment. The environment of the queen-bee consists
partly of the drones and working bees, and partly of the air,
flowers, and so forth. It is dependent upon the one just as
it is dependent upon the other. What, then, is the reason
for distinguishing? The answer is, that the distinction may
or may not be of vital importance, according as we are
considering one or other problem. Given the organisation
of bees, the behaviour of the queen-bee, for example, will
depend partly upon the flowers and partly upon the drones
and working bees amongst which it is placed. So long as
the organisation remains fixed, we may count both the
remainder of the society and the surrounding objects as parts
of the '^environment" between which it is unnecessary to
make any distinction. And for many purposes this assump-
tion is accurate. But if we consider the organisation as
variable, as we must do if we are considering the problem as
to the merits of a particular kind of bee, the distinction
at once becomes important. For in that case an organic
variation in the queen-bee necessarily supposes a correlative
variation in the organisation of all other members of the
hive. Wc cannot, for example, suppose the queen-bee to
acquire better wings, without supposing a correlative change
to take place in the wings of all its descendants. We may,
on the other hand, suppose, and in some cases we must
suppose, the flowers to remain unaltered, and to be part
of the fixed conditions to which the swarm adapts itself.
SOCIETY AND MAN. loi
And hence the distinction is needless, or is vitally impor-
tant, according as we are dealing with changes which do or
do not imply a fixed organisation. At any given moment
the organisation is fixed ; if we speak of periods dnring which
evolution introduces sensible changes, it is not fixed. But
there is yet a further case. If it were admissible to suppose
that the hive was capable of acquiring new properties whilst
the organisation of its members remained fixed, we should
be forced to introduce a reference to this varying condition
also. To determine the conduct of the bee, we must know
not merely its organisation and its environment, but the
state of the hive. We might, again, deal with problems into
which this fresh datum entered either as a constant or a
variable, and we should in each case have to decide before
we could lay down a satisfactory formula of bee life, which
new theory did or did not involve a reference to this vari-
ability of this element. Now, as we shall see directly, this is
a consideration of essential importance in theories of human
society.
II. Society and Man.
9. This follows from a consideration of some very familiar
truths. We have sufficiently shown that we cannot make
a comparison between man in a social state and the nonentity
man independent of society, the real comparison being be-
tween man at an early and man at a comparatively late
stage of social development. So it would be idle to discuss
the effect of light upon the eye by comparing an eye which
is sensitive with an eye which is not sensitive to light, for
such an insensitive eye would not be an eye at all; but
we may determine very profitably how the eye which is
highly sensitive difi'ers from the eye which is but slightly
sensitive; and, in the parallel case, we have to compare
men at remote stages of social development in order to
determine the eflfect of this element in their constitution.
Now two assumptions may be made ; we may in the first place
take for granted that between the savage and the civilised
102 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
society there is a vast difference^ including, amongst other
things, the presence of a recognised and formulated moral law.
It is, indeed, a question for the philosophical observer how
far rudimentary systems of morality may be recognised even
amongst the rudest savages; and we may assume that, as
will hereafter be stated, germs of moral sentiment, the feel-
ings and instincts which in a more highly developed state give
rise to the moral law, are to be found not only amongst
savages, but in some sense even at a far lower stage of develop-
ment than the human. I assume simply that the explicit
recognition of certain general rules of conduct^ the observ-
ance or breach of which is attended with moral approval
or disapproval, is comparatively a recent phenomenon. The
relations of man to woman, of parents to children, of the
individual to the primitive social unit, whatever it may be,
exist at the lowest point of the scale, and no doubt corre-
sponding modes of conduct were regarded with some kind of
sentiment as far back as we need go in the history of the
race. But a distinct recognition of general regulative prin-
ciples is only possible when the reflective and reasoning powers
have become developed and some sort of theory of human
life has gained acceptance. And, in the next place, we may
take for granted that this difference does not imply a cor-
responding difference in organisation. There is no reason
to suppose that the innate faculties of a modern European
differ essentially, or that they differ very greatly, from
those of the savages who roamed the woods in prehistoric
days. There is clearly no reason to suppose that the brain
of a modern English baby is intrinsically more developed than
that of an ancient Athenian baby. Yet there is a vast
difference in many ways between the morality of the adult
Englishman and that of the adult Athenian, and still more
between the morality of the Englishman and that of the
Scandinavian pirate or the wielder of flint implements. It
is presumable, therefore, that the moral development is not
to be explained solely as corresponding to any organic change
in the individual.
SOCIETY AND MAN. 103
10, Hence, for a historical solution of the problem of the
moral instincts, it would be necessary to compare man and
society as it now exists with that which existed previously
to the evolution of a distinct moral system, and to show how
the social change had been brought about without a corre-
sponding change in the individual organisation. In other
words, we may for this purpose consider man — that is, the in-
dividual as born with certain capacities and characteristics —
as approximately a constant, and then show how the society
which is constituted of similar raw material comes to differ
so materially in the properties of the manufactured article.
To trace the process fully would be to give a complete history
of morality, which is both beyond my powers and irrelevant
to my immediate purpose. It will be sufficient if I consider
briefly how such a process is conceivable, and what is implied
in its realisation.
11. Social development takes place without a correspond-
ing change of individual organisation. A modern gunboat
could crush the fleets which fought at Salamis, and a modern
child could solve problems which bewildered Archimedes;
and in whatever way we may explain this change, we
certainly cannot interpret it as implying that the average
child of to-day is born with faculties radically superior to
those of Archimedes or of Themistocles. The change ob-
viously depends upon the ancient and familiar truth that
man can accumulate mental and material wealth; that he
can learn by experience, and hand over his experience to
others. It may be that germs of this capacity are to be
found in the lower animals, but we shall make no sensible
error if we regard it, as it has always been regarded, as the
exclusive prerogative of humanity. An unreasoning animal
can only adapt itself to new circumstances, except within
a very narrow range, by acquiring a new organisation, or,
in other words, by becoming a difiercnt animal. Its habits
and instincts may therefore remain fixed through countless
generations. But man, by accumulating experiences, can
virtually alter both his faculties and his surroundings with-
I04 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
out altering his organisation. When this accumulation
extends beyond the individual^ it implies a social devclop-
mentj and explains the enormous changes wrought within
historical times^ and which define the difference between the
savage and the civilised man. Let us consider for a moment
some of the conclusions which may be inferred from this
cardinal fact.
12. Imairine an exhaustive statement of the differences
O
between modern England and the England of thirty cen-
turies back — of the England inhabited by twenty mil-
lions of civilised beings and the England which was the
hunting-ground of a few tribes of wandering savages. We
should have to begin by noticing vast material changes —
rivers embanked^ marshes drained^ forests felled, roads con-
structed, houses built, fields tilled, wolves supplanted by
sheep — and making a calculation of the industrial capital
and the artistic treasures accumulated. All this, we should
have to observe, implies the possession not only of different
materials, but of a new set of tools. The modern, though
not inheriting greater faculties at his birth, can compel
material force to co-operate with him. He has gunpowder,
steam-engines, and printing-presses where a wheeled carriage
or an iron nail would have astonished his predecessor as a
miracle of art, and would have been unattainable bv an
equal expenditure of intellectual energy. This, again, implies
the inheritance, not only of materials and of tools, but of
skill. To the savage a telegraph or a book would be so much
iron wire and rags. The modern has at his disposal vast
accumulations of knowledge. He knows the properties of
substances, the form and character of his dwelling-place,
the history of his race ; innumerable products of previous
intellectual energy in the shape of discovered laws of
nature, mathematical formulas, philosophical, religious, and
political speculation, are at his service. The knowledge
existing in different times has become incomparably too vast
for any single brain. Much of it, we may even say, exists
in no brain, and yet is potentially there. It is externalised
SOCIETY AND MAN. 105
in countless books and papers laid up in accessible places.
We inherit not merely the tangible products of labour but
the-methods of labour. Our ancestors transmit to us both
results and the means of obtaining fresh results ; they trans-
mit their mechanical skill and their logic, although they
do not transmit any modification of structure. The infant
always starts at the same point of intelligence, but the path
has been cleared for him, so that he can reach an enormously
more distant goal. A child is not born a clockmaker now
any more then he was three thousand years ago, but not
the less does he inherit the power of making clocks.
13. The most striking illustration of this process is to be
found in language. Language is clearly a product of the
social organism in this sense, that its development does not
imply any essential change of the organs, but a social develop-
ment. It was not bestowed upon men from without, nor
is it a necessary product of our organisation, or worked out
by each man for himself. It has been gradually elaborated
from some simple germ by the race under the pressure of
social needs; and each child accepts it as a ready-made instru-
ment from his nurse and transmits it to his successors, impress-
ing upon it at rare intervals some relatively trifling improve-
ment. If we notice how much a child learns in simply learn-
ing to speak, we shall see how much it owes to the society in
which it is placed. To learn to speak is to learn a number
of signs with which to fix in the memory a number of things
or aspects of things which would else be forgotten, and to
enable ourselves to recall them easily to the memory of others,
and to have them recalled by others. It is, again, to have
both outward objects and the emotions which they excite
arranged in groups, so as to facilitate the reproduction of old
impressions and to render accurate and speedy the complex
processes involved in every act of reflection. Language is
so essential an instrument of learning, that it is very difficult
for the mature mind to conceive of any but the simplest
process of thought taking place without it. Thus in learning
a language we learn a logic; for the structure of language is
v-»
io6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
determined by the elementary methods of reasoning, which
in its turn determines the methods of those who speak it.
As every instrument supposes certain methods of using it,
the mechanism of language implies the acquisition of corre-
sponding mental habits. Thus, again, language implies the
unconscious absorption of a philosophy, as is abundantly
clear to any one who will trace the use of such words as
matter, form, suhstance, spirit, and so forth, and observe how
all speculation has started from the attempt to analyse what
was already implicitly given by words embodying previous
results of thought. We are metaphysicians in the cradle,
and distinguish object and subject by methods instilled into
us by our nurses. We start with an implicit psychology,
as the names of the various emotions imply a rough classi-
fication of the primary elements of character. The same is
true to some extent of every branch of inquiry. The child
learns the Ptolemaic system of astronomy as soon as he can
talk about the moon and the stars. A philosopher who
wishes to introduce a new conception has to invent a new
terminology, which is yet always a modification of the old
symbols, and in the very act imposes fetters on his own mind,
and provides moulds in which thought is to run hereafter.
Often, it need hardly be said, he introduces some insidious
sophistry from which it is very difficult to escape. Philosophy
is in great measure a series of attempts to escape from the
erroneous conceptions thus tacitly introduced in the very
earliest forms of speech. And, finally, it may be observed
that language naturally affects our feelings as well as our
conceptions. Words not merely denote an object, but
associate it with certain emotions. We catch the subtle con-
tagion of prejudice from the language which it has impreg-
nated. We hate a race because its name has been used
as a term of abuse. Papist amongst Protestants, heretic
amongst Catholics, Jew amongst Christians, are words which
have been used to propagate bitter hatred combined with an
almost complete ignorance of the hated object. Briefly, to
teach a child to speak is to educate it, to prepare it for
SOCIETY AND MAN. 107
association with others^ to lay it open to all manner of
influences, to start it with a mass of knowledge already
elaborately organised, to teach it methods of thinking and
imagining, to insinuate into its mind philosophical and
religious principles, and to inoculate it with innumerable
associations which must be important elements in the
development of its character.
14. The child, then, starts with an organisation for
thinking and speaking as the bird leaves the egg with the
organs of flying or swimming. Whether and in what sense
this organisation is the product of a previous elaboration is
not at this point a relevant question. In each case, at any
rate, the infant starts with certain faculties. But the
essential diiference is clear. llie eagle learns to fly, the
duck to swim, the child to walk as eagles, ducks, and children
have flown, swaim, and walked since the species appeared ;
from the organisation we can safely infer the function;
but in the case of language this is no longer true. The
child as it grows up inherits not only the faculties, but the
modifications and elaborations of its faculties which have
been developed by the society in which it lives. Its organs
of speech, its intellectual powers, might be equal to those
of Homer or Plato ; but if Homer or Plato had been born
amongst the Hottentots, they could no more have composed
the "Iliad" or the ^'Dialogues" than Beethoven could have
composed his music, however fine his ear or delicate his or-
ganisation, in the days when the only musical instrument
was the tom-tom. The instrument, whether it has or has not
a material embodiment, is equally essential in both cases. The
analogy of vocal music would serve as well as that of instru-
mental. The art of singing has to be created by the labours
of successive generations of musically endowed generations,
whether the instrument be the human throat or the fiddle.
Hence, the activity of the individual is essentially conditioned,
not merely by his individual organisation, but by the social
medium. His predecessors have created a new world. The
physical basis may be the same, but the man develops under
io8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
a set of influences which profoundly affect his intellect, his
emotions, and his activities. The material world is not more
altered by cultivating fields and manufacturing tools than
the world of thought by the development of language and
all that system of logically organised methods of reasoning
which determine the lines of discharge of intellectual energy.
15. Human conduct, then, depends essentially upon the
social factor; we must study the properties of the social as
well as of the individual organism in order to understand it ;
and in this is already implied a further condition of vital
importance. The individual, that is, is dependent at every
moment upon his contemporaries as well as upon his ances-
tors. When I have learnt a language, I have an instrument
which will serve me in solitude. I can sit down in my
study and speculate or imagine as I please. My thoughts,
it is true, are modified at every instant by the instrument
elaborated by others, but the instrument remains, when once
acquired, a constant factor. But this, of course, is an in-
finitesimal part of the ordinary use of language. As it
has been developed by the need of communication, it also
serves at every moment as a means of communication, and
it is as governing my relation to my fellows that it exercises
themost palpable and continuous influence; and this isequally
true of all the other social faculties. Almost every action of
my life is dependent more or less directly upon the co-opera-
tion of others, and the more so as I become more civilised.
I cannot think without assuming the knowledge attained by
others. I see that my fire is low; I feel that I am too cold ;
I infer that I should put on coals. Even in so simple a case I
use inherited results of the experience of others, and especially
of the great discovery of fire and its properties. But I am
also dependent upon the continued co-operation of others.
I could not arrange the details of a day's work without
taking into account the conduct and the continuous action,
for example, of those processes which determine my supply
of coal. I cannot think to any purpose without taking for
granted the veracity and intelligence of innumerable fellow-
SOCIETY AND MAN. 109
men, and fitting my own results into the vast mass of results
attained by others. Each individual, in whatever depart-
ment he labours, assumes that others are labouring in tacit
or express co-operation. If millions can live in a region
which formerly supported a few thousands, it is because each
of the millions has millions of co-operators. If I can devote
myself to write an ethical treatise, it is because thousands of
people all over the world are working to provide me with
food and clothes, and a variety of intellectual and material
products. If another man lives by putting one brick on
another, it is because he can trust the discharge of other
essential functions to the numerous classes who are contri-
buting more or less directly to his support, protection, and
instruction. Briefly — for it is useless to dwell upon this
familiar topic — the growth of society implies that division of
functions which has been more or less recognised by every
one who has considered the question since the dawn of
speculation. This vast social organisation is the work of a
vast series of generations unconsciously fashioning the order
which they transmit to their descendants. It is only neces-
sary to take note of the familiar fact, because some of the
consequences which it implies have been neglected or insuffi-
ciently emphasised. Briefly, society exists as it exists in
virtue of this organisation, which is as real as the organisa-
tion of any material instrument, though it depends upon
habits and instincts instead of arrangements of tangible and
visible objects.
16. It is, again, obvious that as every man is born and
brought up as a member of this vast organisation, his char-
acter is throughout moulded and determined by its pecu-
liarities. It is the medium in which he lives, as much as the
air which he breathes or the water which he drinks. And
this implies not merely, from the facts already noted, that
his intellectual furniture, his whole system of beliefs, pre-
judices, and so forth, are in a great degree acquired by
direct transference, and that consciously or unconsciously he
imbibes the current beliefs and logical methods of his fellows.
no THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
but also that he is educated from infancy by the necessity
of conforming his activities to those of the surrounding
mass. If his feeHngs or behefs bring him into conflict with
his neighbours, he is constantly battered and hammered
into comparative uniformity. To deviate from the beaten
track is to expose oneself to incessant collisions. If it is the
custom to keep to the right in a street, I can only go to the
left at the risk of being trodden under foot. And thouirh
some results of this process are lamented by many reasoners,
it is clear that in some degree it is a necessary condition of
all progress. It is as necessary to conform to certain rules
as to accept certain beliefs. If I insisted upon trying for
myself the effect of every kind of food, I should not survive
my first crucial experiment upon arsenic. If I deviate from
ordinary rules, I so far deprive myself of the advantages of
co-operation, because my neighbours are unable to foresee
my conduct or to act in harmony with me. If I insist upon
dining only in the middle of the day, I am so far debarred
from society ; if I object to the ordinary forms of worship, I
cannot have the stimulus of common prayer. If to gain
the advantages I accept the rules, my character is modified
accordingly. Be the result bad or good, all organisation
implies uniformities of conduct, and therefore continuous
discipline. We are born, not into a chaotic crowd, but into
an organised army, and we must learn to keep step and rank
and to obey orders. But to appreciate more clearly the
nature of the discipline, we must consider some broad facts
as to the constitution of the army.
17. Sociology treats of the social organism, and those con-
siderations already set down may serve to show what is
meant by this statement, and how far the word is used in
the same sense when we speak of the individual and the
social organism. It is enough to say here, that it implies at
least that some important rules are equally applicable in both
cases. It is as true that man is dependent upon his fellows
as that a limb is dependent upon tlie body. It would be
as absurd to ask what would be the properties of a man
SOCIETY AND MAN. ill
who was not a product of the race, as to ask what would be
the properties of a leg not belonghig to an animal ; or to
ask what would be the best type of man without considering
his place in society, as to ask what would be the best kind
of leg without asking whether it belonged to a hare or a
tortoise. And in the next place, it is true that the proper-
ties of a society cannot be deduced from the independent
properties of its members in the same sense as it is true that
the properties of any living body cannot be deduced from
the mechanical and chemical properties of the elements of
which it is composed. Destroy the life in either case, and
the remaining properties of the dead materials do not enable
us to assign their properties when forming an associated
whole. We cannot infer the properties of a society by
supposing it to be an aggregate of beings independent of
society, because such beings are mere nonentities. The
residue, when you had abstracted from it all social qualities,
would in any case be merely the material elements, the
hydrogen, carbon, and so forth, to which the body may be
reduced; and from these you could infer neither the indi-
vidual nor the society. But further, any given society has
properties of its own which cannot be deduced from those
properties of the individual which are common to men in
all social states, for those properties may, as we have seen,
remain constant when the social organisation varies. The
inference from the part to the whole would be as impossible
as the inference to the properties of any given animal from
the tissues which it possesses in common with other animals.
The properties depend upon the way in which they are
combined, and we therefore require other data to determine
the results of the combination. It is, therefore, necessary
to speak of society as an organism or an organic growth
which has in some sense a life of its own. And this, it is
to be repeated, implies no mystical or non-natural sense.
Society is not an organism with a single centre of conscious-
ness. It is not something which has any existence apart
from the existence of the individual members. But the
112 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
name marks the essential fact, that although at any time
the properties of the constituted whole are the product of the
constituting units, those vniits have gained their proper-
ties in virtue of belonging to this whole. The society as a
whole acquires new characteristics at different stages of
growth which are only explicable through its history ; and
therefore, though we may properly speak of any particular
social phenomena as resulting solely from the character of
the individual agents, we must also tacitly assume that their
character is to be dependent upon their relations to a society
at the given stage of growth. We may no doubt try to
explain this fact by assuming that latent properties have
existed in the individual at earlier stages, as we may suppose
that the material elements of a body have latent properties
which only reveal themselves through the vital union. But
since we can only know them as they are manifested, we
can only give an intelligible account of the society by
regarding them as properties of the social organism. The
phrase "latent property" is only intelligible as marking the
fact that a man (or a baby), if transplanted from one society
to another, would acquire the corresponding characteris-
tics, which is, indeed, assumed in our statement. So that,
whatever the ultimate facts, we must be prepared to find
qualities developed through the social union which are not
immediately deducible from the properties of the individual
without reference to that union. The necessity of this as-
sumption and of the corresponding terminology will appear
as we proceed.
III. Social Organisation.
1 8. An organism implies organs. The society, like the
individual, has its organs of self-defence and nutrition, its
apparatus corresponding to the brain, the stomach, and so
forth, though it would be absurd to press the analogy too
far. There is this much resemblance, at any rate, that the
society develops associations each of which has its separate
SOCIAL ORGANISATION. 113
function^ and implies the development of corresponding
associations with other functions. Political, ecclesiastical,
and industrial oro;ans become more distinct and more inter-
dependent as society advances. These organs, indeed, are
neither mutually exclusive nor generally conterminous in
respect of the individuals who compose them. Every man
may be, and generally is, a member of several organs. He
may belong to a church, a state, a commercial company,
and so forth. Sometimes membership of one may be in-
compatible with membership of another, especially of the
same kind ; but the various associations overlap in complex
ways, and 'do not imply, so to speak, a fissure down to
the foundations. Industrial associations may be formed
of the subjects of different states. The map of Europe
would diifcr according as we marked the ecclesiastical or the
political divisions. Englishmen belong to many churches,
and the Catholic Church includes subjects of many states.
And, of course, each organ, though it may be regarded
as a unit for some purposes, is for others a highly com-
plex structure ; as, for example, the state includes mili-
tary, judicial, and administrative organs, each of which is
again an organised structure.
19. Now, although this division into organs or associa-
tions does not correspond to a division of society into sepa-
rate groups, but to a division of the various activities of
a single group, it is equally true that each organ may be
regarded as havins: in some sense a life of its own. It
persists as a body persists in spite of, or rather in virtue
of, a continuous change in the constituent particles. The
associations graduate by indefinite degrees from the most
ephemeral and accidental up to the most permanent and
essential. Man, according to the old formula, is naturally
a social animal. Whenever two men meet there is the
germ of a possible alliance or antagonism. The most trivial
bond may serve. Two travellers who happen to meet in
crossing a ferry have already a certain community of
interest. They are liable to common dangers and have a
H
114 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
certain sympathy. If they are passed by another boat, they
will regard the other travellers as rivals, and be prepared to
take a pride in the success of the embryo society, even in
defiance of the reflection that their own merits have no
influence upon its success. Johnson's hatred of the "dockers,"
when, for the moment, he adopted the local prejudices of
Plymouth, is a humorous illustration of a general principle.
The germs of association are everywhere present, and every
temporary cohesion supplies the necessary medium for their
rapid development. There are, indeed, two cases which
correspond to very different kinds of association. We may
regard the human organisation with no more interest than
we should feel for a material instrument. We may regard
a servant, as we regard the bell which summons him, as a
food-brin^ino; machine. A master may re2;ard his slaves
with the same feeling as he regards his horses or his ploughs.
They are simply means to an end, and the association would
vanish if the end were no longer desirable. In the opposite
case, we sometimes reverse the process, and come to entertain
for material instruments some of the affection which is
normally the product of sympathy; but the feeling springs
up naturally, and acquires importance when we have to do
with our fellows. In such cases the corporate feeling ceases
to have any accurate proportion to our desire for the osten-
sible end of the association. The man loves the school in
which he has been brought up with very little reference to
its merit as an educational institution. We come to love a
corporate body as though it were a real person. We speak
of a church or a state as " she," and when we are told that
a corporation has no soul, the remark strikes us as if it were
the revelation of a new and unsuspected truth. The osten-
sible end of an association is often the least part of its value
for us. We really love it because it supplies us with a
means of cultivating certain emotions and of enjoying the
society of our fellows ; and it would be an entirely inadequate
account of the whole statement if we regarded it as simply
SOCIAL ORGANISATION. 115
the means of attaining that pleasure which has given the
pretext for its formation.
20. The corporate sentiment thus developed is more
complex and less capable of analysis in those associations
of which we have become members without any conscious
volition. When we have been brought up from our infancy
as members of a state or churchy or have been made members
of some society before the age of reflection^ our emotions
and activities become so thoroughly identified with those of
the body, that we are incapable of assigning any specific end
as supplying the dominant motive. The sentiment^ for
example^ of patriotism is one which defies analysis. The
state, we may say, discharges a certain social function.
According to some theorists^ it is useful simply as a means
of protecting its members against violence. Even upon
this supposition the corresponding sentiment would be
complex^ inasmuch as a desire for protection implies a
desire for gratifying any of the instincts which might expose
us to danger. But the bare desire for protection would be
a very inadequate explanation of the emotion roused by the
thought of a man's native country, which possesses a com-
plexity of a far higher order^ and seems to be an instinct
in which every part of his nature is more or less directly
concerned. It may possibly be true that if the need of
protection could be removed the instinct would decav, but
in any case it has an independent vitality, the conditions
and nature of which could only be unravelled by elaborate
psychological and historical investigation. At the opposite
end of the scale are generallv the industrial associations,
which generate very little corporate sentiment. The actual
co-operation which exists between different parts of the
industrial mechanism calls out very little distinctive senti-
ment towards the whole association. The end alvvavs
remains distinct. A bank, for example, is a highly im-
portant part of the machinery by which one set of people
are enabled to co-operate in the industrial occupations of
another set. But although the utility of the bank is the
Ii6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
cause of its persistence, the banker and his customers on
both sides are not induced to carry on their operations by
any conscious desire for their neighbours' advantage, but
simply by a desire for their own comfort. Each man con-
fines his view of consequences to himself. His intention is
simply to keep or acquire wealth. By doing so he facilitates
the operations of his neighbours for the same purpose ; but
he does not, or need not, think of that result at all, any
more than the farmer in clearing the ground considers
the interests of the cattle which he is about to raise. Their
interests coincide with his own up to a certain point, at any
rate ; but he is not prompted by any sympathy with their
feelings.
21. But this difference does not necessarily or generally
affect the power of such persistence of the organ. An elabo-
rate industrial organisation is necessary to the life of a
civilised nation, and each member of the nation is interested
in maintaining it ; and thus it is maintained, although it may
be that no man feels any more enthusiasm about a bank or
a railway company, considered as a factitious person, than
he does about a steam-engine or a printing machine. Though
merely machines, they are necessary machines. In any
case, too, another conclusion is equally manifest. Every
association, that is, to whatever type it belongs, necessarily
implies the existence of certain more general instincts
dependent upon the whole social development. If any
social organ were or could be conditioned by a separate
instinct; if it supplied the means by which alone one specific
faculty of our nature could find its gratification, then a study
of that instinct or faculty would be the study of the corre-
sponding organ. Or rather, the study of one or the other
would be stated as inner and outer, as being objective and
subjective .theories of the same phenomena. But it is plain
that this does not correspond to the facts. The church,
for example, depends upon the religious instinct. It will
flourish or decay with the rise and fall of all that is implied
in that name. But the religious instinct is the name of a
SOCIAL ORGANISATION, 117
highly complex set of scnthnents which have other mani-
festations than that of the ecclesiastical organisation, and
depend upon much wider conditions than those to which
it is subject in that capacity. The religion of a country de-
pends, amongst other things, upon the growth of specula-
tion, upon the philosophical and scientific conceptions which
have established themselves, and which react in countless
ways upon the beliefs which we call religious, and the prac-
tices to which those beliefs give rise. So, again, the state
depends upon the loyalty of its members; but the senti-
ment which we call loyalty is again involved in innumerable
ways with all the other modes of social development. It is
closely bound up with religious beliefs, as the decay of a
religion may involve a decay of the political order which
shares its sanctity. Every political change has an ecclesiastical
reaction; whilst in the other direction, again, the development
or decay of political institutions is closely connected with
the changes in the industrial organisation. The existence of
complex industrial mechanism implies necessarily the exist-
ence of a mutual confidence. It could not exist unless men
were ready to trust their fortunes to their neighbours, and
to rely in various ways upon their co-operation. This
implies the existence of a political order in which peace will
be preserved and contracts enforced. And further, there is
a close connection between the industrial state and the
political and religious condition of a country, as the state of
prosperity or misery of the mass of the population has a
direct and vitally important bearing upon their relations to
their rulers and teachers. Briefly, therefore, we may say
that the existence of any specific organ implies the existence
of an organism provided with other organs discharging cor-
relative functions; and therefore it implies the existence,
not onlv of a certain instinct to which it owes its own
vitality, but the existence of more general instincts to which
it is related as a special manifestation to a general sentiment.
23. Let us recapitulate these conclusions for a moment,
with a view to their bearing on our problem. We have
ii8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS,
seen that the various properties characteristic of a given
social state may be regarded as corresponding to three suc-
cessive degrees of generaHty. For, in the first place, we
have those properties which belong to a society in so far as
it consists of men, that is, of men organised as men are now
organised, or, since we have assumed that this may be
regarded as a constant element, of the properties which
belong to all societies since a period antecedent to the growth
of an explicit moral system. In the second place, we may
consider the properties of a society at any given stage — and
of course I shall speak generally of the civilised man of the
present day — in so far as they depend upon these primary
instincts^ when modified and converted into a virtually new set
of instincts by social development and inheritance. These
instincts must be common to all societies at that stage, and
to the members of such societies whatever their special
relations to the society. And, thirdly, we have yet another
set of properties which belong to the society as organised,
and which are still modifications of the more general instincts,
but which correspond to the particular organs into which
the society is distributed. Thus, to take a particular example,
we may consider a man in so far as he is born with certain
sensibilities which render him capable of sympathy with
his neighbours. These sensibilities, by the hypothesis^ may
be found in the rude as well as in the more civilised state;
but in the higher state they will give rise to what may be
called a new set of faculties and instincts in virtue of the
process already described: the savage chief is transformed into
the civilised statesman. But, in the next place, the instincts
so developed will qualify him for being a member of various
forms of association, political, ecclesiastical, and so forth;
and, as acted upon by the special circumstances in which he
is placed, will again determine his fitness for one of these
functions rather than another, and further for some parti-
cular type of ecclesiastical, political, or industrial organisation.
And in each case, it nuist be observed, the more special
form of instinct must be regarded as conditioned by the
SOCIAL ORGANISATION. 119
more general; not as if they were separate forces, one of
which must be conceived as controlHng the other, but simplv
as implying that the particular is an embodiment of the
general under certain specific circumstances, and that the
general rule must therefore be stated independently of the
particular case, as including, not as controlling it; and
further, that the conditions upon which, in fact, the exist-
ence of the general instinct depends must always be more
general than those which are given in the particular mani-
festation.
23. The grounds for this distinction have perhaps been
sufficiently indicated; the reason for insisting upon them
may appear more clearly by introducing another consider-
ation. It is impossible, as has been sufficiently said, to
determine the properties of any given society directly from
the innate properties of the individual members. We
must regard its properties, and thus the special characteristics
of its various organs, as determined by those properties which
are developed through the social union. But, again, we
cannot determine these organs directly from the social
properties of the individual; for, in fact, it is plain that
the organs are differently constituted according to the
special environment. In other words, the existence of a
particular political order implies necessarily the existence of
a certain stage of social development; but the inference
cannot be inverted. Each social stage is compatible with
many forms of political organisation according to the
circumstances in which it is placed. Under one set of
circumstances there is a greater, and under others a less
degree of centralisation; in one country the democratic,
and in another the aristocratic, element may be more
prominent, and this without any important difference in the
intimate or underlying social constitution. The various forms
of political organisation possible at a given stage are related
as varieties to a species, which may differ slightly, though
by altering the circumstances each might be transformed
into the other. The deeper and more permanent charac-
I20 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
teristics are manifested under certain relations in the political,
under others in the industrial organs, and so forth; and,
again, they may be compatible with varying conformations
in each particular manifestation.
IV. Social Tissue.
24. In order to mark this distinction, I will venture to
speak — applying an obvious analogy — of social "tissue."
The tissue is built up of men, as the tissue of physiology is
said to be built up of cells. Every society is composed of
such tissue; and the social tissue can no more exist apart
from such associations than the physiological tissue exist
apart from the organs of living animals. The distinction
does not correspond to things separable as concrete pheno-
mena, nor can it be compared to the distinction between
a coat and the cloth of which it is made ; for unorganised
social tissue does not exist, and the tissue develops new
properties according to the mode in which it is arranged.
Thus, if you will, the distinction may be regarded as
merely a logical device ; and yet, without taking into account
in some form or other the facts which it is intended to
describe, it seems impossible to give an adequate account of
the process which we have to consider.
25. The process is the social evolution. The typical
organism is by our assumption that organism which is best
fitted for all the conditions of life, or in other words, which
has the strongest vitality. Now the difficulty which meets
us in attempting to extend to human society the principle
which may be accepted as regulating the evolution of infra-
human species is the difficulty of determining the units.
The theory of evolution cannot be clearly apprehended or
applied to this case until this point is settled ; for every
such theory supposes a double set of processes. Every change
involves on the one hand a readjustment of the organic
equilibrium within the organism and a readjustment of its
relations to the internal world. The two processes are in
SOCIAL TISSUE. 121
constant correspondence, and each Is regulated by the other.
But we should manifestly fall into hopeless confusion if we
did not know what was the unit of operation. Since the
process is one in which certain changes are mutually
implied, so that to suppose one to take place without
another is to suppose impossibilities, it is obviously essential
to determine as far as we can the limits of the organic
solidarity. We might otherwise fall into the absurdity of con-
sidering the evolution of legs without taking into account
the correlative changes of the rest of the organism.
26. Now the difficulty scarcely reveals itself in the evolu-
tionist theories as applied to the lower species. We assume
an organic change to occur — no matter how — in certain
individuals of a species, and that change to be inherited by
their descendants ; and thus two competing varieties to
arise, one of which may be supplanted by the other, or each
of which may supplant the other in a certain part of the
common domain. Some such process is clearly occurring
in the case of human variations. Everywhere we see a
competition between different races, and the more savage
tribes vanishing under the approach of the more civilised.
Certain races seem to possess enormous expansive powers,
whilst others remain limited within fixed regions or are
slowly passing out of existence. So far as human develop-
ment supposes an organic change in the individual, we may
suppose that this process is actually going on, and that, for
example, the white man may be slowly pushing savage races
out of existence. I do not ask whether this is the fact,
because for my purpose it is irrelevant. We are considering
the changes which take place without such organic develop-
ments, not as denying the existence of organic developments,
but simply because they are so slow and their influence so
gradual that they do not come within our sphere. They
belong, as astronomers say, to the secular, not to the periodic
changes. Confining ourselves, therefore, to the changes
which are, in my phrase, products of the '' social factor," and
which assume the constancy of the individual organism, we
122 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
have to ask what is the unit ? And here the theory of
variation just stated seems to require some modification.
27. Suppose, in fact, that an individual acquires a new
instinct or faculty in the sense already explained. He
makes, let us suppose, a scientific discovery which gives a
fresh command over the natural forces. Or we may suppose
that a change is brought about in the social machinery
which substitutes friendly co-operation for a state of anta-
gonism, and therefore of wasted energy. What will be
the effect of such a change upon the society in which it
occurs ? Obviously it will have an effect strictly analogous
in one respect to that of the organic change. Improved
artillery, like improved teeth, will enable the group to which
it belongs to extirpate or subdue its competitors. But in
another respect there is an obvious difference. For the
improved teeth belong only to the individuals in whom
they appear and to the descendants to whom they are
transmitted by inheritance ; bvit the improved artillery
may be adopted by a group of individuals who form a
continuous society with the original inventor. The inven-
tion by one is thus in certain respects an invention by all,
though the laws according to which it spreads will of course
be highly complex. It may be confined to a particular class
or nation, or it may spread through the whole race so far as
it has reached the necessary stage of development. To find
an analogy in the case of the individual, we must imagine
some molecular change to occur in one part of the organism
and to spread by some kind of fermentation or contagion
throughout the whole frame. And further, it may briefly
be noted that any such change, like the organic change,
involves a whole series of correlative changes, as the inven-
tion of artillery had a profound efi'ect upon the social and
political organisation of Europe, or as the development of
more effective teeth more or less alters the whole constitution
of the animal race in which it occurs. And this suggests that,
for certain purposes at least, the whole race, or the whole
race which has arrived at a certain stage, must be regarded
SOCIAL TISSUE. 123
as a single organism, or rather a continuous organic growth,
and that any modification arising in one part is propagated
throughout the whole system.
. 28. It is indeed clear that this process does not exclude
the action of the " struggle for existence." An invention,
that is to say, is propagated, in part at least, because the
possession gives an advantage to the possessors. When one
people has big guns or effective steam-engines, another
people makes them in order to hold its own in the com-
mercial and political competition. But there is the impor-
tant difference that the other race ca?i make them. If some
animals acquire better teeth, their rivals cannot at once
improve their teeth in order to meet the new difficulty;
but men in the same social state can adopt the same inven-
tions. And, moreover, the process takes place in great part
by a direct method. A new discovery spreads through the
social tissue as a fermentation spreads through a continuous
fluid. It is always regulated by the struggle for existence.
Beliefs which give greater power to their holders have so
far a greater chance of spreading as pernicious beliefs would
disappear by facilitating the disappearance of their holders.
This, however, expresses what we may call a governing or
regulative condition, and does not give the immediate law
of diffusion. A theory spreads from one brain to another
in so far as one man is able to convince another, which is a
direct process, whatever its ultimate nature, and has its
own laws underlying the general condition which determines
the ultimate survival of different systems of opinion.
29. This, at any rate, is enough to show that it is of vital
importance to understand what are the conditions of this
mutual accessibility. In so far as one part of the race is con-
tinuous with another, and can directly receive any modifica-
tions which may arise elsewhere, the race must be considered
as forming for some purposes a unit, though for other
purposes it may still be a multitude of mutually competing
individuals. The problem would be simple if we were
entitled to regard the race as broken up into independent
124 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
groups — a case partly noticed in the case of some savage
tribes. In this case nations would be only related as hostile
units, the existence of each being maintained by a constant
struo:o;le aerainst its nei2:hbours, and new inventions or beliefs
being incapable of spreading beyond its borders. A modifi-
cation due to the social factor would be for our purposes
in the same position as an organic modification. The dis-
covery of a new weapon or the growth of stronger teeth
w'ould equally give an advantage to the group in which it
occurred (assuming it to be diffused through that group)^ and
we might regard the group as a unit in our reasoning. Those
groups would survive in either case which were the most
powerful in the struggle for existence, or in relation to all
external circumstances, including its hostile neighbours. Now
it is impossible to regard political states as forming in this
sense ultimate social units. It is true that the struggle for
existence of the race which corresponds to a general regu-
lative condition may occasionally lead to an internecine
struggle between nations. One survives by extirpating its
neighbour. But this is no longer the case in any moder-
ately civilised state of the world. War is there a com-
paratively subordinate phenomenon. It is part of a larger
series of events. War decides how races are to be grouped,
not which race is to survive; or sometimes it merely de-
cides what are to be the commercial and other relations
between different groups. A conquest is the extinction of a
political organisation, and the commonest result is that the
qualities of the resulting group are determined as much by
those of the conquered as by those of the conquerors. The
race is not extirpated but incorporated. The struggle for
existence still necessarily implies the supplanting of the
weaker by the stronger, and is therefore not represented by
the international struggle, which must be taken rather as
the means by which certain relatively superficial organisa-
tions arc determined, though this organisation, again, will
have a bearing upon the general process of which it is a
part.
SOCIAL TISSUE.
125
30. This, again, falls in with a remark already made. If,
in fact, we could take states for units, and regard their
struggles as the manifestation of the struggle for existence,
it would follow that the problem worked out by that struggle
would be identical with the problem of the best form of
state. I do not mean to say that even upon this hypothesis
the qualities of the group, considered under its political
aspect, would give an exhaustive statement of its character-
istics ; for, in any case, its relation to other groups would be
in every case only a part of its relations to the whole external
world, and its power of maintaining itself would also depend
upon its power of obtaining food and so forth. But the
military power would always be the essential criterion of its
efficiency, since its life would depend at every moment upon
its power of satisfying the condition of military efficiency.
Its capacity for holding its own in the struggle would be
the central faculty round which all others would cluster.
Butthis, it is plain, would give a totally inadequate result. For
the best form of state, like the best form of army, is relative
to the general stage of social aevelopment, as the best form
of leg is relative to the organism in which it is included;
and thus the external pressure, though it may always
supply one condition, supplies only one amongst many. To
state the case fully, we should require to know many other
properties of equal importance, and directly dependent upon
an entirely different set of conditions, such as the industrial
capacity of the state, its geographical position, and so forth.
A state, in fact, may be developed when the external pres-
sure is little or nothing. The English constitution has no
doubt been profoundly modified by the relation to foreign
states ; but if for a certain period all communication with
the outside world had been absolutely prohibited, the English
people would still have developed under different conditions
to some different result. The conditions which would have
determined their organisation are still of the highest impor-
tance, and require to be taken into account when con-
trolled or modified by the influence of external relations.
126 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
Hence — though it may be superfluous to insist upon a
tolerably obvious conclusion — we should be led into hopeless
confusion if we identified the so-called social organism with
states^ regarded them as the units in our calculation, and
considered that the special modifications were all directly
determined and moulded under the influence of the mutual
competition.
31. We may thus consider the race as forming what is
called a social organism, or, as T have preferred to sav, as
forming social tissue. The reason for preferring the latter
phrase is simply that it implies a different kind of unity.
To use the word '^oro;anism" is to sua;g-est that the whole
body is capable of combining its efforts in order to bring
about some common end; as we may say (with certain
reservations) that a whole nation may combine to carrv on
a war or a single society to build a house. We cannot in
this sense predicate unity of the so-called organism. It is con-
tinuous but has not this unity. Its limits are fixed not by its
internal constitution but by external circumstances. It there-
fore is not analogous to the higher organism which forms a
whole separated from all similar wholes, but to an organism
of the lower type, which consists of mutually connected
parts spreading independently in dependence upon external
conditions and capable of indefinite extension, not of united
growth. The unity which we attribute to it consists in this,
that every individual is dependent upon his neighbours, and
thus every modification arising in one part is capable of being
propagated directly in every other part. The so-called organs,
again, correspond to special combinations of parts of the
tissue, the configuration of which is determined by the
special circumstances in which it is placed, the physical
geography of its habitat, and so forth, but which do not so
break it up into distinct fragments as to destroy its continuity.
The organs which we call states correspond to the most
prominent and most deeply marked lines of distinction; but
even this demarcation is still relatively superficial. The rela-
tions between members of different states are bv no means
SOCIAL TISSUE. 127
those of simple antagonism^ but also of direct sympathy
and cohesion.
32. If, now, we ask how the struggle for existence will
manifest itself, the answer follows from the considerations
already set forth. There is, in the first place, a constant
competition, more or less overt, between different parts of
the race, which may or may not coincide with the struggle
between different nations. If we limit ourselves for a
moment to a fixed area inhabited by a strictly homogeneous
race, implying, therefore, a particular "social tissue," we
have the case of what may be called Malthusian competition.
Given the faculties and character of the race, there is room
for a certain quantity of population. It resembles an elas-
tic body pressing steadily against fixed limits. So far as it
accumulates capital or acquires new capacities, there is room
for a larger population. If, on the other hand, we suppose
its sensibilities to increase or its standard of comfort to be
raised, or, in other words, that it refuses to accept existence
except upon higher terms, there will be room for a smaller
population. And perhaps I may add — though I cannot
here discuss the importance of the consideration — that an
inverse rule may sometimes hold good. The increase of
population in a given area may sometimes be an advantage,
in so far as it facilitates a more elaborate organisation. A
million people may be able to live better in a given space
than a thousand, because they will be able to establish a
better division of labour, and, so to speak, to tell off more
labourers to some essential purpose. Still, however intricate
the problem, the data are determinate. It is usually a question
of the maintenance of an equilibrium of a certain kind and
quantity of social tissue, that is, of men endowed with certain
faculties, amongst which this power of forming organised
associations is one of the most important, under fixed external
circumstances.
^^. When we extend the hypothesis to represent the
actual race, when we suppose the possibility of extension
into different areas and the competition with different races,
128 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the conditions increase in complexity. Considering only the
question of the competition of races, which is the problem
which concerns us, it may obviously take various forms.
Thus, if we suppose the competing races to represent
different stages of social development or to be composed of
different tissue, the competition may be one of extermina-
tion. The feebler race may vanish before the approach of
its stronger rivals, as savage tribes vanish from Australia
and America. Such extermination, it may be added, need
not imply direct slaughter, but simply the gradual asphyxia-
tion of a race by confinement within narrower limits, and
the loss of energy which seems to result when the power of
expansion is destroyed ; but it may be one of subordination,
as weaker races have become the slaves of their superiors,
or, in some cases, their dependants without being in the full
sense slaves ; or, finally, it may be one of assimilation, which
is manifested in the relations between races at nearly equal
stages of civilisation. For, as in this case, we may suppose
the innate faculties to be approximately identical, and pro-
bably the acquired faculties to be not very widely different,
the race which is put under a stress by the competition of
its neighbours will end by acquiring their capacities, and
the equilibrium will be restored instead of one being extir-
pated. The varieties of circumstance are, of course, in-
definite, and may modify the result in a thousand ways.
For us, however, it is enough to note one essential fact,
namely, that to give any intelligible account of the process,
we are forced to bear in mind the distinction already drawn
between the fundamental properties in virtue of which the
race belongs to a certain kind of social tissue, and those
relatively superficial properties which are implied in the
particular organisation. Wherever there is mutual pressure
lietwecn two parts of a race, we should first have to consider
how far they consisted of the same or of different social
tissue ; for upon this it would depend whether the struggle
should be one of extirpation or assimilation ; and, secondly,
if the issue of the strugsrle should in any particular case
SOCIAL TISSUE. 129
depend upon various conditions, amongst which of course
must be reckoned the special organisation of the competing
societies. Thus a nation inferior in its intrinsic quahties
may be able to extirpate its superiors because it has great
advantages of numbers and of geographical position. Or,
again, the industrial organisation may determine whether a
particular group will be absorbed by its neighbours or
remain in an isolated position. Now, in any case, we
can oflly speak of the merits of any particular organ with a
tacit or explicit reference to the qualities of the constituent
tissue. The military power is due not simply to the fact
that a nation has numerous armies, but that it has the
qualities which enable it to organise numerous armies ; and
thus its military power is always relative to the more intrinsic
and general qualities. And, secondly, we may assume that,
although in many particular cases the more civilised may be
supplanted by the less civilised, the race of higher intrinsic
qualities by that of lower qualities, these accidental and
contino;ent advantao;cs will be eliminated on the averao;e,
and the general tendency will be to the predominance of
those races which have intrinsically the strongest tissue.
34. And now, putting aside this question of competi-
tion between races at a different stage of development,
we may observe that the same principles apply in the case
where we assume a perfect continuity or homogeneity of
tissue. We must still, that is, distinguish between the
tissue and the organ; for in every case we assume that
some evolution is and has been taking place. Manv races,
perhaps the numerical majority of all races, are indeed in a
stationary state ; but in any case where any morality exists
we must suppose that there has been an evolution of the kind
in question (that is, independent of organic changes in the
individual) in the past, as there may be in the future. Such
evolution, it is possible, may have its limits. There mav be
a period, though for many reasons it would seem to be inde-
finitely distant, at which everything has been made out of
the given materials which is possible^ and at which further
I
I30 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
progress is therefore possible only on the hypothesis of an
organic change. In any case, and whatever the stage of
evolution or the rapidity with which it is proceeding, the
changes which have occurred or are occurring are made
possible through the inheritance of instincts and faculties
from our ancestors, used for application to new purposes.
Intellectual growth is conceivable so long as we are able to
acquire the knowledge already formulated, and to extend it
over fresh provinces ; and it seems impossible to fix any
limits to this process^ especially when we take into account
the division of intellectual labour made possible by the social
factor. In every case, again, the race considered as a whole
has to maintain its equilibrium in the general system of
nature, and the particular organisation which is the neces-
sary condition of maintaining as well as of extending the
dominion of the race at large must always be considered
relatively to those properties which have already become
organic in the race. The efficiency of any given organ
whatever must be estimated relatively to the organic pro-
perties which are the product of a previous evolution, though
at any given period they may be stationary ; and to deter-
mine the laws of variation, which include the case in which
the equilibrium is simply preserved without being altered,
we must always distinguish between these intrinsic qualities
and their more special modes of application. This is a logical
necessity, in whatever sense it may correspond to phenomena
separable in fact.
^^. There remains an important question upon which
somethins: must be said. For it may be asked, what are the
characteristics in virtue of which we should declare that two
races are or are not of identical social tissue ? The question
is one which does not admit of a precise answer any more
than the parallel question, what amounts to a specific dif-
ference as distinguished from mere individual differences or
differences between varieties ? It is a question of fact, where
the facts graduate by imperceptible degrees. We might
perhaps accept as a sufficient criterion the capacity of dif-
THE FAMILY. 131
ferent races to blend with each other. The organisatiou
of individuals would be regarded as identical when one
individual could be transplanted into another race with
perfect facility. The same test should be applicable to the
organic social organism. The experiments which have
been tried upon a vast scale in America would afford ample
illustrations. When streams of population, all drawn from
ev^ery part of the European continent, are poured into a
common receptacle, they rapidly blend together, so that all
distinction rapidly disappears. The difference is maintained
for a time by such differences as those between modern
languages, which we may call accidental because they corre-
spond to no essential social difference. They can speedily
be removed, and each race readily accepts the political and
other modes of organisation which it finds in the existing
organism. On the other hand, the process is exceedingly
slow in the case of some races separated by more funda-
mental distinctions. The Chinese and the negro remain
side by side with the other populations instead of speedily
losing their separate identity. In such cases there is pre-
sumably a difference of tissue, although it must be observed
that so long as there is no organic difference sufficient to
make fusion impossible, the acquired instincts may gradually
be adopted by one stream of population, and thus they may
be assimilated to their neighbours, with the result either of
supplanting one kind of tissue by the other, or of forming
a third, differing in some respects from both of the parent
stocks.
V. The Famihj.
'^6. This, however, is a question into which I need not
enter further. But one remark has still to be made which
is of vital importance towards giving a clear statement of
the case. I have spoken of the state, the church, and in-
dustrial bodies as presenting different kinds of social organ?.
They are, in fact, the most conspicuous cases, and of the
132 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
highest importance in any theory of society. But there is
another form of association, namely, the family, which is
frequently mentioned as though it were another co-ordinate
group. This mode of speech, though it may be admissible
for some purposes, seems to me to lead to much confusion ;
and until we have recognised the essential differences, I do
not think that we can have a clear conception of the bearings
of our theorv.
37, The distinctions, indeed, between the family and
other forms of associations are too obvious to be neglected ;
for, in the first place, we have here to do with a simple and
primitive instinct which is presupposed in all associations,
instead of being in any sense a product of them. The
sexual and parental passions are not only present at every
stage of human society, but their germs at least must be
present in the lower animals. The sentiment of loyalty
to a state is clearly a deriv^ative sentiment ; it is the product
of many instincts or modes of feeling, each of which has its
own laws, independently of this special application. It is
not a separate instinct with a definite object. The family,
on the contrary, depends at once upon the most primitive
iiistincts of our nature, which are the direct products of our
organic constitution. The love of man and woman or of
mother and child constitutes a bond which requires and
admits of no further explanation by reference to other emo-
tions. It is, of course, true that other instincts, and indeed
every instinct of which we are capable, come to group them-
selves round this central instinct and strengthen the primi-
tive tie. But that tie is more or less the ground of every
other, an antecedent assumption in all human society, and
therefore not explicable as a product of other modes of
association. Again, not only the association but its form
is determined within narrow limits by the organic structure
of the individual. The state or the church is an organism
capable of indefinite growth ; it may consist of any number
of individuals, as its limits are not fixed by the nature of the
units, but l)y various contingent circumstances. A man is not
THE FAMILY. 133
born a king or a subject^ or in any other social group, but
the parts arc indefinitely interchangeable — a statement which
is obviously not predicable of husbands and wives, mothers
and children. Hence, although the form of the family
group has varied in such important respects, it is relatively
constant. The same form of family association has con-
tinued through many ages, and extends through many
different races. And from one point of view this implies
the important distinction that whereas a given state of the
social tissue is compatible with a vast variety of forms of
government, with large or small associations, with despotic,
aristocratic, or democratic systems, a change in the family
associations implies a corresponding change of vast import-
ance in the very intimate structure of society, or in
other words, in the social tissue itself. The change, for
example, from a society in which polyandry or the forcible
capture of women was the rule to a state of monogamy and
comparative sexual equality marks one of the greatest con-
ceivable changes of social growth ; and thus, from a scien-
tific point of view at least, the family is not in any case the
product of the political arrangement, but rather one of the
primitive conditions which determine the nature of the
state. A state may, of course, make a marriage law, and
the society, acting through the political organ, may affect
the nature of the family association. But though the law
determines certain rules about the family tie which may be
of great importance, it cannot create it or modify it beyond
certain narrow limits. For, in the first place, the state being
itself the product of individuals associated in families, its
action will always be determined by the existing sentiment ;
and, secondly, the influence of any law must always be subor-
dinate. Chastity and fidelity are not to be made by any law.
No state can force men and women to marry, or really put
down licentious habits, even if it makes the attempt; and,
on the other hand, the marriage tie might be equally re-
spected in fact even if there were no law in regard to it.
The law, in fact, recognises one kind of association of the
134 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
sexes, and bestows certain privileges upon those who are so
associated, but it would be a hopeless inversion of consequent
and antecedent to suppose that it can really originate it.
It may be added, again, that we need not suppose any other
form of association to be essential. It is quite possible to
suppose men living together without any political associa-
tion; and according to some theorists this is not only possible,
but represents the ideal state of things. But some associa-
tion between the sexes, however temporary and casual it
might be, and some protection of infants by parents is
absolutely necessary to the continuance of the race beyond
a single generation — that is, some sort of family union must
always exist. It need hardly be added here, that, as a fact,
the family represents that kind of association which is
beyond all comparison the most vitally connected with the
happiness of the individual, and the condition of which
most immediately affects the gratification of all his strongest
instincts. For a great part of every one's life the family is
the whole world.
38. If, then, we look at society as a whole, we see that
the division into families does not properly represent a mode
of organisation co-ordinate with the other social organs.
It represents, on the contrary, the immediate and primitive
relation which holds men together. The family affections
are the bonds which hold individuals together, and the
primitive cohesions in virtue of which society becomes
possible, the molecular forces which form the separate cells
into a continuous tissue, the elementary property in virtue
of which society is woven together, to be afterwards formed
into different groups. The larger organs are relatively few,
and their conformation depends partly upon the contingent
circumstances in each case, and partly upon the mutual
competition which leads to the survival of some and the
blending together of others. They survive the individuals
of which they are composed, as every organic group lives
by the continuous elimination of some particles, and their
replacement by others. Such statements are obviously quite
THE FAMILY. 135
inapplicable to families. They are multitudinous; and as
they represent the primitive cohesion of the constituent
particles, they represent a cross division running through all
the other groups into which societies may be formed, and
constantly disappear with the death of the member, though,
as it breaks up, new families are incessantly formed ; and the
social competition affects the institution, not through the
competition between rival families, but in so far as the for-
tunes of the whole group are constantly dependent upon its
structure, which is determined in a very great degree by the
nature of its family unions.
39. A brief recapitulation of the principal conclusions
will now suggest the conclusion which is relevant to our
inquiry. For I have tried to show, in the first place, that to
determine the "law^' or ''form" of any instinct developed
through the social factor, it is necessary to go beyond the
individual to the organism of which he is a member. A
man acts from patriotic instinct; we may explain the force
of this instinct in any given case partly by his innate quali-
ties and partly by his circumstances. The latter considera-
tion necessarily introduces the social factor ; for the instinct
has been elaborated by the evolution of the social organism,
and its force and nature are determined by conditions not
given when the innate character is given, and therefore not
deducible from the individual organisation. So long, there-
fore, as we regard that organisation by itself, we must have
an arbitrary datum, the " law " of which is only ascertain-
able by introducing the wider considerations. Secondly, we
have observed that we have to classify the various social
instincts by reference to the complex structure of society,
which implies a distribution into mutually dependent organs,
each of which has its own conditions of persistence, and dis-
charges a more or less definite function ; and further, that
any examination of such organs shows that their laws of
growth and vitality are always relative to the underlying
properties of the " social tissue," each representing a special
modification of that tissue in view of some particular func-
136 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
tion, and varying in its structure according to various con-
tingent circumstances. Again, whilst such organs may be
adapted to a specific end, and may therefore be regarded
simply as instruments for gratifying some independent in-
stinct, and their existence is proportioned to their efficiency
in securing the gratification, they always tend to become
something more ; they acquire a vitality independent of any
special end, and become organs discharging a complex func-
tion, and imply the existence of a correspondingly complex set
of instincts; whilst, finally, the social tissue is its own end,
or depends upon the whole system of instincts possessed by
man as a social and rational creature. And hence, thirdly,
since the social tissue represents the general material or all-
pervading substance from which the subordinate associations
are constructed, w^e must consider the conditions of its
vitality independently ; and therefore we see that it is the
primary unit upon which the process of evolution impinges.
The social evolution means the evolution of a strong social
tissue ; the best type is the type implied by the strongest
tissue ; and the correlation between painful and pernicious,
pleasurable and beneficial, is to be understood by interpret-
ing the pernicious and beneficial with reference to the tissue,
whilst painful and pleasurable refer to the instincts gener-
ated in the socialised being. It is the vigorous tissue which
prevails in the struggle, and fitness for forming such tissue is
therefore the criterion of a successful elaboration of the
type. This, it may be noted, applies equally to the qualities
in respect of which society is an aggregate, and those in
respect of which it is an organism ; those which cannot vary
without a corresponding variation of social structure, and
those which vary so as to imply a change in the average
faculties. For the process of evolution is simple, and each
set of properties is always developed with reference to the
other. This statement, however defective, will, I hope, have
cleared the ground sufficiently to enable us to consider more
fully what is implied as to the nature of those social in-
stincts which gave rise to the moral law.
^37
CHAPTER IV.
FORM OF THE MORAL LAW.
I. Law and Custom.
1. Society is an organic structure, dependent for its
existence upon the maintenance of certain relations between
its members, more complicated in proportion to the com-
plexity of the whole. /Its development implies, therefore,
the development of customs in the race and habits in the
individuals. There must be certain rules of conduct which
are observed by all in order that corresponding rules may be
observed by each. To trace the development of the society
is at the same time to trace the development of the custom,
and conversely to trace the custom is to trace the social
development.
2. I use these words "custom" and "habit" without
meaning to imply what perhaps is generally implied by
those words, that the modes of conduct designated are
variable or indefinite. We oppose a custom to a "law of
nature" because it is not unconditionally observed, and we
oppose it to the positive law of a state because its observance
is not enforced by the policeman. But the difference is
not fundamental. A habit may often be regarded as a law
of nature in the making. It passes into such a law by
imperceptible degrees. We do not say that living men have
a habit of breathino;, because we hold it to be somethino;
more than a habit; it is, as we hold, a law of nature that
living men should breathe. We hold, that is, that the group
of phenomena denoted by human life inseparably and un-
conditionally includes the phenomena of breathing. We
speak of habit only in cases where the continuance of tlie
138 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
conduct depends in some degree upon the control of the
will, and can be suspended in cases where it becomes painful
beyond a certain point. But the degree in which the co-
operation of the will is a condition may vary indefinitely
and become a vanishing quantity, as the habit becomes a
definitely organised mode of conduct. If we could extend
habit to cover any mode of conduct which can be brought
under any general formula and is practised under assignable
conditions, we might apply it both to conduct which must
continue as life continues and to that which implies in
addition to life a particular state of desire and aversion in ^
the living being. The latter is essential not to all men, but
to all men under given conditions, which may, of course, be
rare, or may be all but universal. What is true of habits -
is of course also true of customs. I will only repeat that
customs may be essential to a society which do not corre-
spond to a habit essential to the individual. The existence
of a given stage of social development is dependent upon
certain customs which are not exemplified in every member
of the society. The most civilised country includes nume-
rous savages, who are in it but not of it, foreign matters con-
tained in the organism, and such that it would fall to pieces
were it not for their restraint by the more civilised mem-
bers of the community.
^3. Customs, again, have a relation to positive laws which
has led to some perplexities. In primitive states of society
the distinction is imperceptible. A tribe or clan is bound
together by certain customs which are regarded by its
members as ultimate and indefeasible. They are observed ;
but it has not yet been asked how they acquired nor why
they should retain authority. In an early stage of reflec-
tion they are perhaps regarded as imposed by the authority
of the gods, which really supposes the question may be
asked, but implies that it cannot be answered. As they do
not change, or change only by imperceptible degrees, there is
no question as to the mode in which they can be changed,
or, in other words, of the authority which imposes them.^
LAW AND CUSTOM. 139
Historical inquirers, for example, find the traces of such a
state in regard to the system of customs which regulate the
possession of land. The mode in \\ hich the various mem-
bers of a tribal community arc to cultivate its domains or to
distribute the fruits of cultivation is settled by a system of
rules which; in so far as they persist without reflection upon
their utility and the possibility of changing them, have
somethino- of the character of animal instincts. Thev are
analogous to the tacit agreement by which different herds
of gregarious animals may divide a district between them,
yriiere is a continuous progress from this social condition to
one in which the land laws form an elaborate code or an
intricate mass of regulations, the provisions of which are
expounded by judges and altered from time to time by the
legislature. Now, however great may be the difference
between the two stages of development, we have at every
stage a social organisation dependent upon custom. The
custom, indeed, has gained a new order of complexity. For,
in the first place, the law actually obeyed is not a simple set
of rules understood and spontaneously accepted by every
one concerned. It contains what we may call a potential
element. For there are a vast number of regulations which
are only brought into play upon rare contingencies and
which are known only to a few specialistsX^ It would be
straining words improperly to speak of a custom which is
absolutely unknown to ninety-nine in a hundred of the
persons concerned, and which perhaps does not determine
conduct once in a generation. ,>The custom which is essential
at all times is that which directly governs conduct from
day to day, and which is implied in the mutual confidence
of proprietors and respect for the known rights of property,
and, moreover, that of obedience to certain constituted
authorities when called upon to settle disputes./; I can
hardly be said to be in the habit of observing certain rules,
the very existence of which never enters my head, but I
may be in the habit of accepting the decisions of certain
persons who, on occasion, tell me what are those rules.
I40 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
This, it may be observed, is a general principle already
noticed. As knowledge becomes too elaborate for any
single head, we acquire a kind of potential knowledge. We
do not know the rule, but we know where it is to be found.
We are not guided simply by our instinct of locality, but by
our confidence in the Nautical Almanac. A judge has the
same use in the social organism as a general word in
language. 'We accept the general rule that we are to fulfil
contracts. In most cases this may be sufficient, but to
mark out the rule in a complex case we have to accept the
results obtained by persons specially qualified. Thus a
custom may regulate conduct in cases where it does not
imply a corresponding instinct in the minds of the agent,
because there is this elaboration of the potential element,
which he can call into play by appealing to the authorities4(^^
4. The authority, however, must itself rest upon custom,
which, again, is far more elaborate than in the primitive
state. For the chief or elders of the primitive tribe we have
the whole complex organisation of a modern state. The
custom of obedience, again, carries with it much more than
is actually present to the mind of the average citizen. He
obeys the king, the judge, and the policeman, and has pro-
bably a very vague conception of the precise relations
between their various privileges and the relations of their
offices and functions. There must, however, be a certain cus-
tom of obedience to constituted authorities, without which the
whole state would be a rope of sand. And in this sense the
law is not something more than custom, but simplv a par-
ticular case of custom. A law, as jurists tell us, is the com-
mand of a sovereign enforced by a sanction ; and the essence
of law, therefore, depends upon the ultimate appeal to
coercion, or, in other words, upon the circumstance that, if
you do not obey the law, you may be made to obey it. A
custom, on the other hand, depends always upon voluntary
obedience, and exists only so long as people choose to
comply with it. Now, for purposes of jurisprudence, the
distinction may be important, but it is not ultimate from
LAW AND CUSTOM. 141
the scientific point of view. It explains only one collateral
result from the general system. The lawyer takes for
granted the constitution of the state ; he is satisfied that a
rule is a law when certain legislative processes have taken
place, and he is content with the conclusion that ultimately
the judge can appeal to the hangman. He does not go
further, nor ask how the state holds together, nor in virtue
of what principle the judge can depend upon the hangman's
fulfilment of his duty. When we ask that question — as we
are bound to do for scientific purposes — we see at once that
this possibility of physical coercion cannot give an ultimate
answer. How is coercion possible? What will happen if
the hangman does not obey the judge ? We may go for our
answer to the nursery rhyme about the old lady who could
not drive her pig to market. When the butcher would not
kill the pig and the rope would not hang the butcher, she
had to appeal to the fire to burn the rope, and so forth. She
depended upon coercion at some point because she had to
deal with a pig, but to get the coercion she had to find some
agency set in motion without coercion. Now in the case of
the state, it not only may happen, but it is undoubtedly true
in all cases, that coercion must be at hand, so to speak, to
maintain order in case of necessity ; and by coercion I mean
the application of physical force, or the reduction of a man
to a mere thing, so that his condition is determined by forces
entirely independent of his own volitions. In that case the
theory of the state is the theory of the man whose actions
determine the action of his neighbours. The hangman and the
jailer are doubtless necessaries so long as men are what they
are, and savages form a part of a civilised community. But
it is equally true that other forces are essential to anything
like a civilised society. A temporary association may be
formed where one man treats another simply as if he were a
tool, or rules him by the threat of so treating him. And,
again, a race may be ruled from without by oppressors who
appeal only to motives of this class. But this fact does not
prove that physical force, or the dread of its application, is
142 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
in any special sense essential to political society. For every
society, beginning from the simplest germ of social union,
where the state is not yet differentiated from the family,
requires the action of all the social instincts. The more
elaborate the structure, the greater the number and force of
the instincts which must be called into play. All that is
implied in loyalty, patriotism, respect for order, mutual con-
fidence between man and man, is essential to the vitality of
a complex social organisation. A bond which rested solely
upon fear would give, not an organic compound, but a tem-
porary association, ready to collapse at every instant. Coer-
cion itself is only possible by virtue of the co-operation
which implies the existence of every other social motive.
We may say of any stone in an arch that it is the keystone,
if by abstracting it the arch would fall into ruin, and
coercion is in that sense a keystone in the social structure;
but so are all the other forces which are essential to the
structure so soon as it attains any permanence or magni-
tude. A power of flogging may be essential to the discipline
of an army, but an army held together solely by dread of
the whip would be comprised within a circle defined by the
smart of the lash. It is so little essential, indeed, that a state
of society is conceivable in which its actual application
should disappear altogether. Men might be willing to obey
their rulers simply from respect and affection ; judges might
be arbitrators whose decisions would always be accepted by
mutual consent. The power of applying coercion in case of
need must no doubt increase as the strength of the social
bond increases ; but that bond is also the stronger in propor-
tion as the need of applying it becomes less.
5. The whole social structure, then, must rest in the last
resort upon the existence of certain organic customs, which
cannot be explained from without. They depend for their
force and vitality upon the instincts of the individual as
modified by the social factor; and it would be a fallacy to
single out any one of these instincts as the essential one
when the co-operation of all is necessarily implied. From
LAIV AND CUSTOM. 143
this point of view, therefore, it is necessary to distinguish
between the organic instincts of a state and the correspond-
ing customs on the one hand, and the derivative and secondary-
instincts which are the product of that state on the other
hand ; otherwise we fall into the absurdity, not rare in
political speculations, of implicitly assuming that a state
can somehow make itself. A legal sanction may of course
be added to any custom whatever, and thus it may seem
that a state can make its own constitution and define its own
organic laws. In reality, however, the power of making a
constitution presupposes a readiness to act together and
accept certain rules as binding, and thus again implies a
whole set of established customs, such as are necessary to the
constitution and authority of a representative body. Law-
yers are apt to speak as though the legislature were omnipo-
tent, as they do not require to go beyond its decisions. It
is, of course, omnipotent in the sense that it can make what-
ever laws it pleases, inasmuch as a law means any rale
which has been made by the legislature. But from the
scientific point of view, the power of the legislature is of
course strictly limited. It is limited, so to speak, both from
within and from without ; from within, because the legis-
lature is the product of a certain social condition, and
determined by whatever determines the society ; and from
without, because the power of imposing laws is dependent
upon the instinct of subordination, which is itself limited. If
a legislature decided that all blue-eyed babies should be
murdered, the preservation of blue-eyed babies would be
illegal ; but legislators must go mad before they could pass
such a law, and subjects be idiotic before they could submit
to it.
6. Considering, therefore, any society as a natural growth,
or, in other words, regarding it from the scientific point of
view, we see what is implied in a law. We assume that
certain organic instincts have been formed, corresponding,
in my language, to a given state of the social tissue; and
involving a certain body of customs essential to the life of the
144 T^I^E SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
society, and giving rise to a special organisation according
to the various internal circumstances. We may, then, trace
the manifestations of the social properties in two ways —
either as implying a certain social structure, or as implying
a certain type of character in the members of the society.
There is, on the one hand, a political organisation which
acts in certain definable ways, and, for example, has an
apparatus for hanging convicted murderers. The "law"
may be regarded either as a statement of the relations exist-
ing between the various parts of the political organism, or
may be viewed as a command and a threat, implying a
notice to murderers that they will be hanged if caught. The
same facts, regarded from the other side, necessarily imply
the existence of an internal law. The individual must
acquire certain instincts in virtue of which he respects the
authorities and dislikes murderers. He must acquire them,
that is, in order to be an efficient part of the social organisa-
tion ; and the law may be expressed as threatening him with
whatever consequences — other than the legal consequences
— result from imperfect harmony with his social medium.
The society exists by virtue of the vitality of these instincts.
Both kinds of law are expressions of the same general fact ;
the essence of the former being that the individual is subject
to a pressure tending to enforce a correspondence between
his actions or feelings and those of his neighbours. Some
such process must take place in every association, from a
state to a gang of thieves, whatever the method by which
conformity is produced; and wherever it is produced we may
speak of a social law. It may not be possible to consider
the two modes of action separately. Every law of conduct
more or less affects the character of the persons subject to it,
so long as it is enforced ; and necessarily every variation in
the character more or less affects the sentiments from which
the external law derives its force. The correspondence,
however, is not so intimate^that one mode of statement can
always be rendered into the other. For, as I have said, laws,
and indeed elaborate codes of law, arc developed which
LA]V AND CUSTOM. 145
scarcely aflect the general character of the underlying cus-
toms, and which represent latent modifications of the social
structure not implying any sensible modification of the
instinct of order. And in the same way the instincts may
vary widely without producing any normal change in the
external order, though they may in some degree affect the
mode in which it works. The change may be too fine to be
expressed in terms of external relation.
7. If, then, the essence of any law is in the mutual pres-
sure of the different parts of the social structure, by what-
ever means it is carried out, and to whatever process it owes
its vitality, we have still to consider how the various codes of
law must be classified from our point of view. To every kind
of association, even the most ephemeral, there corresponds, as
I have said, some kind of custom, and therefore of law. And
what has been said in the last chapter will give a sufficient clue
to the right mode of regarding these various associations and
the external processes. If, in fact, we take any association with
a given end or function, its structure and the laws of con-
duct and character imposed upon its members will be deter-
mined by reference to that end and to the society of which
it forms a part. An army, for example, may be called the
fighting organ of a given nation. It resembles a machine
constructed from given materials for a given end. From
such data we could determine its structure, the discipline
necessary to its existence, and thus the various regulations
by which the external relations of the whole are defined,
and the corresponding instincts in the units. The statement
showing how men could be compounded into a fighting
machine would show also how they could be most efficiently
combined for a particular kind of fighting or from a par-
ticular kind of social organisation ; and the question of how
far any particular army fulfilled these conditions would be
determined by the specific conditions of time and place.
When we pass from the organ to the "tissue," the problem
changes. We still have an organic structure with certain
rules of conduct and corresponding instincts, but we have no
K
146 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
longer a definite end nor a fixed material. The material,
that is^ is to he regarded as developing and determining the
development of the subsidiary organs. The organ is intel-
ligible by its relation to the organism, and the end or the
function is assigned by that relation ; but the organism
itself is at once means and end; every part depends upon
every other part, and the end is intelligible only as the sum
of all the correlated instincts. The statement, therefore,
beccmes different. We now have to remember that the
organism develops without any change (or any correspond-
ing change) in the constituent units. It develops pro-
perties, therefore, which are not essential to the individual,
for he can exist in a ruder state without them ; and which,
therefore, imply the growth of a social law — that is, of quali-
ties developed in him through the social pressure. And
further, we see that some of these properties are essential to
the society. Its growth is a process of developing such pro-
perties ; and, as we have seen that the most efficient society
is that which normally survives, we may inversely infer from
the survival of a society that it has developed the properties
upon which its efficiency depends. For the end, as before
understood, we have now to consider the society as capable
of maintaining itself in the general equilibrium, whether by
competition with weaker societies, or as supporting itself by
its direct action upon the external world, and as capable of
doing so by virtue of the social properties which have been
developed. We may regard them, therefore, either as the
conditions of the social vitality, or as imposing a certain law
upon its individual members. In order that the society may
exist or develop it must have certain qualities and customs,
and must in some way impress the corresponding instincts
and habits upon its members. Hence we have to find the
qualities which are essential to the society at a given stage of
development, though not essential to the individual, and we
may then state them either as conditions of the vitality of
the social tissue, or as constituting the law imposed upon the
individual as a member of society, that is, as a constituent
THE MORAL LAW. 147
part of that tissue. The actual law, again, may not represent
the greatest degree of efficiency possible for a certain stage of
social growth ; for, as we have observed, the qualities may
vary within certain limits consistently with the persistence
of the society, but they must be an approximate statement
of the essential conditions.
II. The Moral Law.
8. Hence, without further elaboration, we may approach
to a definition of the moral law. This much at least is
obvious: the morality of a society or of an individual im-
plies at least a certain modification of the most important
relations and instincts. We may say of any suggested
regulation that it is too trifling to have any moral signifi-
cance; we cannot possibly say that it is too important.
Morality, it may be, is not interested in a mere question of
manners and fashions ; but rules which affect the very
existence of a society or a human being do not, by that
circumstance, lie beyond the sphere of morality. Another
principle closely connected with this is equally undeniable.
"^ The moral law is understood as applying to all men, in so
far as they have reached a certain stage of development, not
in so far as they belong to any particular class of society.
The same moral law is applicable to all adult men and
women, whether they are rich or poor, in one or other
profession, or, briefly, belonging to any category compa-
tible with a full development of their faculties. Of course,
each man has special duties corresponding to his particular
position in life, and in some positions there is a greater
demand for certain kinds of morality than in others. But
this means simply that the same general principle is appli-
cable in an indefinite variety of relations. The moral law is
alwavs capable of being stated in the form, "All men must
do so and so," not all lawyers, or soldiers, or sailors must
do. You come within its operation in so far as you have
the fundamental qualities common to all members of the
1 48 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
society, not in so far as you have this or that particular
contingent quahty. This, then, is to say that morality
defines some of the most important qualities of the social
tissue. It does not apply to those qualities which are
essential to the life of the individual, for immoral people
clearly exist, and the law, in this sense, implies the pos-
sibilitv of disobedience. On the other hand, it does not
apply to the more special and superficial qualities which fit a
man for this or that position without affecting his fitness to
be a member of society in some position; and therefore
we may assume, from our previous statement, that the moral
law is under one aspect a statement of the conditions, or
of part of the conditions, essential to the vitality of the
social tissue. It may be more than this in various ways ;
but it must be this, whatever else it is. The process by
which society has been developed implies that the most
important characteristics developed in the individual by the
social pressure correspond to the conditions of existence of
the society. The moral law defines some of the most im-
portant characteristics so developed, and is, therefore, a
statement of part of the qualities in virtue of which the
society is possible. It is not an exhaustive statement, for
other qualities may be essential ; nor an absolutely accu-
rate statement, for societies exist in which the morality
varies within wide limits. But so far as it goes it
must be an approximate statement of part of the condi-
tions.y
9. In saying this, I do not mean either to assert or deny
that this gives the form in which the moral law presents
itself to the members of the society in which it inheres. I am
considering the cause, not the reason, of our moral senti-
ments. Our moral judgment must condenm instincts and
modes of conduct which are pernicious to the social vitality,
and must approve the opposite ; but it does not necessarily
follow that it must condemn or approve them because they
are perceived to be pernicious or beneficial. The question
indeed remains, how it comes to pass that we condemn what
THE MORAL LAW AS NATURAL. 149
is pernicious if \vc do not think it to be pernicious ; and
this cannot be fully answered at the present stage of the
argument. Here I will only observe, that there is no
absurdity in supposing that the cause of our likes and dis-
likes may in some sense be the fact that they are useful to
us, although we may not be conscious of their utility. 7'his,
indeed, must be to some extent the case with all beings below
the reasoning stage.
III. The Moral Law as Natural.
10. The same principle accounts for the qualities most
obviously connoted by the term "moral." The moral law is
often distinguished from other groups of law on the ground
that it is divine, not human, natural, not artificial, or that
it grows instead of being made. The distinction is not an
ultimate one. Art to the scientific observer is, as Shakespeare
says, a part of nature; everything springs, mediately or im-
mediately, from the divine power as here understood, and
all human development is a kind of growth. The distinction
is only relevant at a lower stage of analysis. We mean bv
it this much at least, that whereas the law of the land is
determined by the will of the legislature, the moral law is as
independent of the legislature as the movements of the
planets. King, lords, and commons, bv going through certain
forms, may determine whether theft or lying shall be criminal;
they cannot in any degree decide whether it shall or shall not
be wicked. This seems to be in one sense equally evident
in all conceivable moral systems. If, with one set of
thinkers, you resolve morality into reason, a law to alter
morality would be as absurd as a law to repeal a proposition
in Euclid ; if you adopt the utilitarian theory, such a law
would be as absurd as a law to alter the pleasure derivable from
the consumption of stimulants. Upon the doctrine here advo-
cated, it would be as absurd, let us say, as a law to make in-
toxication healthv. The action of anv set of people can no
more change the nature of facts than of logical necessities.
ISO THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
11. Bat this does not entirely meet the case; for I am
here deahng with moraHty as it actually exists, not with
morality as it ouo-ht to be. So far as morality either is or
necessarily implies a statement of certain facts, it is of course
true that morality cannot be made; but actual morality
corresponds to men's theories about facts, and varies in
proportion as they are fallible. It may therefore deviate
from that which would be the code if they were incapable of
error, and we may ask how it is possible to define the possible
amplitude of their oscillations. . May not the code of rules
by which our moral judgments are guided vary as widely as
any other code of rules? May it not be swayed by prejudices
or altered by respect for some constituted authority ? Though
a legislative enactment could not make murder rio-ht, mio-ht
it not as a fact determine the sentiment about murder ? This
is necessarily a question of fact to be settled by historical
inquiry, but the principles laid down may suggest some limit
to the possible oscillations.
12. It is plain, in fact, that though morality varies, it must
vary within incomparably narrower limits than other systems
of law, because its variation is determined by far more general
conditions. It is the variation of the most intimate struc-
ture and the deepest instincts, not of the superficial senti-
ments or of the special modifications of society. In the
earliest stages of growth, when certain rigid customs represent
the germs both of moral and other codes, the custom develops
in all cases by a slow growth rather than by constant modi-
fication; and even in the most civilised periods a similar
process may take place in regard to certain rules as modified
imperceptibly by judicial interpretation. But as the difference
becomes more palpable, the moral law alone retains the
characteristics of divine, indefeasible, and so forth. The
diflerence then appears between the organic laws of the
tissue and the special laws of any particular organisation.
One class of laws maintains itself by the direct action of the
organic instincts; others by the application of these instincts
to special circumstances, or by respect for the authority which
THE MORAL LAW AS NATURAL. 151
developed by such application. In a given case the two
kinds of motive may be inextricably blended. I may obey a
given law either because of the authority which enforces it or
on its own account. I may keep a promise because I think
it right, or because I am afraid of the penalties imposed upon
a breach of contract, and in the latter case I keep it for the
same reasons which would induce me to wear a prescribed
costume. But the instincts which induce me to act morally
are co-ordinate with those which induce me to obev authority,
and can only be altered by a radical alteration of my whole
character. The others are derivative, and may therefore vary
as the particular action of the authority varies. And thus
we mav assume that the organic variations belong to an
entirely different order, and are relatively strong compared
with those of the secondary or derivative instincts.
33. This applies to the case in which we may regard
even a moral law as beincr in some dcQ-ree made by a process
not unlike that of actual legislation. Such a case is, in
fact, more or less illustrated by every great moral teacher.
If the Gospels revealed a new system of morality, their pro-
mulgation may be regarded as a case of moral legislation.
It would be admitted, indeed, by every believer, that for such
a case nothing less is needed than a divine interposition ; the
direct intervention of a power which can modify the organic
as easily as the secondary instincts. But the question, so far
as it comes within the sphere of scientific inquiry, is simply
one of facts — how far, namely, the promulgation of a new
moral principle can alter the accepted moral code? If we
could conceive of the moral chano-e wrouo"ht by Christianity
as a case of obedience to a power revealed by miracles, the
immediate change would not be so much a change of morality
as a change in the sanctions of morality. It would be re-
vealed to men that certain kinds of conduct had consequences
of which they were not previously aware. Such a change
might, no doubt, affect indirectly their whole moral character.
But it is needless to discuss such a theory, except to take note
of the virtual assertion that nothing short of supernatural
152 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
interference could bring about such a result. So long as we
remain within the limits of scientific inquiry, we must admit
that the influence of the greatest moral teacher depends,
not upon his authority, but upon the congeniality of his
teaching to the sentiments by which the social medium is
already permeated. He succeeds in so far as his teaching is
in harmony with the prevailing instincts. He could not
teach if he were not in advance of his fellows, nor find a
hearing; unless he were ffivino- articulate shape to thoughts
O DO I O
obscurely present to countless multitudes. Like Socrates, he
must be something of a "midwife;" he facilitates the birth
of the new ideas with which the world is already in travail,
and is reallv the interpreter and the mouthpiece of thought
seeking for utterance, and representing a slow process of
elaboration. The poet and the philosopher, and the religious
teacher no less than these, depend for their power upon this
unconscious co-operation ; and the more men study the history
of the world, the more importance thev come to attach to
this occult process of dumb preparation.
14. When we sav, then, that morality grows and is not
made, we really point to this fact, that it is the fruit of a
gradual evolution of the orjzanic instinct continued through
many generations. Each individual imbibes the moral senti-
ments as he grows up and regards them as primitive because he
has accepted them without conscious reflection. To alter the
code thus elaborated is to alter the most deeply rooted modes
of thought and feeling, which are imbedded in the whole
scheme of life, and accepted bv the race as its theory of the
external world. The reformer must start with these senti-
ments ingrained in his character, and must sympathise with his
fellows before he can influence them. New discoveries about
the external world, new wants due to the growth of society,
the gradual accumulation of natural and intellectual wealth,
may necessitate some modification of the organic instincts, but
such changes must always be slow, and involve many blind
gropings after a solution before any tolerable equilibrium can
be reached. At each particular stage of the process, the
THE MORAL LAW AS NATURAL. 153
ordinary mind resists any change in the principles instilled
into it from birth, and is only induced to revolt by some very
sensible evil. To alter a speculative opinion is hard enough
v^'hen its alteration involves any deeply seated change in our
system of thousrht, but it is far harder to alter the opinions
which have a direct bearing upon our conduct, and still more
to modify profound prejudices in the sluggish minds of the
e:reat mass of mankind ; and therefore even in the case where
the supposed change involves a real improvement in the social
adjustment, and has all the advantages, direct and indirect,
resulting from that fact, it implies modifications so far-reaching
in their character, and requiring the tacit co-operation of so
many minds, that it must resemble one of the slow natural
processes rather than the sudden change which may be
wrought by a single discovery in a particular department of
thouQ;ht, or the change produced in comparatively superficial
arrano-ement by a leeislative action.
15. From this observation, too familiar to require further
exposition, we may pass to the cognate attribute of the moral
law, its eternity and immutability. From our point of view,
these phrases must be understood in a sense compatible with
the admission of evolution. The actual moral law develops,
and therefore changes, whatever may be said of the ideal law.
We must recrard the moral instincts as dependent upon
human nature or human society, and therefore liable to
vary in so far as their subject is liable to vary. When
the older school of metaphysicians speak of the immutability
of the law, they may either mean that the law will always be
the same under the same conditions, which is no doubt true,
but gives us no real information ; or that it would be in
some sense the same even if the conditions of human life
were radically altered, which is either false or refers to a
transcendental region of real existences altogether separate
from the phenomenal world, and therefore has no intelli-
gible bearing upon scientific theories. We cannot mean by
eternity or immutability that the moral law will remain
unaltered even if the conditions upon which it depends
154 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
be altered; but only that these are the most fundamental
conditions assignable, the permanent conditions of social
vitality, which remain constant through an indefinite series
of more superficial changes in the social organisation. If
we assume that these conditions may be entirely different
in some different world, the morality in that world would
presumably be also different. If in some distant planet
Ivino- were as essential to human welfare as truthfulness
is in this world, falsehood might there be a cardinal virtue.
The possibility of such a state of things may be denied by
those, at least, who profess omniscience ; but if you admit the
possibility of such a change, you must admit also the possi-
bility of the correlative change in the morality. The morality
then is as permanent as the conditions of existence, though
there may be a dispute as to the permanence of those condi-
tions. A being radically different from man would no doubt
have a different code of behaviour. The degree of constancy
which we attribute to the moral code will appear more plainly
when we come to a more direct deduction of the specific
virtues. At present, we may say that any change must be
relatively small in proportion to the permanence of the
deepest organic instincts as compared with their modification
under particular conditions. But we may also go one step
further. The variation, we may say, whatever it is, must
correspond to a process of evolution, not to what could be
called arbitrary modification. If one form of living being is
evolved from another, there must be a certain community
of plan. Though the two may differ, certain fundamental
properties are exemplified in both. Similarly, when a code
of law is developed from a simpler code, the latter, though
richer in content and more varied in application, must contain
certain first principles already given in the first, and extend
them by generalising instead of repealing them. There is a
continuity though not an identity of sentiment. The type
of character which is approved at one stage must be always
on the line towards the type approved at a more advanced
stao-e. And therefore, although we may raise our standard,
MORALITY AS INTERNAL. 135
and consider the good man of one period as an average, or
less than an average man in a higher period, we may always
so far approve of the standard which we have left behind as
to consider that its relative judgments were always correct.
The qualities approved may have been in everything better
than the qualities disapproved, though the highest qualities
conceivable were not equal to those now demanded. But a
clearer view of the principle follows from another characteristic
of morality, which appears from a historical point of view
to be of primary importance.
IV. Morality as Internal.
16. The clear enunciation of one principle seems to be a
characteristic of all the great moral revolutions. The recogni-
tion amounts almost to a discovery, and would seem to mark
the point at which the moral code first becomes distinctly
separated from other codes. It may be briefly expressed in
the phrase that morality is internal. The moral law, we may
sav, has to be expressed in the form, " be this," not in the
form, " do this." The possibility of expressing any rule in
this form may be regarded as deciding whether it can or
cannot have a distinctively moral character. Christianity
gave prominence to the doctrine that the true moral law
says " hate not," instead of " kill not." The men of old
time had forbidden adultery ; the new moral legislator
forbade lust ; and his greatness as a moral teacher was
manifested in nothinsi; more than in the clearness with which
he gave utterance to this doctrine. It would be easy to show
how profoundly the same doctrine, in various forms, has been
bound up with other moral and religious reformations in
many ages of the world.
17. What, then, is implied in the change? Conduct may
be regarded as a function of character and circumstance. An
adjustment of internal to external relations is, it is said, the
very definition of life. It follows, hence, that every law as to
conduct carries with it a rule as to character, and vice versa.
156 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
Reofulate a man's feelings or his actions, and you necessarily
affect his actions or his feelincrs. Induce a man not to hate
his brother, and he will be slow to kill him; and if you
persuade him not to kill, vou necessarily limit to some degree
the force of his hatred. As it is easier for the primitive mind
to accept the objective than the subjective definition of con-
duct, the primitive rule takes the corresponding form, and
only prescribes qualities of character indirectly by prescribing
methods of conduct.
18. Where, then, is the importance of making the distinc-
tion ? If to every mode of feeling there corresponded a
definite mode of conduct, the two rules would imply each
other. It is possible to suggest certain cases in which this
would be approximately true. It seems, at least, to hold true
of the appetites as distinguished from the intellectual emo-
tions ; for while every appetite has a definite physical organ
to correspond to it, the mode of feeling and the mode of
acting are mutually implied. To regulate thirst is to regulate
drinkino-; but this fails to hold crood so soon as we deal with
the emotions which do not discharge themselves by a fixed
or narrow channel. If I try to define any mode of action
solelv by its objective characteristics, that is, solely by .those
qualities through the perception of which I recognise the
existence of a world external to myself, I find that the coin-
cidence cannot be maintained. Any action so defined may
be due to the most varvino; motives, and the same motive
prompt the most various actions. Killing generally implies
hatred, but in certain cases I may kill from a sense of duty,
from a desire of monev, or even from love of the person
killed; when I wish, for example, to "put him out of his
misery." Therefore, though the prohibition of killing gene-
rally forbids the same acts as are forbidden by a prohibition
of hatred, the two prohibitions will diverge in an indefinite
number of cases. If I wish to forbid all the actions which
spring out of hatred, the definition by the internal character-
istic is simple and exhaustive, whereas the other kind of de-
finition must be indefinitely complex, and must always be
MORALITY AS INTERNAL. JS7
more or less defective. I may modify the prohibition of kill-
ing by permitting it in particular cases, as, for example, in
war; and again by adding a number of subsidiary prohibi-
tions, forbidding other means of gratifying hatred, such as
mere insult or the production of conditions indirectly un-
favourable to life. But, after all, it would of course be
idle to attempt to sum up all the indefinite variety of ways
by which one man can inflict pain upon his neighbours.
The difference between the two methods is like the difference
between marking a circle by the revolution of a fixed line
round a given centre and trying to make an approximate circle
by causing a number of other figures drawn from external
points to intersect in such a way as more or less to indicate
the circumference of the circle. If, in short, I wish to forbid
all conduct which is the fruit of a certain disposition, I shall
do so at once by forbidding that disposition ; and, in that
case, the rule of conduct will tend to become simpler as I
briny; new classes of action under this oreneral rule. IL on
the other hand, I proceed by the opposite method, and try to
give the external characteristics of the same conduct, my rule
will become constantly more complex as I endeavour to make
it applicable to the indefinite variety of possible cases.
19. Now every conceivable rule of conduct must be a rule
of character. Since action is (upon my assumption) alwavs
determined by pain or pleasure, a uniform rule implies uniform
feelino- in regard to the conduct prescribed. Rules of action
imply a classification of things in general according to their
relation to the feelinirs of the assent, and thus the formation
of primary rules corresponding to his primitive sensibilities
and harmonised by the unity of the organisation constituted
by those sensibilities. These primary rules must be capable
of statement as rules of character, and for this reason, as we
have just seen, cannot be adequately stated as rules of external
conduct; for a man, considered as an agent, must be re-
garded as simply an organised group of feelings. The calculus
of motive cannot include anv other data besides the feelings.
The universe only comes into consideration in fixins; certain
158 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
internal conditions of feeling, whilst the character is the ex-
pression of the internal conditions. Now, in anv given case,
the conduct will of course depend upon the special stimulus
which comes from without as well as upon the character.
To know how the character acts, we must know what in-
fluences are operative; we must understand the instrument,
and we must also know what are the movements of the
external player. But to obtain the general rule we abstract
from all those particular accidents, and consider only what is
essential. We want to know what are the conditions imposed
by the structure of the instrument itself, whatever conditions
may be imposed from without. But this is to take into
account only those external circumstances which are constant,
and whose existence is assumed when we assume the exist-
ence of the agent. The organism implies the environment as
a persistent and universal condition, to which therefore no
explicit reference need be made. If breathino- is necessary to
life, air must be necessary ; but I can define the laws of breath-
ing, its relation to other functions, and its place in the whole
organic equilibrium, without making any further reference to
this implied condition. So a psychologist might regard a man
as a compound of certain primitive emotions, and give their
relations as constituting his character without any reference
to the external conditions which are necessary to the exist-
ence of such a being. The general rules so given would be
implied in every particular action and their mode of operation,
and each case would depend upon the special stimulus applied ;
but the rules would not themselves include any datum of
external fact. In the special cases where a given mode of
feeling has a fixed external correlative, the two modes of stat-
ing the rule would be interchangeable; but as in the general
case no such equivalent presents itself, we must necessarilv
state the rule in the direct and only possible form, namely,
as a rule of character. And since morality is, as we have
said, concerned with these general rules, the onlv mode of
stating the moral law must be as a rule of character.
20. The point niav be made clearer by takino; Into account
MORALITY AS INTERNAL. 159
another consideration. If we consider any given class of ac-
tions, we may sav that the intrinsic motive, instinct, or mode of
feeling is that which being given, the action follows, or which,
if the action takes place, must be present. Hunger we may
say (without taking note of possible exceptions) implies eating
under certain circumstances, and vice versd the consumption
of food under these circumstances implies hunger. And, again,
there will be a true intrinsic motive if certain conditions
always produce a given desire, even when other conditions
may prevent the desire from leading to action. That is the
case if hunger is always produced by certain conditions,
alth ough other considerations, e.g., the fear of poison, may pre-
vent eatin 2:. For a volition we then have only a velleitv. There
is, on the other hand, an extrinsic motive when the conduct is
desired solely with a view to some further result, which may
or may not be present, and is therefore not desired when that
result is not anticipated. In such a case the motive is not
only overcome, but entirely suppressed by a change of circum-
stances, and the apparent end turns out to have been only
desirable as a means to some further end.
21. Assuming this, we may say that there are many classes
of conduct to which there is no possible intrinsic motive.
This is true of all classes of conduct which can be defined in
purely objective terms; for I must understand by such terms,
terms which have no direct singificance for the feelings what-
ever, or, in other words, which refer solely to the mathematical
relations of the object. I have no intrinsic motive for going
east rather than west, up rather than down, or round two
sides of a triangle rather than along the third. The physio-
logist considers all phenomena from this point of view and
classifies them entirely by reference to changes in time and
place. But when we are speaking of conduct, it is plain that
the rules so obtained are only interesting in so far as they can
be used by our feelings. They enable us to calculate what
will be the consequences of conduct, and reveal their whole
significance when we apply them to calculate such conse-
quences. The knowledge that one side of a triangle is less
i6o THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
than the two others has no interest in itself, but as soon as I
am in a hurry to reach a given point, or wish to avoid reach-
ing it too soon_, it of course determines the mode in which my
feelings will prompt my conduct.
22. In the general case, however, the statement will be
different. A given class of actions will be pleasant or painful,
and may therefore sugirest a rule of conduct of one kind or
other. Now, generally speaking, we may say of a certain
class of conduct partly defined by external considerations,
that it must correspond more or less closely to some intrinsic
motive. It may be such that one kind of conduct alone will
be desirable on the assumption that the agent is accessible
to certain motives. That is, if we have a certain character,
we shall act in the way supposed. But it will also generally
be true that the same conduct may be prompted by other
motives; so that we cannot certainly infer the motive from
the conduct. And besides this, it will generally be true that
the desirability of the conduct depends to some extent upon
circumstances not expressed in the rule. So that some kinds
of conduct, although falling within the class definition, do
not present themselves as desirable. That is to say, it has no
intrinsic motive precisely corresponding to it. So, to repeat
the former illustration, certain actions are Q:enerallv the
result of kindness. So long as I am kindly I shall not kill ;
but the abstinence from killing may be the result of many
other motives, such as fear of the gallows ; and in some rare
cases kindliness might even prompt to killing. To say
this is only to repeat the previous statement of the impossi-
bility of making the external and internal codes precisely
coincident.
23. We may ask, then, how any external rule of conduct
is possible; for if all conduct is conditioned bv feeling, and
uniform conduct implies uniform feeling, whilst external
uniformity could only be secured in practice by internal
variation, and vice versa, it would seem that no external rule
can express a real rule of conduct. In one sense this seems
to be rigidly true, 'iliat is, there is no rule which a human
MORALITY AS INTERNAL. i6i
being will obey under all circumstances in spite of all conceiv-
able conflicting motives. This is simply an admission that
the strength of the will is finite. It merely asserts that other
motives may override those implied in the observance of the
rule ; the rule may still be an operative force, though not the
sole or dominant force. But the question is how any rule
of the external kind can express even a uniform desire, and
if not, whence it can derive any permanent influence? To
this we may say, that, in the first place, the observance of
such a rule may become a habit. The essence of a habit is,
as we have seen, that I act in a certain way in obedience to
certain signals, without calling up all the feelings implied.
If I am in the habit of getting up to breakfast when a bell
rings, I may get up when a bell rings which I know to be
the indication ; but I must suppose that in this case the
knowledge is more or less of the potential kind; that is, that
I mio-ht know if I reflected or brouo-ht into vivid conscious-
ness all the thoughts connected with the given symbol. And,
in the second place, the observance, and still more frequently
the breach of a rule, may be due simply to the fact that I am
an unreasonable and inconsistent being. This means virtually,
as we have already seen, that I may have a different character
at different times, and perhaps allow a set of feelings which,
on other occasions, are relatively superficial, to overpower
feelings which are at other times the most powerful. I have,
however, spoken sufficiently of this, which In fact is part of
the general problem as to the reasonableness of action. So far
as I become reasonable this kind of irregularity will disappear,
and I shall be governed in the same cases by the same
motives, and cease to apply rules in cases where they are not
applicable.
24. Let us suppose, then, that I act reasonably in the sense
that, as I always judge by the same principles or am actuated
by the same set of feelincrs brouQ-ht into harmony and sub-
ordination, and therefore that a uniform rule does in fact
correspond to a uniform mode of feeling, then I may accept
the rule as affording a sufficient presumption under ordinary
L
1 62 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
circumstances. It serves as an indication that the facts are
such as would determine me to act in a given way. So,
for example, my objection to killing may be founded upon a
dislike to giving pain. That is the intrinsic motive of a class
of actions which cannot be defined by any absolutely coin-
cident, external, correlative. Still it gives me a strong pre-
sumption against killing, because in almost all cases killing
gives pain. If I see a man, therefore, and know nothing
about him beyond the fact that he is a man, I shall refrain
from killing him. I shall again refrain unless the presump-
tion is rebutted by evidence that killing will diminish pain ;
and in that case, I shall kill if, in fact, the dislike to giving
pain is the intrinsic and sole applicable motive of my conduct
in relation to my neighbours. On this supposition the general
rule is a conditional one, although the conditions may not be
distinctly formulated.
25. Again, the rule may be accepted from an extrinsic
motive ; that is to say, from a motive not implied in the
definition of the class of conduct commanded or prohibited.
This, of course, is the case wherever the rule is accepted, not
for itself, but from regard to the authority by which it is
imposed. In this case I do not object to killing, but to some
consequence not necessarily or invariably connected with it.
I may object to kill because killing leads to the gallows or
because it leads to damnation. Were I certain to escape the
hangman and to obtain spiritual absolution, I might still
be ready to kill. This, of course, is a highly important case
in practice. The legislator is forced to classify conduct by
its objective manifestations. He, therefore, is necessarily
limited by the considerations already suggested. He can-
not forbid all the possible manifestations of a passion such
as hatred, but only those which produce certain tangible
and visible consequences. However elaborate his code, there
will still be iimumerable devices by which a man whose
character prompts him to take the forbidden courses can
gratify his passions by indirect methods. And where the
moralist and the religious teacher is misled by the analogy,
MORALITY AS INTERNAL. 163
and instead of forbidding the passion tries to classify all the
modes of conduct to which it may lead, he gets into the same
difficulty. lie permits what he does not prohibit, and is
therefore in danger of producing hypocrisy instead of virtue,
and stopping a few holes in a sieve instead of stopping the
stream at its source. And here we have the secret of the
immense importance attributed by all the higher moralists
to the other mode of statement.
26. Hence we may define the spheres to which rules, which
have or have not an external reference, are necessarily limited.
So long as any external element is present in the formula, it
must be a formula of the organ, not of the organism, appli-
cable under particular conditions or circumstances, and not
belonging to the man simply in respect of his intrinsic
motives. For if the respect for the law is really a case of
respect for the imposing authority, that authority is itself a
product of the primary instincts acting under special con-
ditions, and determined by them and by the properties of the
''tissue" of which it is a modification. Therefore a rule
of conduct which tacitly or implicitly depends upon some
principle of authority must by its nature define, not a property
of the tissue, but of some special product, determined by exter-
nal circumstances and variable from time to time. And if
we take the case of any rule which does not coincide through-
out as to the motive and the conduct, it can only give a
conditional rule of conduct, the condition being not the
general conditions implied in the existence of the agent, but
in some special set of facts which may vary whilst those con-
ditions are fixed. In either case, the rule virtually implies
acting by some criterion according to which we classify the
particular case before us. To have some such criterion is of
course an essential in all conduct, since conduct of every
kind involves some set of external events. Now, if the
criterion shows that the case belongs to a class of events
corresponding to a certain kind of feeling, there are always
points at which it fails us. If through hai)it or inattention
we continue to observe it, we act inconsistently; if we are
1 64 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
fully consciovis of what we are doing and are guided by
uniform principles^ we shall not observe it. Therefore the
rule^ properly stated^ does not give a law of the character,
but only of the character as affected by certain special and
variable circumstances. If, again, the criterion marks the
case as belonging to a class of actions forbidden by a certain
authority, we do not ask whether the classification itself
depends upon any intelligible principle or implies anything
beyond a classification by external characteristics. We
are consistent in obeying the law, whatever it prescribes,
even though the classification assumed by the law be from
other points of view inconsistent. In this case, therefore,
the true rule is in the form: Do as you are bid by somebody.
And as here, again, the instinct of obedience to any authority
whatever is necessarily dependent upon the particular cir-
cumstances under which the authority has grown up, and is
a deduction from the primary instincts in a particular appli-
cation, not the principle from which they can be deduced,
we still have a rule of character as affected by special con-
ditions, not a rule which corresponds to the organic relations
of character. Hence any external law whatever fails to give a
law of character simply ; and, on the other hand, the organic
law must also transcend all these special applications, however
general some of them may be. The moral law as a law of social
*' tissue/' or as a law concerned only with the development of
character by the intrinsic properties of the social organism in
presence of fixed external conditions, can only be adequately
expressed in terms which have no external reference.
27. The process, then, by which the moral law (or rather
the law of conduct of men considered simply as constituting
the social tissue, for this law includes but is not coincident
with the moral law) is developed, is a process of generalisa-
tion. It corresponds to a vast induction carried on by the
race as organised in society. It is a gradual disengagement
of certain primary instincts, and a distinct perception of their
value and mutual relations from the perplexing complexity
of their particular manifestations — a process which is more
MORALITY AS INTERNAL. 165
complex because it involves a modification of the emotions
and of the whole character^ as well as a simple intellectual
process. Certain modes of conduct are seen to be bad, that
is, they are disliked for some reason or other by the persons
concerned. Society tries to put them down as it tries to
extirpate dangerous animals. It develops in proportion to
its success in this undertaking, which implies, again, a
development of the feelings hostile to such practices, and at
the same time of a social structure capable of applying
effectual restraints. Now, so far as the growth of a certain
body of sentiment is implied, the question emerges. What is
the common principle in virtue of which this, that, and
the other bad practice is hateful ? As men grow more rea-
sonable, they are constantly comparing and correlating their
feelings; some such process is involved in all conscious action;
they are thus classifying the various external phenomena
in respect of the feelings excited. Gradually, it appears
that this process leads to a necessary divergence of the
two methods of classification. The same feeling is excited
in countless wavs according:; to the endless combination of
external facts. No definite class of external facts can be
assigned which precisely corresponds to one intrinsic feeling.
Hence, as the ultimate principle of classification must for all
purposes of conduct be by the primary feelings, we find that
the most general rules of conduct must be expressed in terms
of character, and the other rules, which contain the appli-
cation of those general rules to more special cases, must take
a subordinate position, and be regarded as being only of con-
ditional value. This, again, is the same thing as to say that
these general rules express the properties of the social tissue,
or those properties of the organic growth which underlie
all the special arrangements which can only be regarded as
comparatively superficial products of the tissue, determined
by its necessary external relations. Finally, it may be re-
peated that they must necessarily correspond within narrow
limits to a statement of the conditions of vitality of the
tissue which they characterise.
1 66 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
28. This, agaiu^ gives an intelligible sense to another sense
in which we may understand another predicate frequently
attributed to the moral law. Moralists frequently assert its
supremacy, and appear in so doing to fall into a vicious circle.
A legislator orders me to lie, and the moral law orders me
to tell the truth. Then, it is said, I ought to obey the moral
law. But if ^^ouoht" means it is rio-ht, and rio;ht means in
conformity to the moral law, this appears to be equivalent to
saying that I ought to do what I ought to do. It is difficult
if not impossible to escape from this dilemma so long as we
are speaking of a supremacy de jure; but if we speak of a
supremacy de facto, the statement may bear a tenable inter-
pretation. It is conceivable, in fact, that any law belonging
to a given association may be regarded as more or less con-
ditional. I may agree to obey its rules so long as those rules
do not conflict with the laws of a higher authority. We
might conceivably have a state which in this way did in fact
recognise the moral law, so that no law would actually be
enforced when it conflicted with the moral sense of the
community. How far this is the case in any really exist-
ing state I do not presume to say. It is undoubtedly very
difficult to enforce laws when they palpably oflend the
recognised morality of a country ; and the conceivable reply
of a lawyer, that they are still laws, is a mere verbal reply
when we are dealing with facts. But however this may be
in particular cases, the general principle remains true. The
laws of a state, along with all its other arrangements, are,
generally speaking, the product of the social medium from
which it springs, and generally, therefore, reflect the preva-
lent moral feeling. And further, the moral feeling is itself
dependent upon conditions of a higher and more general
order than those by which the political organisation is deter-
mined. We may therefore say briefly that the morality of
a race, as it depends upon the most permanent conditions,
represents its fundamental characteristics, and that the
subordinate rules of conduct, whatever they may be, must
be regarded as springing from them, and not vice versa.
BASIS OF MORALITY. 167
Many laws, indeed, exist which arc regarded as more or less
immoral by large classes of the persons bound by them.
The law does not cease to be a law because it is immoral,
but certainly it has less chance of being anything but a law
in name ; and the only general principle must be that the
characteristics which are most deeply seated and dependent
upon the most permanent conditions must tend, however
long the process, to override those which are relatively super-
ficial and contingent. Further, it may be added that, in an
ideal state of society, every general principle would also be
recognized in every particular rule. This is a result, indeed,
to which we must expect a gradual approximation rather
than anticipate its actual attainment. So, for example, if
the moral law commands kindliness and some particular
rule prescribes a cruel action, we may say that if the
society is progressive (a condition which is of course neces-
sary) some uniform rule must be worked out. Then, by
hypothesis, kindliness has been discovered to be a quality
characteristic of social vitality, and the rule can be laid down
absolutely ; whereas the rule which prescribes cruelty is the
product of some particular combination of circumstances,
and can only be stated conditionally. Hence we may say
that the general tendency must be to bring about such a
modification of sentiment that the superficial and excep-
tional rule may be superseded by one consistent with the
general principle. The statement, however, as to the supre-
macy of morality and the conscience is generally, as I think,
understood in a different sense, and as applicable to particular
cases of conduct rather than to the position occupied by the
moral sentiments in the general process of evolution. We
shall come to this in a later chapter.
V. Basis of Morality.
29. So far, then, the argument has justified some of the
predicates most generally applied to the moral law, though
it imposes a certain interpretation upon them. By saying
1 68 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
that a law is moral, we mean that it belongs to human beings
as such, and not as belonging to any special class. This, in
my view, amounts to saying that the moral law defines a
property of the social tissue. Hence it must be natural, not
artificial ; it must grow, and not be made ; for these pro-
perties are the intrinsic and underlying properties implied
in all special societies, incapable of being abruptly altered
by the action of any particular person, or in obedience to
any subordinate series of events, and gradually developed as
the society grows instead of being the fruit of special con-
tingencies. The law must be eternal so far as anything
human can be eternal, for it must be an approximate expres-
sion of the conditions of social vitality, as the instincts to
which it corresponds are the instincts by which the life of
the society is maintained ; and it must therefore be as per-
manent as those conditions themselves. It varies only by
development, as each step in the social evolution represents
a fuller solution of the problem of adapting a society formed
of given materials and acting under fixed conditions to the
needs which those conditions impose. Again, it must be
capable of expression as a law of internal character, not as a
law of external facts ; for the only variable element is the
character, and the problem to which it supplies an answer is
the determination of the most effective qualities of character
which can be developed in a given agent to make him an
efficient member of society. In the infinite variety of cir-
cumstance, these qualities may manifest themselves in a
corresponding variety of methods, which can never be
adequately summed up or classified by external character-
istics. And, finally, since these qualities represent the most
general rules of action, such alone as can be stated absolutely
— that is, without reference to varying circumstances — the
law must be supreme. It deals with the first principles, the
primary reasons to which every particular case must present
a special application.
30. Supposing this to be admitted, we have still the critical
problem before us. For the natural method would now be
BASIS OF MORALITY. 169
to deduce from the general principle the particular rules
of conduct, and to show that they do in fact lead to the
recognised moral law. There is, as I began by saying, a
tolerable agreement as to the contents of that law, however
wide mav be the divergence as to its form. This being so,
it would be absurd, as it would be really misleading, to affect
the method of an a priori deduction. We know what are
the conclusions to be reached, and need not speak as though
we had before us nothing but the premisses. It will be
enough to show that the general principles of morality can
in fact be deduced from the theory laid down, without sup-
posing that we are starting from that theory with perfectly
unprepossessed minds, in search of any principles that may
turn up. Certain general remarks, however, may be pre-
mised, to elucidate the nature of the investigation. We are
to see how certain rules have been reached by the evolution
of society from a period at which, as we assume, though attribu-
ting to our assumption no more than an approximate accuracy,
the individual man had his present organisation, but at which
societv existed only in germ, and the custom upon which it
depends had not been distinctly elaborated nor consciously
accepted. We have to deal, then, only with the rules which
have been created by society, or rather which have been
evolved as society has evolved, the internal and the external
processes being necessarily correlated, and not related as though
one had appeared first and the other been moulded upon it.
31. Hence we have nothing to do with certain rules of
conduct which are implied in the very constitution of the
race, and which would certainlv have to be stated as primary
conditions of existence. Men must have certain appetites,
hunger, the sexual instinct, and so forth, without which the
race could not survive for a day. They are, again, implied in
every later development; but we have only to do with the
later modification, and not with the initial state. But, in
the next place, it is clear that we might lay down many rules
of conduct as necessarv to the existence of society which
cannot be regarded as properly moral. Thus, for example.
I70 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the most obvious condition of the social or individual vitality
is what we may roughly call the instinct of self-preservation.
If men had no instinct which kept them from walking over
precipices or swallowing fire, they would have a very pre-
carious tenure of life. Nobody would be called moral for
obedience to the rules formed from such instincts, nor even
for obedience to the higher rules which are developed from
them as society grows. The instinct of self-preservation
becomes finer and more sensitive as the emotional and intel-
lectual faculties are developed. We become aware of a greater
number of conditions, measure them by more delicate tests,
and are more sensitive to remote consequences. For the mere
avoidance of fire, precipices, poisons, and so forth, we come
to observe with more or less regularity a complex set of rules
calculated to preserve our bodily health ; but such rules are
not generally regarded as moral at all. We do not say that
a man is good because he takes care of his digestion or makes
it a principle to take a certain quantity of exercise daily.
Such conduct is denied to be moral, although we may call
it prudent, because it is consistent with selfishness, cruelty,
falsehood, and other bad qualities. Briefiy, it is admitted
that, in some sense or other, morality implies action for the
good of others; but to define that sense accurately is to solve
some of the most vital moral problems. We may ask, in
fact, whether it is or is not possible for any man to aim at
the good of others as an ultimate end ? and, again, whether
it is necessary to moral conduct that the good of others should
be consciously intended, or whether it is sufficient that it
should be a natural consequence of the conduct in question ?
To give some answer to these and the allied questions will be
one object of the following pages.
32. We may first recall a distinction, already stated, which
will be relevant to this inquiry. Society, as I have said, may
be regarded both as an asfo-recrate and as an oro;anism. There
are certain qualities which we may suppose to vary in the in-
dividual without necessarily involving a change in the social
structure. 71ie relations of the parts may remain sensibly
BASIS OF MORALITY. 171
the same although the general vigour — the sum-total of the
enero-ies involved — is increased or diminished. On the other
hand, there are qualities in respect of which the reverse is true.
No change can take place in them without implying a corre-
sponding change in the character of the social union. The
distinction is not absolute; for every change in anv part of
the organism must have some reaction upon all its other
parts ; but the distinction may be, or rather must be, made for
purposes of classification. We must distinguish, that is, be-
tween such a quality as loyalty, which cannot be supposed to
increase or diminish without alterino; the essential character-
istics of the social tie, and such a qualitv as mere personal
prudence, which would no doubt have a great influence upon
the whole social organism, but which may be considered apart
from that set of consequences and which immediatelv affects
the total power of the community rather than the relation
between its members. Some reference, whether erroneous or
not, to this distinction seems to be implied in the criterion by
which we judtre whether a given rule does or does not belon*)-
to morality proper after we have admitted it to be a rule of
social vitality. And this distinction may be made without
considering the further and most important question how far
the quality which is actually and permanently essential to
society considered as an organism, rather than to societv con-
sidered as an affo-reg-ate, does or does not involve anv conscious
reference to the welfare of the societv, or of others besides
the agent. This is a question which demands a special
discussion, and which, therefore, it is desirable to reserve as
much as possible.
^^. The question, therefore, which now has to be considered
is the deduction of the moral rule from the general principle
of social vitality, and with a reference to the question how
they are distinguished from other rules deducible from that
principle. If we have rightly assigned the germs to which
the moral law belongs, we have still to consider how these
germs may be divided into species, and what is the specific
difference.
( 1/2 )
CHAPTER V.
CONTENTS OF THE MORAL LAW.
I. The Law of Nature and Morality.
1. The law of nature has but one precept, "Be strong."
Nature has but one punishment, decav, culminating in death
or extirpation^ and takes cognisance of but one evil, the
weakness which leads to decay. From this, the most general
point of view, we can make no distinction between the various
instincts except in so far as they do or do not imply the
vitality of the organism to which they belong. But when
we regard the individual as an organism within an organism,
the law takes different forms and requires to be diff'erentlv
stated, according to its mode of impact. In one great class of
cases it applies to the instincts in respect of which society is
an aggregate, and the conduct of each individual may varv
without implying a corresponding variation in the social
organisation. In the other class it applies to those instincts
which are the vital forces of that association, and cannot varv
without a corresponding variation in it. In one case the
effect upon the individual is the primary efl^ect, and the society
is affected through its constituent units; in the other case,
the units are affected through the soqiety, and the law cannot
be intelligibly stated without taking the social factor into
account. This may be expressed again by saving that the
great law, "Be strong," has two main branches, "Be prudent "
and "Be virtuous." To assio;n the mutual relations of these
resulting codes, which, although distinguishable in abstract
analysis, are so closely connected in the concrete, is the task
upon which we must now enter. By some thinkers morality
THE LAW OF NATURE AND MORALITY. 173
has been resolved into a particular case of prudence ; according
to others, prudence may be resolved into morality, or both
into right reason or into a desire for happiness. Let us
consider how the case must be stated from our point of
view.
2. This statement takes for granted the general nature of
the distinction. It is, in fact, admitted that by the moral
code we mean to refer not merely to the predicates already
noted, such as the eternity, supremacy, and so forth, of the
code, but also to its havino; in some sense or other a reference
to the welfare of the society. What we have now to do is to
substitute for that "some sense or other" a more precise
definition; and the task would be accomplished if we could
deduce the particular laws of conduct from the laws of nature,
and then show which of these laws coincide with the moral
law and why? There is here the difficulty tliat the moral law
has not been, and, if I am right, cannot be accurately codified,
even if the agreement as to its contents were still closer than
is actuallv the case. If we classify conduct by external marks,
we have a variety of general rules, none of which are precise or
unconditional. Thus, for example, we have such virtues and
vices as generosity and avarice, which refer to a particular class
of actions, namely, in this case, to dealings in money matters.
If we proceed to ask for a more explicit account of what is
meant by avarice, we find that moralists do not mean to
condemn the love of money sim p licit er ; for money represents
every material object of human desire, and to condemn them
all would be to condemn life in the world. Thev really
condemn certain excesses, and more especially those which
imply selfishness. Avarice is the love of money so far as it
implies a disregard of the claims of others, or, again, so far as
it implies a defective appreciation of the higher enjoyments.
To condemn avarice, then, is to condemn one kind of selfish-
ness, and bv implication to condemn it in many relations of
life which have no relation to money. A classification pro-
ceeding by the various external applications of the internal
principle would be endless, and involve repetitions and cross
174 T^HE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
divisions. If, on the other hand, we take the other mode of
defining morahty, we find that the law reduces itself to one
or two simple principles — to the statement, for example, that
we should love God and our neighbour; that we should hurt
no one, and do to others as we would that they should do
to us. But such statements are too general to be available for
our present purpose.
3. To find a classification of the virtues which will not run
into infinite detail or be a simple affirmation of the general
principle, we may observe that the internal mode of classifica-
tion suggests a method which will be sufficient for our purposes,
and which corresponds to the ancient doctrine of the cardinal
virtues. We may begin by considering the qualities which
belong to the individual primarily, and ask how far they have
any moral significance. The general formula of such virtues
is, " Be strong," or, as we may put.it, " All weakness is an evil."
The simplest organism may be considered in respect of its
strength or weakness, that is, its power of preserving its life
under the various conditions of existence, and that before
any complexity of social organisation has been reached. As
the social development affects these qualities as well as the
others more directly involved, the social pressure constitutes
a law which may have some moral character. In the next
place, the development is of two kinds, or may be regarded
under two main aspects — the emotional and the intellectual.
To each of these there belongs a characteristic moral law;
for as soon as we can regard the individual as a complex
organism, made up of different instincts and capacities for
feeling, one main condition of vitality must refer to the
strength and mutual relation of those instincts. Hence we
have the virtues of which the general formula is, "Be tem-
perate," or the correlative statement that all excess is an
evil. These qualities, again, however modified in the higher
phases of development, must exist in germ even before the
animal is capable of anything that can be called reasoning, or
of a conscious reference to the distant or the future. When
we consider the intellectual development, we have a third class
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 175
of virtues refcrrino; to the conditions of intellectual efficiency,
the jrcneral formula beinsi; in this case, "Be truthful," and
" All falsehood is evil." And, finally, as the social organisation
becomes developed, and has special moods of sentiment corre-
sponding to it, we have the virtues which correspond directly
to a condition of social vitality. The formula may be ex-
pressed in the social or commn assertion that all injury to our
fellows is an evil. I will not inquire whether this classification
can be regarded as accurate or exhaustive. It will give us, at
any rate^ a clue to the inquiry quite sufficient for our purpose ;
that is, in fact, for showing how the specific difference under-
stood by the word '^ moral " is brought out in the code actually
formed by our approvals and disapprovals, and what is the
nature — so far as it can be defined — of the process by which
the development is effected.
II. Virtue of Courage.
4. " Be strong " is, I have said, the general precept of the
law of nature. The strength of the society, again, is in-
creased by the strength of its individual members. So far as
each unit is stronger, braver, more energetic, and more in-
dustrious, more capable, therefore, of holding his own against
external enemies or material disadvantages, so far is the
society composed of such individuals stronger. This, indeed,
must always be understood with reference to a tacit condition.
If an increase of courage necessarily involved an increase of
insubordination, we should have to ask whether the increased
power of the individual soldier was cheaply or dearly bought
by the weakened discipline of the army to which he belongs.
But there is no necessary divergence between the two qualities.
Increased energy may go along with increased power of co-
operation ; and therefore the rule, " Be strong," may be stated
without referring to a condition which is generally latent,
though, under particular circumstances, it may assert itself
and demand attention. Ceteris paribus, we may say the
increase of individual energy is an advantage to society 3 and.
176 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
as a matter of feet, we find that the civilised society differs
conspicuously from the ruder by stimulating more vigorously
and systematically the various energies of its members. The
most conspicuous virtue of this class is the virtue of courage.
The deduction of courage from the general condition of social
vitality is manifest. In cases where a society has to strucrirle
against external enemies, military excellence is the most obvious
guarantee for its security, and in rude societies, military ex-
cellence is proportional to courage. Savage tribes may often
be said to hold life at every moment upon the tenure of military
prowess. And, moreover, it is plain that the same principle
would hold good, not only where it is directly exemplified,
but where there are apparent deflections from the rule. That
is to say, that in cases where the external conditions are
such as to give less importance to the military energies, courage
is less highly estimated ; and so, again, the particular kind of
courage most in demand varies as fraud or force is the most
effective weapon for the particular race and purpose. The
most familiar instance is in the very different estimate which
is placed upon courage in the two sexes. Moralists would
hardly admit that the rule ought to be different; but they
admit that, in point of fact, want of courage in men provokes
contempt in most modern nations, and a want of chastity
is regarded with comparative indifference; whilst in the case
of women, the rule is altered : unchastity is held to be the
most unpardonable of crimes, whilst cowardice, in some rela-
tions at least, is thought to be rather graceful than otherwise.
Practical moralists lament these inconsistencies, and theorists
have invented more or less ingenious hypotheses to account
for them. The historical explanation is, within its own limits,
simple and obvious. We may state that in early social stages
fighting power was the critical or essential power for each race ;
that those in which it flourished most conquered, and often
exterminated the rest; and thus that a cultivation of the
military qualities, the most conspicuous of which was bravery,
was a characteristic of the dominant races. 7'he warrior was
the natural leader, and the best warrior had the first choice
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 177
of spoil, or the greatest chance of gratifying his passions.
Naturallv excellence in war was coveted and admired by every
one. The estimate once fixed tends to prolong itself even
when some of these conditions disappear. Every male child
in a certain rank in England is still brought up from its
cradle to value itself on being "a gentleman;" and to be a
gentleman is, amongst other things, to be ready to take one's
own part with sword or fist. To women, on the other hand,
has been assigned from the earliest period of the division of
labour the class of social functions for which military excel-
lence was not required. The savage acquired his wife by
knocking her down; to him, therefore, the ideal feminine
character must have included readiness to be knocked down,
or at least unreadiness to strike again ; and as some of the
forms of marriage recall the early system, so in the senti-
ments with which it is reirarded there mav still linger some-
thing of the early instinct associated with striking and being
struck.
V K. Thus we mav sav that courage is a necessary condition of
the vitality of a society so long as it depends upon militarv
activity; and this implies that every man is in such a
society trained to be brave in so far as his possession of that
quality entitles him to respect and the advantages of being
respected; and, again, in so far as he imbibes the current
opinion bv which the standard is fixed from his earhest period
of conscious thought. The development of society implies a
corresponding modification of this sentiment. The military
virtues become less prominent as war occupies a smaller part
of the total activities and is a less essential part of social
efficiency. But there is simultaneously a change in the whole
mode of thought. In an early social stage, we may suppose
that the warrior who shrinks from dano-er is reoarded with
contempt and dislike; since the life of every member of the
tribe may depend at any moment upon the prowess of his
fellows, the whole social group is closely interested in the
success of every one of its members. But, as society develops,
new cases present themselves for classification. For, in the
M
\p:LMili-j
178 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
first place, there are brave enemies as well as brave champions
of our own. What is the sentiment which they create? We
may conceive it possible that a brave enemy might be con-
sidered simply as a more dangerous antagonist. He might be
regarded with greater antipathy, just as a big wolf would be
worse than a little one. But in the more civilised race the
chivalrous sentiment begins to manifest itself in imperfect and
frao-mentary ways. In a comparatively civilised state, people
still hate enemies at a distance in proportion to their courage,
and set it down as more or less diabolical ; whilst at the same
time they are capable of a true chivalry towards those with
whom they are more nearly allied. The English and Scotch
Borderers might respect each other's courage, and be the better
friends when the fin-htino; was over. They mifjht, at the same
time, regard courage in a Saracen as a bad quality, demanding
a more undying antipathy. This growth of the chivalrous
feelino- implies, on the one side, a growth of sympathy, inas-
much as we are now capable of admiring the man who was
bevond the pale of any common feeling; and, on the other
hand, it may be regarded as involving an implicit generalisa-
ion. We say implicitly that we regard the brave enemy as
intrinsically admirable in so far as he has shown a good
quality, and objectionable only from the accidental circum-
stances which have made his interests incompatible with our
own. We thus have virtually reached the general principle
that courage in war is a valuable quality for its owner and
his side, and therefore one which we can admire, although it
may or may not be valuable to ourselves.
V 6. The increased intellio-ence or scnsibilitv which makes
such a judgment possible carries along with it other changes.
In the early state, attention is fixed exclusively upon the
simple case of military excellence. The warrior who runs
away is doing me an injury, for the tribe has its interests so
much in common that the bad conduct of one necessarilv
injures others. But as men become more intelligent and
society more complex, this simple observation requires to be
modified. For, in the first place, it must come to be per-
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 179
ceived that courage pei- se is not necessarily a good quality.
If, that is, courage be defined as simple insensibility to danofcr,
it may obviously be carried to excess; and we imply this by
the condemnatory phrase " rashness." Indeed it is so little
a virtue, that cases may certainly be imagined in which what
we call cowardice would be a virtue. There are races of
animals which owe their safety to a lively perception of danger.
The excellence of a hare consists in running away, and those
hares which were best at runnino- and also quickest at takino-
alarm would tend to survive, and set the standard of hare-
morality. If this is not the case with man, we can only
explain it by the fact that, in the conditions of human life,
inilitary excellence is the necessary condition of success, and
that military success requires courage. But courage, as
we see, requires to be more accurately defined. "Moral
courage," as it is called, tends to take the place of " physical
courage." By moral courage we must understand not simple
insensibility to danger, which is consistent with idiocy, but
a power, as we say, of " keeping our heads," or, in other
words, of reasonino: as deliberately and actino; as coolly under
danger as when there is no danfrer. This quality would be
as useful to hares as to men, and indeed is implied in the
intellectual development; for it is simply a statement that a
power of reasoning — that is, of consulting all relevant cir-
cumstances and actintr in accordance with a sound judgment
— is an essential part of practical reason. Courage, there-
fore, changes its quality to some extent, and we admire the
kind of courage which is manifested by the general com-
manding under stress of great danger and heavy responsibility
more than the simple courage of a soldier who Avalks up to a
battery, or of a hunter who confronts a tiger in his jungle.
X \^ 7. This, again, involves another process of implicit reason-
/ ing; it becomes manifest, in short, that courage cannot be
considered by itself. We must determine its relations to the
whole character, or we shall be admiring it in cases where
it is absolutely prejudicial. Fighting, however, and so far
courage, has been from an early period an essential condition
I So THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
of social vitality^ and therefore the internal relations of the
tribe and the various propensities of its members must have
been developed with reference to this condition. It has
always been a prominent condition, as in early times it was
the most conspicuous and predominant condition; but as
peaceful instincts have developed there must have been some
correlatinir and harmonisino; influence. The militarv instinct
is not necessarily incompatible with the industrial, but at
any given period the one may be developed to the prejudice of
the other. Where the race has been constantly, though in
part unconsciously, occupied upon the great problem how to
reconcile the two, and to secure at once efficiencv in war and
efficiency in peace, one quality or the other may be in excess ;
as there are races which are easily conquered, but which have
great capacity for thriving and extending themselves when
not encountered by enemies, and others in which the military
spirit is so strongly developed tliat, although they can resist
direct attacks, they are weak in adapting themselves to the
material conditions of life. The races which survive are
those in which there has been such a development that, on
the whole, a maximum of efficiency has been reached by the
best adaptation to divergent, though not naturally antagonistic,
conditions of development. The distinction appears in the
internal relations of any community; for as peaceful relations
become more prominent, it is evident that excellence of the
militarv kind may be combined with bad qualities of another
kind — that the bravest man or the best soldier may be lazy,
dissolute, or tyrannical in his other relations, and that we
must therefore substitute some more discriminating: mode of
judgment for that which was previously sufficient.
8. Hence arises the problem whether courage can be con-
sidered as a moral quality at all ; for it mav be as well to make
the remark, which will be frequently exemplified, that although
we speak of the moral law as though it corresponded to a
perfectly distinct mode of thinking and feeling, we are by no
means entitled to assume that the actual demarcation is so
sharp as our use of language suggests. In fact, we shall find
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. iSi
that it is often exceedinglv difiicult to decide at what point
we are to trace that special shade of feehng which may be
called distinctly moral. The difficulty is the greater because
there is no reason to suppose that the same sentiment exists
in all members of a eiven society. The feelings with which
they regard an admittedly wrong action may vary greatly
according to individual idiosyncrasies, even though they agree
in condemning the same actions or admiring the same quali-
ties of character. This appears to be the case in the present
instance. When asked whether courage is or is not a moral
quality in the strictest sense, we must reply that at some
periods it has been considered as not only a virtue, but the
typical and cardinal virtue, whilst at others it begins to be
more or less doubtful whether it is, properly speaking, a
virtue at all; while, again, very different answers would pro-
bably be given upon this point by different classes of persons.
9. Remembering this, let us ask what are the facts as to
the existino; social code. If coura(i;e is intrinsically virtuous
— if, that is, the bare fact that a man is brave entitles him to
be called virtuous so far — we should have to admit that every
manifestation of courage was virtuous, and we should call a
man o;ood because he met a ticjer unfiinchingly when he was
simply engaged in sport. This, I think, would be rather a
strained use of lan^uacre, and we should decline to admit the
goodness unless the quality was exerted for benevolent pur-
poses; as, for example, in saving the life of one of the tiger's
victims. But in the latter case it seems that it is not in
respect of his courage that the man is called virtuous, but in
respect of his unselfishness or benevolence. Thus, to take a
further case, we feel it to be a perfectly justifiable form of
expression when Clarendon speaks of Cromwell as a " bold,
bad man." Courage, we admit, may be combined with
objectionable qualities, such as tyranny and hypocrisy. Shall
we then consider courage is to be in itself a morally
neutral qualitv, which is good or bad according to the other
qualities with which it is associated, and thus as simjily an
intensitive? In that case, we ouo:ht in consistency to dis-
1 82 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
like the bad man more in proportion to his courage, in so
far as it makes him a more mischievous person. This
certainly does not represent our ordinary mode of feeling.
The admission of courage qualifies our dislike. We respect
the brave man, so far as brave, not only if he is an enemy by
virtue of accidental circumstances, but even if he is a bad
man by the intrinsic quality of character. Thus, if our
judgment of Cromwell coincides with Clarendon's, we feel
that our moral disapproval is tempered by a certain admira-
tion; we feel that, as brave, he is less hateful, even though he
may be more mischievous than if he had combined his other
bad qualities with cowardice. We regret that he had not
better principles instead of regretting that he had so much
vio;our. This is virtually to admit that in so far as a man is
brave he is approved by the general feeling, although the
approval is not exactly of the kind which we call moral. If
we speak of some distinctly moral quality, the implicit
reasoning would be different. Charles I., let us assume, was
chaste but tyrannical. In so far as he was chaste he deserves
moral approval, and in so far as tyrannical, moral disapproval.
We have to settle the balance by conflicting considerations.
But in the case of a Cromwell, the respect which we feel for
his courage does not serve to qualify the moral verdict, but
to represent a feeling which is intermediate between that of
moral approbation and simple admiration for an endowment,
physical strength and beauty, for example, which has no
definite relation to moral judgment at all. It may be just
worth while to add, that the difference cannot be explained
by saying that courage is a simple property which does not
involve " free will," or is incapable of being modified by the
approval of others. How far this consideration affects our
moral judgment need not be considered here, inasmuch as it
obviously does not apply to this case. There is no quality
which is more imminently amenable to opinion. The special
characteristic of the warrior has always been taken to be his
thirst for <rlory, and the fact that courage can be generated
by discipline is one of the most familiar of observations.
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 183
10. It is, in factj easy to put a logical interpretation upon
the verdict of common sense; for it virtually asserts that
courage is a quality which is useful to society; that it there-
fore forms a part of the good man's character; and thus
that to call a man a good coward involves some inconsis-
tency, although it is not inconsistent to speak of a bad brave
man. Hence courage may be regarded as one of the neces-
sary conditions of ideal excellence, though its possession does
not necessarily imply the fulfilment of any other conditions.
To be good, you must be brave ; but you may be brave
without being good. And therefore when we see courage
united to wickedness, we reo;ard the a2:ent as in some degree
qualified for our approval, though for a kind of approval
differino; from that reserved for what we call virtue in the
most eminent degree. And the principle involved is ob-
vious, namely, that courage does not imply necessarily a
use of faculties for the good of others. In rude states of
society, as we have seen, this is necessarily (or almost neces-
sarily) the case, inasmuch as the individual is so closely iden-
tified with his tribe, the objects of his animosity are so certain
to be the objects dangerous to his fellows, that to be brave is
to be socially useful. But as society develops we see that
the necessity is external ; that is, dependent upon a state of
things which does not always exist in the higher stages ; and
hence we make a distinction, and whilst still admiring
courage, we scarcely regard it with that specific kind of
admiration reserved for qualities which, by their verv nature,
must be useful to others than the ag-ent.
11. Let us now consider for a moment the nature of the
process thus described. It supposes the development of a
complex organisation and the growth of correlative instincts.
The primitive society depends at every instant upon the
military prowess of its members. Respect for the good
fighter and contempt for the bad, respect, therefore, for
courage and contempt for cowardice, as the most obvious
conditions of good and bad fighting, appear as soon as the
simplest reflection is possible. And this sentiment tends to
1 84 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
persist, however formed originally, inasmuch as every one
from childhood imhibes the habitual modes of thought and
feeling of the social medium. But social development im-
plies a process of at least implicit reasoning, which modifies
the early assumptions. The chivalrous sentiment grows as
hostilities cease to be internecine and sympathy extends
beyond the limits of the community. Courage, again, takes
a different form as men come to reco2;nise the distinction
between the higher and lower forms of the quality, and feel
the advantage of discipline and subordination. Again, as
the demand for warlike excellence declines, courage is valued
so far as it can be combined with the full development of
peaceful eneroies and instincts. Finally, as men come to
distinguish between the qualities which are essentially useful
to society and those which may be combined with anti-social
qualities, they regard courage with a sentiment differing from
that which is reserved for the more directly social virtues.
The process may therefore be regarded as a prolonged induc-
tion, starting by a condemnation of certain actions plainly
mischievous to the society, and ending by the recognition of
a certain type of character as admirable, which includes
amongst its attributes a capacity for the conduct actually
admired, but which also includes fitness for conduct of a
different kind. Courage is now regarded as one manifestation
of a character which is fitted for all the requirements of social
existence. But as it may be turned against society, we scarcely
regard the brave man as therefore virtuous, but rather as
satisfying one of the conditions necessary to virtue. Thus
the process implies the elaboration of a more complete defini-
tion of the type necessary to the constitution of a vigorous
society, and thus the recognition of certain external rules of
conduct, — that, for example, which prohibits running away
in battle, as defining particular manifestations of the typical
character under specified conditions, and deriving their validity
from the more general condition of social fitness.
13. Hence this statement suggests a question which requires
a distinct answer. Courage in all its phases is a condition
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 185
of social vitality. The spirit in which a race confronts danger
must be always one criterion of its power of holding its own.
But we may still ask how far the approval is generated by a
perception of this fact. Is courage admired simply because
it is useful or because it is seen to be useful ? We have
obviously no right to assume a perception in all cases. The
average man accepts without reflection the standard of his race.
The warrior may hate the coward as he hates the harmless
necessary cat, without seeking a reason for his aversion. We
may therefore explain the sentiment in any given case by
savinor that the man has derived it from his neighbours. But
thisj of course, is no explanation of the whole phenomenon.
To explain this we must go back to the history of the race.
The courage of an animal is "explained" by the fact that it
is necessary under the conditions of his life. The courage
of the bulldog is a blind instinct; the blindness implying,
not that he is without feeling of pain, or even perception of
danger, for otherwise we could hardly speak of him as brave,
but that danger or pain does not affect him as it affects a
cur, and that he holds fast when the cur lets go. Such an
instinct may of course exist, and must exist, in the unreason-
ing animal in the absence of any reasoned calculation of
consequences. The creature survives by reason of his instinct,
but not because he forms any conscious judgment of the
advantages of this mode of conduct. And when we rise to
the reasoning agent, we may still ask whether the utility of a
given character implies, or in what sense it implies, a percep-
tion of the utility? The distinction requires to be noticed,
inasmuch as certain ambiguities result from a neglect to take
it into account.
13. Now it seems necessary to suppose that races owed
their survival to military prowess when reflection was still in
the most rudimentary stage. The utility of courage, indeed,
must have been a very obvious discovery as soon as any
reflection became possible. No condition of the preservation
of a community could be so palpable or pressed by such
constant and repeated experience upon the attention of its
i86 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
iiienibers. They could see every day that their existence
depended upon the readiness to confront danger. But the
quahty must have existed in some degree before it could be
discovered, and therefore it would be inaccurate to speak as
though the approved of courage were the result of an antecedent
perception that certain advantages were attainable by courage.
Men came to recognise the advantages already obtained by
the brave, and the recognition tended to intensify as also to
modify the sentiment already implicitly existing. Every
increase of reasoning power would bring out more fully the
importance to the race and to the individual of courage,
coolness, and resource in danger. The existence of 'any
distinct moral sentiment doubtless implies some reflection,
and there could hardly be a social approval or disapproval
until men were capable of observing consequences. The
approval may be, in that sense, the product of the per-
ception ; but, on the other hand, the perception implies
that the instinct approved was already in existence. The
race has a certain deg:ree of coura^'e, and must be so constituted
that, in point of fact, the courage of one is useful to others,
before the conscious recognition of the fact, and before the
definite emergence of a social approval. The difference is
that in the higher stages of development the fact becomes a
recotrnised fact. The other instincts are not only interested,
but their interests are perceived. Formerly they were interested
as slaves may be interested in the success of their owner ; now
as free men whose opinions have to be consulted. As reflec-
tion develops, men come to have a wider perception of the
bearing of their conduct in every direction, and this per-
ception modifies the actions and instincts ; but it must
always start from a pre-existing organisation of character
and society.
14. And hence we mav state more precisely the sense in
which the notion of courage is a statement of the general
conditions of social vitality. The problem is more complex
than appears at first sight. It has, we may say, a double
aspect. The " utility " of courage, meaning by utility the
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 187
fact that the braver race is so far the better qualified for the
struLi'o-le of existence, is in all cases the cause of the survival-
of the instinct. That is equally true whether we speak of a
blind or a reasoned instinct, of the bulldog or of the hero,
and gives the general principle applicable at every stage of
the process of evolution. The principle applies to the parti-
cular case of the reasoned instinct developed through the
social factor, and sioverns it as the general rule governs the
special application. The instincts of any race must comply
with the conditions of its existence, and this must be true
as well of the instincts which imply a perception of utility.
The approval of any conduct as useful must itself be useful,
if the race is to survive.
15. The necessity of calling attention to this distinction is
already manifest. For, in the first place, the conditions do
not at present appear to be necessarily coincident. Courage,
we say, is useful; or is, in other words, a condition of the
existence of the race. So far as the race becomes conscious
of this fact, the same condition applies to this consciousness.
The consciousness, that is, that courage is useful to the race
must stimulate courage. Now it may appear that this is
not a necessary result of .increased intelligence. If, in fact,
we suppose the intellect to become keener without any
increased desire for social welfare, which is clearly possible in
individual cases, the clearer perception of the social utility of
courage could onlv stimulate it in cases where the interest of
the individual was identical with that of his fellows. It
might then, on the average, produce cowardice, or a desire of
each to save himself whenever he could do so at the expense
of his fellows. In that case, increased intelligence would
operate so far to the disadvantage of the race, as the stupider
and therefore bolder races would have a better chance of
survival. Something of this kind seems occasionally to
happen. Looking, indeed, at the facts, and observing that
the more intelligent races have an advantage, and not least
in this quality, we must infer that the general principle
operates differently. Evolution affects the whole nature 3
l88 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
and we may suppose that those races are most successful
which are so constituted that a perception of the vitaHty of
courage goes along with an increase of courage. This, how-
ever, seems to imply an additional condition. The race
must not simply become more intelligent, but become more
intelligent in such a way that its social qualities improve
along with its intellectual. The bare extension of a percep-
tion of consequences might of itself tend only to more
calculated selfishness, and therefore a diminished disposition
to fulfil the conditions of social welfare. It may appear that
in the normal case, at least, the intellectual advance implies a
development of the social sympathies; but that cannot be
taken for granted at present.
i6. There is, however, in the second place, a further con-
sideration. It is clear from the nature of the process described
that there must be a close coincidence between the qualities
which are valued and those which are actually useful. Each
man and generation of men starts with a sentiment^ elabo-
rated bv the race and embodied in the accepted rules of
conduct. The most important are worked into the very struc-
ture of the lantruaofe and inG;rained in the organic customs
of society. Respect for courage, in particular, has become
part of the general inheritance and profoundly influences
the character of every member of a society which has passed
through a military stage. Now, on the one hand, it is clear
that any sentiment thus transmitted through the social factor,
must have a reference to the conceptions of social vitality.
All men could not agree to admire courage unless they thought
that courage was useful, — useful, that is, in the second or
subjective sense, namely, of generally tending to procure
happiness. The process by which any such sentiment is
transmitted and diffused, so as to be part of the general in-
heritance of the race, is a sufficient guarantee for this. Men
may agree to admire qualities which make their possessor
unhappy, but not at once to admire a quality and to think
that it diminishes happiness in general. The perception
that a quality is in this sense useful ov feUcjJic must nearly
VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 189
coincide with, if it docs not generate, the admiration felt for
the quaUty; and, on the other hand, it is clear that the
actual utility of courao;e will n;enerate admiration as soon as
the fact is perceived. If the existence of a tribe really depends
on the courage of its members, it must become apparent that
in numberless special cases courage preserves the lives and
happiness of all, whilst cowardice is fatal. What is useful as
preservative must also be useful in the sense of happiness-giving.
Within certain limits men mav reason badlv, and even the
collective reasoning may be bad. Courage may be the object
of an extravagant admiration from the survival of prejudices
generated under special conditions, or a temporary absence of
danger may lower the estimate; but any wide deviation from
the correct judgment will be rectified, if not by the reason
of the society, then by the operation of the general principle
of utility, and the tendency of the erring society to disappear.
This principle, therefore, must be regarded as working, not
only through the blind and more or less unconscious instinct
of the lower races, but upon the conscious and reflective
judgments of the most highly organised society. In an ideal
state there would be an absolute coincidence. The society
would not only possess those instincts which are necessary to
its survival and vigour, but would understand precisely how,
in what respects, and under what conditions or limitations,
they were necessary; whilst its judgment of what was useful
as giving happiness would precisely coincide with its judgment
of what was useful as preservative of its existence.
17. These remarks are of course applicable, mutatis mutandis,
not only to courage, but to other qualities, such as industry,
energy, and so forth, which belong to the same class; and,
moreover, as we shall presently see, to the virtues in general.
And it may be as well to make one remark before finishing.
The ultimate and governing principle is in all cases the
utility of the quality, in the sense in which utility means fit-
ness for the conditions of life. The scientific explanation, at
any rate, cannot get beyond an exposition of the essential im-
plication of courage in the general conditions of social life.
I90 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
And this general principle may operate through an nnreason-
ing or a reasoned instinct; that is, through the instincts of a
beino- conscious or unconscious of their value. Now, although
morality proper is only possible when reflection and a power
of o;rasping general rules has been developed, this has still an
application even to the higher stages of social growth. For
a man, or even a race, may be content to accept the instinct as
justifying itself without seeking to discover its origin. And,
again, a moral development may be brought about either by
a reasoning or unreasoning process; either bv a process of
generalisation and the conscious aim at some social ideal
implying an accurate perception of the conditions of life ; or,
on the other hand, bv some " accidental " change, that is, by
a chano-e orio-inatino; in other conditions than those of in-
tellectual 'growth, as when the extension of an empire forces
peaceful habits upon previously hostile tribes, and so favours
the growth of tastes and pursuits previously impossible. I
need not now inquire which is the normal and most important
case.
III. Virtue of Temperance.
1 8. Proceeding to the virtues typified by chastitv and
temperance, we have first to remark that they occupy an
intermediate position between the virtues of strenjrth and the
directly social virtues. Some of them are a part of the
prudential, and others of the directly moral code. Thus, for
example, it is prudent to be temperate because temperance
is necessarv to health. Anv rules deduced from that con-
sideration are primarily concerned with the individual, and
interest the society through the individual. The primary
objection to drunkenness is that it injures the constitution,
and if I prove from purely medical considerations that certain
drinks are injurious and others innocuous, the rule deduced
is a law of prudence and consequently a part of morality. It
is my dutv, it mav be said, to maintain my health unless
some other moral duty accidentally conflicts, and thus the
rules for framing health may be taken up into the moral
VIRTUE OF TEMPERANCE. 191
code ; but they are deduced without reference to the society
from the simple principle that whatever increases the health
of each man is so far a matter of prudence. The society
composed of healthy men is so far better^ but the rule is
deduced from a direct consideration of the individual, and
the sanitarv rule coincides with, because it is assumed by,
the moral rule. That is right which is health-preserving.
But another class of these virtues is directly social. In fact,
society is dependent from its very germ upon the sexual and
parental instincts j its most intimate structure depends at
every moment upon the way in which they are regulated ;
and conduct, which from the sanitary point of view may be
perfectly indifferent, may have the most important effects
upon the social organisation. Temperance in eating and
drinking is a dictate of simple prudence, which has no need
to take into account the consequence to others; but chastity
is a virtue which is only intelligible when we take into account
its bearing upon the vitality of the social organism.
] 9. Hence we have a moral evolution similar to the former.
Chastitv, that is, some modification of the sexual instincts
imposed by the social sentiment, is implied in the earliest
sta<i;es of social growth. Society is constituted by the develop-
ment of an organic custom which defines, amongst other
things, the relations of the sexes. The marriage law of primi-
tive times differs in strange and unexpected ways from that of
civilised races, but it implies at every step the existence of
some restraining sentiment. Sexual rivalry is the great cause
of hostilitv araoncrst Yahoos; whilst the state and the familv
are barely distinguished, the disputes about women are a
main cause of war. The formation of the social bond implies
the formation of some modus vivendi in regard to such
matters, and a complex system of rules is developed at a very
early date. Hence the external rule is formed before a more
general theory of the passions has obtained acceptance. The
first law is, " Thou shalt not commit adultery." Little atten-
tion is aroused by conduct not so clearly injurious. The
savage sees no evil in gluttony, and intoxication appears to
192 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
him as a new pleasure revealed by the civilised man. In the
higher law the rule is extended, and applies to the motive as
well as to the specific action. Lust is condemned as well as
adultery. The man who would sin if he could is seen to be
as objectionable as the man who sins because he can. And
the condemnation extends itself to all forms of sensuality in
virtue of the general principle thus elaborated, as their effect
upon the character of the agent and their remoter conse-
quences to others are better understood.
20. To the savage, as to the animal, gluttony scarcely
appears to be objectionable. The conduct of either is regu-
lated by his appetite without any conscious reference to
general principles. The force and the nature of these appetites
are determined by the general principle of utility. The
savage, like the dog, eats when he is hungry and drinks when
he is thirsty without regard to consequences. If his appetites
were such as to be inconsistent with his permanent survival,
he would die out. Therefore his instincts are correlated by
a process which has nothing to do with conscious reflection.
But when the man acquires new powers by incipient civilisa-
tion, the conditions of his life are altered. He is able if he
pleases to eat and drink more than is good for him. If the
old instincts survived and were not restrained, he would
speedily eat and drink himself to death. They may grow
weaker in virtue of some physiological principle, but they
may also be held in check by his clearer perception of the evil
consequences of indulgence. In the latter case we have the
arowth of a moral and a prudential law. The reasoning man
does not require, we may sav, to lose the appetite because he
is able to counterbalance its action by calling other forces
into plav. He sees that the present gratification will have to
be paid for at a certain rate of future pain. But the moral
quality of the rule only becomes marked when there is
some recognition of the effects to others than himself. Now
it becomes evident that sensuality generally has a direct bear-
ing upon the social qualities, even in those forms which are
primarily objectionable on prudential grounds. Courage and
VIRTUE OF TEMPERANCE. 193
enersrv crenerallv are of course clearly connected with tern-
perance; and so far as courage is regarded as a virtue, the
slothfulness and indifference which spring from all forms of
intemperance incur a share of the contempt bestowed upon
the quality which is their natural fruit. But, on the other
aspect, they have a more intrinsic bearing upon social vitality
than the virtues of streng-th. The brave man may still, as I
have said, be a thoroughly bad man ; he may use all his
energy to oppress his neighbours. To some extent this is
also true of the temperate man, but the connection with
the social qualities is more direct and invariable. So far
as a man is a drunkard, he is almost necessarily a bad
husband and father; so far as temperate, he is free
from some of the weaknesses which must generally dis-
qualify him from acting in that capacity. Courage and
energy may often be essential, and are generally useful, in the
discharge of the duties resulting from every social relation,
but they are not so closely implicated, and for a reason which
becomes obvious as men become more intelligent. Sensuality,
that is to say, implies selfishness. A man's love of his
bottle is so much deducted from his love of his wife and
children. So far as he is taken up with the gratification of
his appetites, there is less room for the development of his
affections. A coward and a sluggard may be affectionate,
though his affection will be comparatively useless to its
objects, but in a sensual character the affections are killed
at the root. He is incapable of really loving as well as of
beincj useful to those whom he loves. And thus we may ex-
plain the moral verdict passed upon certain kinds of conduct
which, on the ordinary judgment of common sense, are classi-
fied as " self-regarding." The most conspicuous evils caused
by some actions are produced upon the man himself. People
are inclined to regard them as breaches of prudence rather
than of morality. The intemperate man, according to the
common phrase, is an enemy to no one but himself. We
have, as we fancy, no right to object to him so long as he
only makes a beast of himself in private. In some cases,
N
194 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
again, this leads to the production of a kind of spurious
moral code. People admire the " good fellow " as thev
admire the spendthrift, because the immediate and obvious
consequences of his conduct are agreeable to his neio;hbours.
Convivial relationship generates a sort of law of its own, in
virtue of which the person who drinks fair and takes his
wine like a man is admired, partly because his prowess is taken
as a proof of vigour, and partly because he is " sociable " in
the lower sense of the word, and is therefore assumed to be
sociable in a higher sense. As the reason develops it be-
comes clear that both the spendthrift and the drunkard are
really mischievous, and that the prevalence of the conduct
which they practise is a mark of social decav. And, more
generally, it appears that we make a false estimate when we
confine our attention to the immediate consequences of a
man's actions. It is impossible really to maintain the dis-
tinction assumed. A man whose vice injures only himself
in the first place, becomes also by a necessarv consequence
incapable of benefiting others. If he is an enemy to himself
alone, he is also a friend to himself alone. The opium-eater,
for example, paralyses his will ; so far as he becomes in-
capable of energetic action, he is unfitted for every social
duty, and so far as he becomes the slave of his appetite,
becomes also unfitted for the social sentiments. Thus a
distinctly moral sentiment exists, and its verdict is justified
by logic in cases where the primary effect of conduct tells
upon the agent himself. In some cases, the feeling of
disgust and abhorrence is perhaps more strongly excited bv
such vices than by others more directly anti-social. And
this is justified by the consideration already explained in
a different connection. As we condemn the man whose
character is bad, whether external circumstances do or do not
give him an opportunity for displaying it, so we object
logically to the man who is destroying his social qualities,
whether the immediate effect of his conduct tells upon him-
self or upon others. He must be defective in characteristics
essential to the moral type.
VIRTUE OF TEMPERANCE. 195
21. So far the case seems to be clear; that is, the moral
law does in fact come to condemn those qualities in respect
of which the individual deviates from the type prescribed
by the conditions of social welfare. But there is another
characteristic of the virtues of temperance which requires a
little more consideration. In the first place, the disgust
which we feel for some conduct seems to be inadequately
explained by the considerations just offered. Undoubtedly
the condemnation of sensuality goes along with a percep-
tion of the many and complicated social evils which spring
from it, and implies a recognition that a tendency to such
indulgence is a fatal symptom of social decay. But the
feeling of disgust seems to be a direct product of what we
may call physiological causes. As the intellectual sensibility
becomes keener, a pure-minded person is revolted by the
sensual indulgence of the grosser, and resents the attempt to
explain his disgust by a simple perception of the mischiefs
produced. The feeling which exists in a healthy state of
society is so strong and immediate that it seems to precede
any utilitarian calculation ; and I may add that, as a matter
of fact, utilitarians have found a special difficulty in account-
ing for or justifying the strength of the prevailing sentiment,
and are sometimes inclined to relax the severity of the code.
Many people object to any attempt even to discuss the
question, partly because they feel that there is a moral danger
in even talking about certain subjects, and partly, perhaps,
because they are afraid that their prepossessions may not be
fully justified.
22. This, again, seems to be connected with another pecu-
liarity of the moral judgment in this direction. I speak of
the ascetic theories which at different times acquire so much
strength, and which may in some forms appear to be a nega-
tion of the very principle of morality as I have stated it.
In some cases the natural morality of a race appears not only
to condemn intemperance — that is, an excessive addiction to
sensual pleasures — but condemns sensual pleasure in itself.
It regards every pleasure of the kind as in itself bad^ although
196 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
indulgence may be permitted under certain restrictions as a
safecvuard against worse evils. Now if this were to be taken
in the fullest sense, it is plain that it would condemn conduct
which is not only productive of pleasure, but which is abso-
lutely essential to the preservation of the species; and, in fact,
men are admired and regarded as entitled to special reverence
for a complete abstinence from some of the functions on
which society depends. The virgin and the hermit are re-
garded as admirable because they withdraw from direct parti-
cipation in social and domestic pleasures and duties; and
thus, though moralists have laid it down as a universal rule
of morality that every man should act so that his conduct
may be a rule for all, yet some moralists regard action as
specially admirable which cannot be a rule for all. It would
be easy, of course, to reply that such morality is really im-
moral; that it implies erroneous reasoning, and would there-
fore be condemned by the right reason; or that, as it would
diminish happiness, it cannot be conducive to the greatest
happiness, and is therefore not moral according to the proper
definition of the word. But, from my point of view, this is
to evade the question, inasmuch as I find it impossible to
deny that such sentiments, whether right or wrong, mis-
chievous or beneficial, are a part of actual morality — that is,
of the fundamental rules of conduct impressed upon the
individual by the race — and therefore require to be explained
instead of being simply denounced.
• 23. There is this difficulty in every explanation, that it is
by no means easy to say what is the actual judgment in such
cases. The common opinions often differ widely from those
of authorised expositors, and there are innumerable devices
by which doctrines apparently absurd may be accommodated
to the dictates of common sense. This much, however, may
perhaps be taken for granted : the ascetic theory is the pro-
duct of a luxurious state of society — that is, of a state in
which the abuses of sensual indulgence have become specially
prominent. The growth of a rich and powerful class which
uses its power exclusively for its own enjoyment, in which
VIRTUE OF TEMPERANCE. 197
great men plunge themselves into sensuality with indifll-rence
to the sufferings of their dependants, suggests the doctrine
that sensuality is the great enemy of mankind, and naturally
suggests an exaggerated statement of the advantages of the
opposite character. The hest teachers see that the passions
are strong enough, so to speak, to take care of themselves ;
there is not the least danger that men will be too little sen-
sitive to downright animal enjoyment; and therefore they
denounce that evil unsparingly, and think that they can cut
it up bv the roots by denouncing the source of mischief,
without supplying those qualifications which will be suffi-
ciently supplied by the facts.
' 24. Further, it is to be remarked, there seems to be a kind
of tacit recognition of the flict that the principle has a limited
application. The virtues are divided into two classes — the
ordinary and the heroic, A man is held to have fulfilled the
law if he is chaste and temperate enough not to indulge in
adultery and intoxication ; but he has done something more
if he is so chaste and temperate as to suppress all indulgence
of one kind, and to confine the other within the limits neces-
sary for the support of life. He is then not only good, but
good enough for two. This, again, is implied in the theory
of merit. Whatever else may be intended by that word —
which will have to be considered hereafter — it recognises in
some shape a certain normal standard applicable to every
man, but which some men may transcend, and by transcend-
ing acquire merit. Now in the theological doctrines generally
associated with the theory it is supposed that the merit thus
acquired is in some way useful to the race. It propitiates
the gods, and makes them look more kindly upon the followers
of the saint. The man, therefore, who possesses heroic virtue
is not anti-social, althou<rh his conduct is such as, if universally
adopted, would destroy society. He is rather to be compared
to a man who sacrifices life and health in the pursuit of some
philanthropic purpose, and in this sense his conduct might be
approved by other moralists. We may, for example, think
that a Howard is admirable, although he neglects duties
198 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
which must be performed in the ordinary case. He does
more good in this particular instance by improving the con-
dition of prisoners than by attending, for example, to his own
affairs. This, however, merely admits that the general moral
rule of benevolence prescribes different conduct according to
a man's special opportunities and talents. So it might be
admitted by all moralists that in special cases a man of pecu-
liar temperament might find it right to suppress instincts
which should generally be allowed to regulate his conduct.
The difference would only be that such suppression would
not be re2;arded as unconditionally rioht, or as establishin<r
by itself, a title to superior respect.
25. It seems, therefore, to be quite possible to express the
ascetic theory in a form which is consistent with a reasonable
conception of social needs. We have, in fact, only to say
that, in a condition of society characterised by sensuality and
selfishness, the existence of men capable of refusing all sensual
gratification may be of the highest value, if only as a demon-
stration of the possibility of conquering the prevailing passions.
Further, it may well be that in such a state the best, and,
so far, the most meritorious men, and those who are most
sensitive to the social evils of the time, may show by their
lives the possibility of such conquest, and may, so far, deserve
the respect of their fellows. As the Red Indian proved his
courage by submitting to tortures, the saint may prove his
temperance and chastity by refusing all indulgence; and
such examples of transcendent virtue may tend to raise the
average standard. They are a forcible protest in flesh and
blood against the tyranny of the grosser natures. It is need-
less to dwell upon the dangers of the doctrine, upon the
erroneous assumptions with which it is associated, or upon the
limitations within which it should be confined. I only say
that it is so far perfectly compatible with a view deduced
from general considerations of social welfare, and that it
errs in attributing an absolute value to conduct valuable only
under certain conditions. So lono; as these conditions are
fulfilled in fact, the error of neglecting their importance will
VIRTUE OF TEMPERANCE. 199
not lead to immediate error ; and thus an instinct which
seems to neglect all reference to the conditions of social wel-
fare mav, in fact, be the direct product of those conditions.
It corresponds to the disgust produced by certain evils which
arises spontaneously, and does not imply an accurate recog-
nition of the true nature of the evils, and thus condemns
absolutelv what is only relatively bad.
26, Hence follows a conclusion which has been already
noticed, namelv, that the general condition of the utility of a
moral sentiment cannot be identified, except under certain
limitations, with the condition of a perception of utility of
the corresponding rule. Thus, when we speak of the disgust
produced bv certain conduct, and proceed to ask whether the
distrust can be justified by the presumed consequences, we
sometimes fall into a perplexity. Are we or are we not to
take into account as amongst those consequences the disgust
itself? Is the offended faculty entitled to a seat on the bench,
or is it only entitled to a hearing as a witness ? In the former
case, we seem to be falling into a circular argument and
makino- the instinct its own justification. In the latter, we
may ask whv this particular kind of pain should be less re-
garded than any other in estimating the total consequences.
The answer, I think, is simple from a right point of view.
When we say that conduct or instinct is bad, we clearly make
one assumption, namely, that it can be eliminated, and that
the conduct or instinct which takes the place of that con-
demned "will be better. When I say that vice is mischievous,
I must mean that, on the whole, and taking in everything
implied in a change assumed to be possible, the temperate
man is better fitted for social duties, or, which is the same
thincr, that a society formed of the temperate is better adapted
for persistence than a society formed of the vicious. It is a
manifest fallacy if I compare the two things only in respect
of a particular set of differences which happen to be con-
spicuous on the surface, or if I fail to make a real comparison
between possible states, and therefore make a false assumption
as to the true alternatives.
200 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
27. Now, in the case before us, let us consider some vice,
sav gluttony, which is specially contemptible, but which
would perhaps generally be classed as self-regarding, inasmuch
as it does not imply the existence of malice and direct attacks
upon others. To estimate the evil of gluttony fairly, I must
compare the gluttonous man, including all that is implied in
glutton, with the temperate man. If I try to sum up the
consequences of gluttony, I shall probably think first of the
evils to health, of the consequences in the shape of gout,
indigestion, and so forth. But this gives a very imperfect
measure of the social evils of gluttony. The difference be-
tween the glutton and the temperate man is not that one is
more exposed than the other to certain diseases, or that in
consequence of the diseases he is less capable of strenuous
activity. It is also that the man who is a slave of his belly
is less capable of all the higher affections, of intellectual
pleasures or aesthetic and refined enjoyments, and presum-
ably selfish and incapable of extensive sympathies. If^ then,
my disapproval of gluttony is measured by the first set of
consequences alone, it is manifestly inadequate. It is as
though my estimate of the evils due to a disease were con-
fined to certain special symptoms, and not to the total con-
stitutional state implied. As a matter of fact, the senti-
ment actually entertained for the gluttonous man includes
an element which is not measurable by the estimate of the
imprudence implied in gluttony, nor of the general incapacita-
tion which may be the most conspicuous result. It is rather
an intrinsic feelino; due to the conflict between the hioher and
the lower type, a spasm of disgust which is produced as
directly as the rising of the gorge at any offensive object. The
sight of the human hog revolts us, as we should sav, simply
because he is a hog, and the smell of the stye turns our
stomachs. Wherever such an intrinsic feelino; exists, it
cannot be justified by summing up the " conse(juences" in
the manner described. It is a feeling as much as any other
which so far justifies itself, that the pains and pleasures due
to it must be reckoned in our calculation. But this does not
VIRTUE OF TEMPERANCE. 201
imply that this intrinsic feeUng or instinct is not to be
measured bv a standard derived from the general principle of
utility. When we ask whether it is useful, we do not mean
to ask whether it implies a right estimate of the other conse-
quences of the conduct — that is, of the collateral results which
are offensive to other instincts ; for this is virtually to assume
that it has no independent existence, but is only a special
application of those instincts to the foreseen consequences.
We must also ask whether it is useful in the sense of being
a necessary part of the higher type of character. As men
become more intellectual, sympathetic, and so forth, they
gain fresh sensibilities, which are not simple judgments of
consequences hitherto improved, but as direct, imperative,
and substantial as anv of the primitive sensibilities. Hence
the justification of the instinct is not that it implies a judg-
ment of what is useful, but rather that it is a useful judgment.
To get rid of the sensibility you must lower the whole tone
of the character or destroy the perception of consequence.
Therefore some such sentiment is essential to social develop-
ment, though it is difficult or impossible to obtain any accurate
measure of the desirable strength. That is a problem which
can onlv be worked out by actual experiment.
28. This would appear to follow psychologically from the
fact that the excess in question (and this is of course equally
applicable to other sensual excesses) is itself prompted by a
direct instinct. It is a morbid development of a certain
appetite ; and it would seem that the disgust which we feel
for the excesses of others is a direct result of the correlative
impulse in ourselves. We are shocked by the excess of the
glutton, because our imagination is revolted when we put
ourselves in his place, and fancy ourselves consuming the
same monstrous masses of food. The question of the degree
in which it is desirable to cultivate this instinct must be diffi-
cult, because every direct instinct is in its nature incapable
of such measurement. When we are estimating the conse-
quences of conduct in the ordinary sense, we may sometimes
have an,available test. We are asking whether the pain given.
202 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
for example, by an attack of gout is greater or less than the
pleasure of a series of good dinners, and we may conceive at
least that in some cases the sum is fairly easy, and admits of
some approximate estimate. But when we ask whether a
certain instinct is on the whole useful, and in what degree, we
are really asking the enormously complex problem whether
the man who has it, together with all that is implied in it, is
on the whole a better or worse member of society than the
man who has it not, together with all that is implied in its
absence. It is clearly impossible to reduce the comparison
between two organisms to any direct process of calculation,
though we may at least attempt to calculate the quantities
of happiness in two different sets of actions ; and hence it
follows that the strenirth of the instinctive emotions of dis-
o-ust which we have been considering- mav varv widely with-
out being capable of immediate regulation by any reasoning
process. This may go to explain why the disgust excited by
particular vices, or, again, the admiration for their contraries
implied in the aesthetic theories of morality, is apt to deviate
very widely from any assignable measure of immediate utility.
IV. Virtue of Truth.
29. I may now proceed to the virtues which are in some
respects at the opposite pole. It needs no demonstration that
some regard for truth is implied in the simplest social state.
Lano-uao-e is at once the product of society, and essential to
anvthing that can be called society. No mutual understand-
ino- can exist without a communication of thought of which
language is the most perfect and the indispensable instru-
ment. To say that language is necessary is to say that truth
is necessarv, for otherwise we should speak of signs which
have no signification. Lving itself is only possible when
some degree of mutual understanding has been reached, and
truthfulness is therefore an essential condition of all social
development. Yet even the virtue of truth is often recog-
nised sraduallv and with many limitations. As tlie law of
VIRTUE OF TRUTH. 203
chastity takes the form, " Thou shalt not commit adultery,"
the law of truth appears in the form, " Thou shalt not bear
false witness." l^hose lies are forbidden which are palpably-
injurious to our neighbours. The imperfect respect enter-
tained for truth in general is indicated by the practice of
judicial oaths. This seems to imply a kind of tacit assump-
tion that the duty requires some extrinsic sanction. We
might suppose the wickedness of taking away a man's life by
a false statement to be so obvious that a man restrainable by
no other motive would hardly be influenced by the sanctity of
an oath. The fact, therefore, that oaths are regarded as effica-
cious in such cases shows the faintness of the average sen-
sibility to the virtue. Lying to an enemy, again, is often
regarded as at least pardonable, even when cruelty is seen to
be wrono-. The obliiration to truthfulness is limited to rela-
tions with members of the same tribe or state; and, more
generallv, it is curious to observe how a kind of local or
special morality is often developed in regard to this virtue.
The schoolboy thinks it a duty to his fellows to lie to his
master, the merchant to his customer, and the servant to his
employer; and, inversely, the duty is often recognised as
between members of some little clique or profession, as soon
as it is seen to be important for their corporate interest, even
at the expense of the wider social organisation. There is
honour among thieves, both of the respectable and other
varieties. So the agreement of gamblers to pay debts of
honour and the respect paid to hospitality in rude countries
are familiar instances of the growth of a partial morality,
wherever it is plainly the interests of a class to have a mutual
understanding. Finally, it may be noticed that truthfulness
in the highest sense must be of slow development because
only partially intelligible. The child cannot lie because it
cannot speak the truth; so long, that is, as it is unable to
distinguish bet\Veen the creations of its own fancy and the
facts perceived in the external world. Telling stories has
for it the ambio;uous sense of Ivino; or relatino; avowed fiction.
In the same way it appears that the infantile man produces
204 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
myths and fables, and all manner of superstitious beliefs,
without a distinct perception of the diiference between
imaci"ination, hypothesis, and historical statement. Fiction
in the modern sense and downriirht Ivino; have the same root,
and only come to be clearlv differenced at a comparatively
advanced stage. The inheritance of such figments, especially
in the matter of religious belief, continues to perplex men's
minds. The virtue of philosophical truthfulness is only now
obtaining recognition, and the process by which it has won
recoirnition is an interestino; illustration of the general
principle.
30. It is easily perceived that an erroneous belief is in-
jurious to society, and there is a tacit recognition of this in
the conviction that a man who insults the god of his tribe
mav bring down evil upon his tribesmen. As moral rules
are implicated with theological beliefs, indifference to either
implies indifference to the other; nothing, then, is more
natural than the hatred, and consequently the persecution,
of the heretic. The chan<re is chiefly brou2:ht about bv the
slow perception that a man's beliefs are accidental and
dependent upon his social surroundings, and that the man
himself, therefore, is estimable so far as he is sincere, not so
far as his conclusions are right. Even at a very late period
the enunciation of that simple principle was regarded with
horror, and it has come to be admitted only by the accunui-
latins: evidence which has demonstrated that the difference
between the orthodox and the heterodox does not coincide
with that between good and bad. Yet the process is still
so imperfect that the virtue of toleration is still considered
rather as an external than an internal rule. It is generally
admitted that persecution is a blunder, as it is admitted —
by many people, at least — that protection is a blunder; but
everybody allows that a good man may be a protectionist,
inasmuch as the evil consequences are not* so manifest to
all understandings that an advocacy of protection necessarily
implies indifference to the welfare of the race. In the same
way the persecutor may have been deluded as to the eflect
VIRTUE OF TRUTH. 205
of his measures rather than deficient in sympathy with his
kind. The growth, however, of an adequate perception of
the value of truthfuhiess in its highest sense would make this
impossible. A thorough conviction that the welfare of the
race depends upon its intrinsic character, and not upon the
special results attained in any given stage of inquiry, would
show that persecution was necessarily injurious to the inte-
rests of the society, and therefore confine the practice to those
who were indifferent to such injurv. As the respect paid to
courajre comes to be sjiven equallv to the man who fi(::hts on
our side or against us, in consequence of the accidents of
position, so we should respect truthfulness whether the results
obtained were in asrreement or not in agreement with our
own opinions.
31. So f^ir, then, we may say of truthfulness, as we have
said of other classes of virtue, that the morality emerges in
the form of a condemnation of particular kinds of conduct
seen to be pernicious to the societv, and gradually passes into
the recognition of a certain quality as implied in the realisa-
tion of the highest social type. But we have now to consider
a respect in which it differs from the other virtues. We
may notice in the first place that the obligation to a certain
definite external mode of conduct is generally stated as abso-
lute. Philosophers have deduced all virtues from truth, and
this absoluteness of the statement is favourable to the method;
for though puritv and courage give rise to rules which are
almost invariable, such as fidelity in marriage or to military
obedience, still they seem to include an empirical element.
The particular marriage law, for example, may vary, and it
is conceivable at least that polygamy may be the rule in one
period and monogamy in another, whilst the decision as to
the superiority of either rule would depend upon variable
conditions of human life. The rule of truthfulness, on the
other hand, seems to possess the a priori quality of a mathe-
matical axiom. It seems possible to say that it is always
right to speak the truth, as it is always true that two and two
make four. Truth, in short, being always the same, truth-
2o6 THE SCIENCE OE ETHICS.
fulness must be unvarvinc;. Thus "Be truthful" means,
" Speak the truth whatever the consequences, whether the
teller or the hearer receives benefit or injury." And hence,
it is inferred, truthfulness im))lies a quality independent of
the oro-anisation of the aijent or of society. The aa:ent
should act as if he were a pure intellect. Nothing is so
truthful as a calculating machine, which grinds out the same
results, whether they give pleasure or pain. The preceding
virtues imply a certain equilibrium between the passions;
we cannot define "excess" without takins; into account the
constitution of the persons affected ; but the rule of truth-
fulness is independent of any such considerations and under-
lies them all. A conception of truth is implied in all rea-
soning, for reasoning is nothing but a perception of truth
and error. Thus to convey truth to others is apparently the
simplest possible rule, and capable of the most absolute state-
ment; and thus, it is supposed, we may reach the rule,
" Be truthful," without more reference to society than we
make in asserting a geometrical or a logical axiom.
33. We must ask, then, whether this absoluteness of the
rule really affects the doctrine that it expresses a condition of
social welfare. Moralists agree approximately in the admis-
sion that truthfulness is an essential condition of the welfare
of society as known to us. This, according to me, is the
ultimate ground, in a scientific sense at least, of its moral
value. The attempt is still made to represent the principle
as possessing an authority independent of any social conside-
ration. A different rule, it is said, would not only be mis-
chievous— that is, inconsistent with social development — but
self-contradictory. So far as this asserts anything more than
this, that even a slight social advance implies some degree of
truthfulness, it appears to me to be erroneous, or at least
unprovable. If for the rule, " Speak the truth," we could
substitute the rule, " Tell lies," it is quite true that neither
language itself nor the simplest of existing social institutions
could have been developed. 'J'o invert the rule of truth
would imply such a change as would necessitate a modifica-
VIRTUE OF TRUTH. 207
tioii of some of the apparently most essential attributes of
humanitv. Yet even in this case the rule, " Deceive," is not
in a formal sense more contradictory than the rule, " Do not
deceive," and perhaps it would be possible to imagine con-
ditions under which mutual deception might be profitable to
a race. Undoubtedly such a race would have to do without
lang^uao-e, and without many other thino;s which are essential
to society as we know it. The state of truthfulness is as
essential to society as you please, but it is illegitimate to
confound this doubtless important statement with the state-
ment that the opposite rule is logically impossible. Universal
Iving is not self-contradictory; it is only impossible within
the whole rano;e of our knowledge.
^^. In the next place, the fact, if it were a fact, that the
direct inversion of the rule was contradictory, would not
prove the rule itself to be necessary. The moral rule might
conceivably be, " Speak truth to your friends and lie to your
cnemie?," or, "Speak truth when it is not plainly inconvenient;"
just as the moral rule may be, "Kill not, unless in war or bv
due form of law, and do not drink more than is good for you."
This is not only conceivable, but is a fact of actual morality.
The rule of truthfulness, as I have said, is understood, in fact,
with many limitations, and is still far from being universally
and thoroughly carried out ; and these limitations correspond
to the limitations, real or apparent, of its social value.
And, finally, even in the highest moral stages there remain
certain limitations. Just because the rule can be so absolutely
expressed, it gives rise to various casuistical problems when
applied to the varying facts of life. Exceptions are recognised,
and these exceptions still obey the general rule of conformity
to the conditions of social welfare. Such, for example, are
the familiar cases of tellino; the whereabouts of his victim to
a murderer, telling patients in certain cases of their true
condition of health, and revealing secrets which it is thouglit
right to preserve, even when Iving alone can preserve them.
These are generally cases in which the internal diverges from
the external law, and, however rare, arc therefore worth
2o8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
notice. The rule, " Lie not," is the external rule, and corre-
sponds approximately to the internal rule, "Be trustworthy."
Cases occur where the rules diverge, and in such cases it is
the internal rule which is morally approved. Truthfulness
is the rule because in the vast majority of cases we trust a
man in so far as he speaks the truth ; in the exceptional cases,
the mutual confidence would be violated when the truth, not
when the lie, is spoken. In such cases, therefore, the moral
law admits of an apparent exception, though there are manv
difficulties npon which I must touch hereafter in the way of
definino; them.
34. Now, without going farther at present, we see that
truthfulness is a fresh exemplification of the principles already
laid down ; for truthfulness, so far as it is a virtue, implies
trustworthiness. Trustworthiness, again, is clearly a quality
the development of which is essential to all such social growth,
at -least, as we can conceive to exist. It is an essential, and
the most obviously essential, condition of social development.
The growth of a sentiment of mutual confidence is so clearly
necessary that it seems to have been virtually regarded bv
theorists who dealt in social contracts and so forth as the
essential element or ultimate basis of morality. The develop-
ment, however, of the sentiment implies a correlative develop-
ment of the whole nature of men and society — a development
so slow as to be very inadequately realised even in the highest
societies or existence, and generally limited by very incomplete
confidence between the members of different classes. So far
from implying any suppression of passions or of the emotions
as such, it implies the cultivation of all the qualities by which
society is held toother, so that the man who is trustworthy
in the highest sense, who has in all cases a self-respect which
makes it impossible for him to lie, is the final outcome, the
ripest fruit, of the healthiest social conditions. Nothing is
rarer, even in the best societies, than an exquisite sensitiveness
upon such points, and a morbid social condition which implies
a defect of the true social sentiment is marked by nothing
more clearly than the existence of partial codes of truthful-
VIRTUE OF TRUTH. 209
ness and the small importance attributed to lying between
different classes. But this is to sav nothins; else than that
truthfulness or trustworthiness is one of the essential qualities
of the true social type, only to be generated, and indeed only
to be fully appreciated, as the result of a long elaboration and
a slow growth of harmonious relations. It implies, doubtless,
though it is not necessarily implied, by the narrower quality
which rather belongs to the prudential qualities of a hatred
for error. The man, indeed, who hates error will generally
hate falsehood.
"To thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the day the night,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
This kind of virtue would belong, however, in the highest
degree to the man who approximates as closely as possible to
the calculating machine. Such a man no doubt would have
what may be called a purely intellectual love of truth ; but'of
truth as opposed to error or equiv^alent to accurate knowledge,
not of truth as implied by trustworthiness. He would be
like the calculating machine, equally at the service of the
rogue or the honest man, unless he had also the social qualities
summed up by a high sense of honour. It would give him
no pain to know that he had deceived others, so long as his
knowledge of their error was accurate. To know is to avoid
error; a desire for knowledge and a love of being deceived
are doubtless incompatible; and the man who felt the desire
would be self-contradictory if he did not desire to be " true to
himself" in the sense of thinkino; and observino; accurately.
But he might be as great a liar as any one, as willing, that is,
to use knowledge selfishly, unless we suppose that he also
possesses the qualities implied in the social type. And there-
fore we may assume here, as before, that the moral law means
simply a statement of the conduct characteristic of the most
vigorous vitality.
2IO THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
V. The Social Virtues.
^^. We come, in the last place, to the directly social vir-
tues. It needs no demonstration that the existence of a
society and its maintenance at a certain stage of civilisation
are dependent upon the instincts which, whatever their ulti-
mate nature, imply the readiness of the individual to identify
himself with his fellows, and to seek his own happiness in or
through their happiness. The question is not whether such
qualities are virtuous, but whether they are not the sole vir-
tues. Accordingly, some moralists hold benevolence to be
the single virtue, as others deduce all the moral principles
from prudence, or purity, or truthfulness. It is equally clear,
again, that these virtues, like the others, are developed through
a gradual process of generalisation; that so long as each tribe
is an independent whole, the mutual goodwill of its members
is often limited to the little section which represents the
whole world for them, and that even in highly developed
communities the limitations of benevolence are such as to
show little recognition of external claims. The gradual
extension of the sphere of morality may be due to the gene-
ralising faculty itself — to any process by which the vmder-
standing becomes enlightened and the sympathies more sen-
sitive, or it may be the indirect result of such a change in
external conditions as is implied by the absorption of many
communities into a larger whole, with a consequent recog-
nition of a wider community of interest. We are still very
far from an unqualified recognition of the virtue. Patriotism
often takes the narrow and contemptible form of a desire for
the extension of our own political organisation, in complete
indifference to, or rather with a contemptuous refusal to
attach any importance to, the welfare of the outside world.
I will only observe, without dwelling farther upon sufficiently
obvious considerations, that the change may be regarded in
two aspects. The difference between the morality of military
savages and tliat of a civilised country is not necessarily so
great as it seems. The actual rule of conduct niav be, in one
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES. 21 r
case, to knock a stranger on the head, and, in the other, to
ask him to dinner. But then it must be admitted that the
difference may correspond simply to a difference in the facts
to which the rule applies, not in the rule itself. Stranger, in
one sense, means a being who will presumably kill me if he
can; in the other, a being who will presumably be friendly.
Thus the most civilised beins; would have to sro armed in
a reo'ion where no mutual understandino; had been reached.
The difference would be that he would there anticipate from
every one the behaviour which in his own country he would
only anticipate from an exceptional person. Unless his
morality forbade self-defence — which is hardly the case in any
accepted code — it would therefore allow or prescribe hostility
towards strangers presumably hostile. Thus the growth of
morality implies the development of this mutual understand-
ing. It may be obvious that such an understanding would
be useful if attainable, and so far its establishment does not
imply a change in the moral sentiment, but only in the facts
to which it is applied. On the other hand, it may also be
said that, to attain the understanding, we require not simply
a perception of its utility, but a greater development of
emotional sensibility, and so a greater power of sympathy,
which must go along with the purely intellectual process.
'J^6. This remark suggests one other which must be taken
into account. The virtues of which I am speaking are often
reo-arded as fallinir under the two heads of justice and bene-
yolence. These two are sometimes described as so far from
coincident that they may occasionally come into conflict,
and morality is to prescribe a course which is a kind of dia-
gonal between the two diverging rules. The justice of the
Supreme Being, we are told, is tempered by his mercy, and
vice versa. It is plain that the distinction corresponds to
that already drawn between the intellect and the emotions.
Temperance, so far as it is strictly virtuous rather than pru-
dential, implies, as I have said, a restriction upon selfishness,
and the instincts by which the society is held together may
be regarded as a development from the sexual and parental
212 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
instincts. Truthfulness, on the other hand, so far as it too
is strictly virtuous, must be regarded as implying a distinc-
tively social quality, and so far a fitness to act in accordance
with social demands. Thus we may regard temperance as
included in the duty of benevolence, though it has also a
prudential aspect ; and truthfulness, with the same limita-
tion, as included under the virtue of justice. And hence,
again, it must be repeated that, although there may be a dis-
tinction, there can be no proper opposition. If benevolence
means a desire to see others happy, it defeats its own end
if it tries to promote happiness of some at the expense of
others; and justice ceases to be just when it implies the
observance of a rule imposed for the good of all in such a
way as to be injurious to all.
37. It seems desirable, however, to put this rather more
precisely. What, in fact, is meant by justice? The spe-
cial case in regard to which the virtue first emerges is that
of a partial judge, and the same principle will apply of
course to all other persons intrusted with power by the
organisation of the community. The judge, again, is unjust
so far as he acts from any other considerations than those
which are recognised as legitimate by the legal constitution.
He has to declare the law, and to apply it to particular cases
without fear or favour. He must therefore give the same
decision whether the persons interested be friends or foes,
relations or strangers, rich or poor. And so, extending
the same principle, we say that a minister is unjust who dis-
tributes offices from other considerations than the fitness of
the applicants, except in certain cases where it is understood
that the power of appointment is an indirect mode of re-
warding the appointee. A parent is unjust who does not
distribute his property to his children equally, whether they
are clever or stupid, and even, within wide limits, whether
good or bad. And, on the other hand, considerations which
are held to be irrelevant in one case are regarded as essen-
tially relevant in another. The man is unjust who, in his
judicial capacity, distinguishes between a friend and an
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES. 213
enemy, a relation and a stranger; he is equally unjust if, in
his domestic capacity, he fails to distinguish. It would be
grossly unjust in a judge to favour a Tory as against a
Whig; in a minister, it might be grossly unjust not to con-
sider the claims of party. The judge would be unjust who
showed favour to his own son, and the parent would be
unjust who did not give his money to his own children.
The essence of justice, therefore, seems to be the uniform
application of rules according to relevant circumstances ; or,
as we may put it, it is an application to conduct of the prin-
ciple of sufficient reason. Every difference in my treatment
of others must be determined by some principle which is in
that case appropriate and sufficient. In this sense^ therefore,
justice means reasonableness.
38. From this, again, we see in what way justice is implied
in social development. How are we to say what, in any case,
is the sufficient reason ? What set of rules is relevant, and in
what relations of life are we or are we not to attend to par-
ticular kinds of claims? To this we must replv, in general
terms, that all social development implies, as we have seen, a
distribution of functions, and the possibility of any permanent
organisation depends upon a corresponding perception of the
implied duties. The royal power, for example, has been de-
veloped by certain social needs, such as the necessity of a
centralised military power. If a particular king uses the
power not so as to discharge his function in the most efficient
wav, but for some other purpose, such as the gratification of
his appetites, the social organ ceases to be efficient, and the
society is so far in a state of degeneration. The due perfor-
mance of the function is suspended, and the organ becomes
an encumbrance instead of a useful part of the system. The
function of the criminal judge is the suppression of certain
offences; if he only punishes criminals not related to him or
receives bribes, and even if, as a judge, he gives undue weight
to qualities which in another capacity he might properly
regard, the administration of justice is so far corrupted. The
same principle of course applies in every conceivable case, and
214 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
is analogous to the statement that in a living organism the
welfare of the animal depends upon his eyes seeing and his
ears hearing according to certain rules. So far as the king
is a tyrant or the judge corrupt, each is hindering the due
performance of an important function, and injures the country
as the distorting eye or ear injures the organism.
39. Hence, when we say that a judge is to be passionless,
we use the word in the same sense as in the case of truthful-
ness. He must be inaccessible to certain passions when they
are out of place ; the ruling passion which must govern him
in his judicial capacity is the passion for justice; and that,
as before, whether acting justly has become a habit or is
prompted by a constant sense of the vital importance of
judicial impartiality to society in general. He should apply
the rule with the precision of a calculating machine; but
he must have a motive for setting his intellect to work im-
partially; and, of course, such motives are sufficiently nume-
rous and powerful in a healthy social state to make judicial
purity a second nature. When, again, we speak of mercy
as conflicting with justice, we mean generally to imply that
either the benevolence is ill-guided, or that a rule founded
upon some important considerations is being applied in cases
when an exception should be made. Benevolence conflicts
with justice in the case of misguided charity or excessive leni-
ency, where the desire of giving pleasure to some one immedi-
ately before us causes us to overlook the indirect consequences
of demoralisation, and so forth, to the person benefited, and the
injury done to others who have equal claims, but who do not
happen to be in so conspicuous a station. There is a conflict,
again, when a rule is pedantically applied, so as to injure a
man whose conduct is forbidden because it belongs to a class
generally mischievous, though we are quite certain that in the
particular case it had not the objectionable characteristics of
that class; as, for example, if a man is punished for homicide
in a case where homicide was evidently conmiitted in self-
defence. But in all such cases it is not properly a conflict
between justice and benevolence, but between a benevolence
THE SOCIAL DEFINITION OF VIRTUE. 215
which takes into account all the relevant circumstances, and
one which fails to do so ; between a justice which applies a rule
with, and one which applies it without due consideration.
There are, of course, many casuistical cases which may be
suggested, and which often present real difficulty — cases, for
example, such as have afforded materials for the most striking
tragical situations, where a man is distracted between demands
made upon him in two capacities, — between the claims of his
family, for example, and the claims of the state, as in the story
of Brutus and his sons. Of such cases it is enough here to
say that, on whatever principles they may be settled, they do
not involve any proper conflict between benevolence and
justice. The same criterion is ultimately implied in both
cases, though w^e may lay more stress upon one or other
aspect. The command, " Be benevolent," carries with it the
condition that your benevolence should be regulated by reason,
and therefore should not benefit one man at the expense of
the society. The command, "Be just," carries with it in
the same wav the condition that, whatever function you are
discharging or in whatever capacity you are acting, vou
must be animated bv public spirit, that is, by motives coin-
cident with the dictates of a reasonable benevolence ; and
thus, in any case, the conclusion is that the moral law
prescribes a type of character which includes amongst its
manifestations a desire to discharge all the social functions,
and which therefore implies fitness to form part of a sound
social state.
VI. The Social Definition of Virtue.
40. This brief survey of the main divisionsof morality, which,
as I have shown, run into each other, and to some extent
mutually imply each other, may justify the conclusion as to
the social definition of virtue. Society, I have said, may be
considered as an organism, implying what I have called a
social tissue, modified in various w^ays so as to form the
organs adapted to various specific purposes. The existence
2i6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
of the social tissue at any stage of development^ and its
power of maintaining itself, either as a part of the special
order or as against other societies, depends essentially upon
the fulfilment of certain conditions. Since the qualities
by which societies differ do not depend upon the innate
qualities of its constituent members^ which remain constant
(or approximately constant) through long periods of social
development, but upon these qualities as modified and de-
veloped by means of the social factors, it follows again that
the society grows on condition of impressing a certain char-
acter upon its members. This takes place in the earlier
stages by the development of a social sentiment unfavour-
able to certain specific modes of conduct. As the society
becomes more reasonable, more capable of understanding
and applying general principles, the sentiment develops into
an approval of a certain type of character, the existence of
which fits the individual for membership of a thoroughly
eflBcient and healthy social tissue. To state the main qualities
thus impressed is to lay down what I have called the " law
of nature." This, as we see, has the two poles of prudence
and virtue, corresponding to the distinction of the qualities
which are primarily useful to the individual and those
which are primarily useful to the society. Thus, whatever
strengthens the individual, increases his courage, energy,
industry, and so forth, must, other things being equal,
strengthen the society. Hence the law of prudence, which
corresponds rather to a precedent condition of morality than
to morality itself. Then the individual is stronger and the
society is stronger so far as his passions are regulated in a
certain way, and including alike the passions which have a
direct bearing upon the individual life and those which have
a direct bearing upon the social bond ; whence the virtues of
temperance and chastity. Thirdly, the individual, so far as
reasonable, must avoid error on his own account, and must
avoid the propagation of error for the welfare of the society,
whence the virtues of wisdom and trustworthiness. And,
finally, since the social union implies a direct interest of the
THE SOCIAL DEFINITION OF VIRTUE. 217
individual in the welfare of the society, wc have the directly
social virtues, which imply at once benevolence and justice,
accordino; as wc attend to the motive or to the rcirulatcd
action of motives. And these four classes of excellence,
which by the mode of development are necessarily recon-
cilable and mutually implicatory of each other, seem to
constitute all that is meant by the general moral law,
though admitting, of course, an indefinite variety of special
applications.
41. Briefly, then, we may say that morality is a statement
of the conditions of social welfare ; and morality, as dis-
tinguished from prudence, refers to those conditions which
imply a direct action upon the social union. In other words,
morality is the sum of the preservative instincts of a society,
and presumably of those which imply a desire for the good
of the society itself. And so far, as I may observe, moralists
w^ould c;enerallv asjree as to the fact, howev^er difFerentlv thev
might state it or account for it. That is to say^ no moralist
of any school would deny that the health of the society, its
power of persistence, and its harmony with the happiness
of its members, depends essentially and primarily upon its
condition in respect of morality and prudence. Lower the
average standard, and the society is so far in danger of stag-
nation, decay, and actual extermination ; raise it, and the
society is so far better calculated to preserve itself and to
develop new and richer life. But difiiculties and disputes
arise when we go farther. That which I am specially con-
cerned to meet concerns the mode in which virtue, the
nature of which can be clearly and simply expressed when
we speak of the social organism, presents itself when we
change our point of view, and ask how it comes to be im-
pressed upon the individual. Virtue is a condition of social
welfare; but why should I be virtuous, or what are the
motives by which the conformitv of the individual is or mav
be secured ? In order to answer this, and the many pro-
blems which arise from or are intimately connected with it,
it is necessary to consider what may be called the '^ theory of
2i8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
obligation." This, accordingly, will form the topic of the
next three chapters. What is the quality in respect of
which the individual is susceptible to the social pressure?
What is the form taken by that pressure ? What is the
nature of the character which must be impressed upon the
individual ? These are the problems of altruism, of merit,
and of conscience, upon each of which I shall have something
to sav.
( 219 )
CHAPTER VI.
ALTRUISM.
1. Egoistic Instincts.
I. The last chapter has brought us to the problem which
is at the root of all ethical discussion. The definition of
morality is perfectly simple so long as we fix our attention
upon the social organism ; the moral law is a statement of
certain essential conditions of the vitality of the society, and
specifically of those conditions which apply primarily to the
society, and only in a secondary sense to the individual.
The individual then must, so far as moral, be capable of
aiming at the social welfare before his own. In every moral
system, action for the good of others is regarded as virtuous,
if not as the only action entitled to be called virtuous. But
how is such action conceivable? Can any man really
sacrifice himself? Is not the admission of the possibility of
self-sacrifice inconsistent with the assertion that all conduct
is determined by the feelings of the agent, and therefore, as
it would seem, by his own pain or pleasure ? The egoistical
theory which accepts this conclusion is the favourite bug-
bear of ethical writers. By fixing upon an antagonist the
imputation of egoism you give him a bad name, and have
an easy opportunity for a rhetoric which reflects credit upon
the assailant. Only a cynic or a satirist here and there
maintains the thesis of universal selfishness, or a rare philo-
sopher propounds it in words, whilst carefully explaining
that he does not mean what he says. I am half ashamed to
join in the hue and cry against an outcast doctrine so often
repudiated, and so often pronounced to have been slain
220 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
outright. Yet Its singular vitality, in spite of repeated
assaults, shows it to possess some real plausibility. If it be
erroneous, we must be careful in laying down the positions
of which it is a perverted statement ; and as even the
egoist admits that altruism, though a mere mask, is yet a
mask invariably adopted by the virtuous, it is equally neces-
sary, upon his assumption, to examine its true nature, though
at the expense of painfully retracing some familiar ground.
3. Where does the puzzle arise? Common sense finds no
difficulty. A man is altruistic who loves his neighbour as
himself; who gives money to the poor which he might have
spent in luxury; who leaves house and home to convert
savages; who sacrifices health to comfort prisoners or sufTerers
in a plague-stricken city. Sir Philip Sidney was altruistic
when he gave the cup of water to the wounded soldier in-
stead of slaking his own dying thirst. Such deeds make our
nerves tingle at the hearing, and ennoble the dreary wastes of
folly and selfishness recorded in history. But the egoist has
an easy explanation. Sidney's conduct only proves that his
vanity was stronger than his thirst, and vanity is one of
the meanest of motives ; the charitable man is repaid by a
glow of self-complacency; the missionary hopes for a reward
in heaven; the physician in the plague-stricken city is eager
for praise and shrinks from general contempt. In all cases,
and however skilfully disguised, some personal gratification
supplies the cogent motive. Everywhere we find the con-
viction, tacit or express, that the conduct adopted will secure
the greatest happiness of the agent. Nobody, indeed, can
deny that men act so as to destroy their own happiness;
if vanitv causes a man to sacrifice his best chances, so mav
the desire of a brief sensual pleasure. One man goes to a
public-house, another leads a forlorn hope; each throws
away life for a brief enjoyment, whether mischievous or
beneficial to others. The egoist may explain both cases
with equal facility. Each act iniplies a temporary error of
judgment ; the love of gin or the love of glory overpowers
the reflective faculties. Let a man call up all the conse-
EGOISTIC INSTINCTS. 221
quences of his action, and he will cease to be imprudent,
and therefore to throw away his chances of future happiness,
whether his happiness is bound up with or absolutely irre-
concilable with the happiness of others. A man may con-
ceivably be unselfish, but so far as really unselfish he is a
fool for his pains. He will only do good to others, if a wise
or a thoroughly enlightened man, so far as he expects to
derive some benefit for himself. Thus the statement that
altruism is impossible does not mean that it is impossible in
fact, but only in deliberate intention. No man, it is argued,
can sacrifice himself knowingly and intentionally.
3. To unravel these arguments as well as I can, I must begin
by recalling some considerations already noticed. All con-
duct has an indefinite series of consequences ; that is to say,
any act may be taken as the starting-point of a series of
events continuing for an indefinite period, all of which would
be different had the action been different. The agent can
of course contemplate only a small part of these conse-
quences. It is his intention to produce those events which
he sees to be dependent upon his actions, and from the
intention we may infer the motive — that is, the feeling
which is gratified by the realisation of the intention. Now
conduct may be beneficial to others without any benevolent
intention, and not only by accident, but from its intrinsic
nature. This, for example, is true of the sexual and parental
instincts of animals. The instinct which leads a stag to
form a harem and propagate his race is of essential utility
to the herd, but does not imply that the stag has the least
sympathy for the hinds or their fawns. The hen sacrifices
herself for her chicken, but it does not follow — perhaps
it is only our anthropomorphic tendencies which suggest the
inference — that she considers her chickens as anything more
than soft, warm lumps of down, which are comfortable
furniture in the nest. She sacrifices herself to save them,
it may be, just as she would run into equal risk if tempted
by a particular kind of food. The apparent love may be
(one hopes that it is not) simply a physical appetite.
2'>'>
THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
4. It is, then, unsafe to infer altruistic intentions from
altruistic consequences. In human beings the sexual appetite
appears to be the most purely selfish of impulses, in so far as
it prompts to conduct often ruinous to its objects. On the
other hand, it is at the root of all the social virtues. The
passion cannot be gratified without important consequences
to others, and yet in its lower form implies no recognition
whatever of those consequences. The purely sensual appe-
tite remains in the reasonable beins; who can recoffnise the
consequences to others. If he still gratifies the passion
without reference to those consequences, he is prompted to
the grossest selfishness ; if, on the other hand, the sensual
impulse is so regulated that others are not injured bv its
gratification, it may become the nucleus of the most un-
selfish affection. Before the agent is enlightened by reflec-
tion it is hardly proper to call him either selfish or unselfish ;
he does not repudiate the claims of his fellows — he is inca-
pable of perceiving their existence. Selfishness or unselfish-
ness is developed as the intellect becomes capable of
contemplating the happiness of others besides the agent,
llie same change is manifest in other relations. The master
of slaves may regard them simply as convenient instruments ;
he may risk life and limb to defend them, as he would run
the same risk in defence of inanimate property. So far as
his interest is furthered by their health and safety, his rela-
tion to them may have beneficial consequences although
there is no benevolent intention ; but so far as he can
increase his own comfort by giving them pain, he may be
as willing to inflict pain as to give pleasure. He might, for
anything we can see, be as willing to feed his pigs on slaves
as to feed his slaves upon pork, if the price of the two com-
modities should vary. In this case the relation remains purely
external ; the slaves are considered simply as things, not as
human beings. But where external circumstances enforce a
certain identity of interest upon a particular group, there is
room for the development of genuine altruism. The mother
may be stimulated to actions which are de facto beneficent
EGOISTIC INSTINCTS. 223
and self-sacrificing in their consequences by the pleasant
sensations connected with suckling and nursing; as soon as
she becomes aware that she is furthering the happiness of
her offspring, the happiness may itself become a motive
for conduct. There is already a framework provided within
which the affections have room to expand. The purely
sensual pleasure is now so blended with the pleasure derived
from a perception of the happiness conferred that it may
be impossible to discriminate between them. In the normal
case they operate in the same direction, and there is no
conflict so long as they do not dictate diverging lines of
conduct. The same change (as I have already argued)
takes place in regard to social relations generally. The
connection between husband and wife, which implied origi-
nally the subordination of one being to the sensual appetites
of the other, becomes the ground of the most perfect sym-
pathy and the strongest mutual affection. A slave-holding
community may develop into one in which the employer and
the employed have friendly domestic relations, and each
desires, or at least respects, the pleasure of the other ; and the
point at which this becomes possible must be at that stage
of intellectual development in which we are able to recognise
the happiness of others than ourselves. Till that is possible,
each beine; can be at most the instrument of the other's
pleasure, and regarded with feelings not differing in kind
from those excited by any lifeless object. So soon as we
realise the fact that we cause pain and pleasure to others,
their pain or pleasure may supply a motive. Till that
period, the agent is not so much selfish or unselfish in the
full sense as incapable of any feeling in the matter. There
must already be beneficent conduct, but there can be no
benevolent or malevolent intention.
5. This change is sometimes explained as a product of
association. The truth or falsehood of this doctrine in
general depends upon principles which lie beyond the present
inquiry; but it may be observed already that there is at
least a prima facie objection to the completeness of the
2 24 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
explanation. The simple association of a particular object,
material or animated, with certain pleasures, may doubtless
make us value it as a useful instrument, but we do not see
how it can change the instrument to an object of sympathy.
The child may regard its mother as a fountain of agreeable
drink, and the mother may regard the child as affording a
pleasant relief; but so far there is nothing in the associa-
tion which should lead the child to distinguish between the
mother and the bottle, or the mother to distino-uish between
the child and some mechanical contrivance, except in so far
as one may be more efficient than the other. Undoubtedly,
the pleasant association prepares the way for the higher
sentiment. The fact of the mutual convenience provides a
necessary condition for satisfaction in conferring mutual
pleasure. But the condition is obviously insufficient, for it
suggests no account of the distinction which arises between
the sentiment excited by a mother or that excited by a
comfortable garment. It might happen that, by throwing
away broken meat which was a nuisance to me, I was
contributing to the support of a poor family or to the
support of the crows. So long as I regard both simply
as conveniences for the removal of my refuse, I shall
simply prefer one or the other as it discharges that func-
tion most efficiently. If I am better pleased to benefit
the poor family than the crows, whilst the conduct in
other respects produces the same effect upon me, I am so
far "altruistic;" and this implies that I am capable of
sympathising with, and therefore of at least recognising, the
happiness conferred upon the human beings. The bare
convenience to me, being by hypothesis the same, would
not lead to any distinction by mere force of association.
6. I assume, then, that altruism, whatever its meaning or
analysis, begins at the point at which I am capable of
benevolent intentions ; or, in other words, where conferring
pleasure upon others becomes a possible motive. And here
the egoist meets us by denying that this can ever be an
ultimate motive. The desire to give happiness is always
EGOISTIC INSTINCTS. 225
capable of a further analysis^ which shows it to inckide a
desire of happiness for ourselves. Nobody denies that the
wish to give happiness may be part of my motive^ and it
may be at a given moment the only part of which I am
distinctly conscious. I till a field in order that I may reap
the harvest, but whilst I am tilling I mav be thinkino; onlv
of the plough ; the means become a temporary or conditional
end. So I may be kind to you in order that you may here-
after be kind to me, and at a given instant of kindness I
may not be distinctly conscious of the ultimate end. But,
according to the egoist, such an end must always exist. The
goal of every conceivable desire is some state of agreeable
consciousness of my own. I may not look to the end of
the vista of intended consequences, but, if I look, I shall
always see my own reflection. This, again, is taken to be a
self-evident truth. To suppose genuine altruism, that is, a
desire of which the ultimate end is the happiness of some
other person, is to suppose a contradiction.
7. This statement appears to me to convey a palpable
truth or a great error according to our mode of interpreting
it. Every motive, as I have already said, may be described
either in objective or subjective language. I may either
state the external conditions of gratifying my desire or the
desire which is gratified. It is almost the same thing to say
that I desire food or that I am hungry, and it depends
upon the particular circumstances whether it is more con-
venient to use one or the other form of expression. Though
"almost," indeed, it is not quite the same thing, for the
reason that the external condition never corresponds abso-
lutely to the internal state. A given desire may be gratified
in various ways, and, again, a given set of conditions may
gratify various desires. The statement that I want a fire
expresses something more and also something less than the
statement that I want to be warmed ; for I may want a fire
in order to cook my dinner, and I may preserve warmth
by putting on a greatcoat. Hence it may not be simply
tautologous to say, " I want a fire because I want to be
p
226 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
warmed/' for the statement specifies the particular relation
out of several possible relations in which a fire is desirable ;
though it would be tautologous to say, '' I want the condi-
tions of warmth because I want to be warmed." I may,
indeed, give a reasonable meaning even to this latter state-
ment, if the question be whether the immediate cause of the
desire be a change in the external or the internal conditions.
I may, for example, have a desire to take food because I am
hungry, or be hungry because the food stimulates my appetite.
It may be said that in the first case the desire is an inde-
pendent cause, as it arises from organic changes which take
place independently of the internal changes, whilst in the
other case the desire itself arises from those changes. I may
ask how it comes to pass that I have certain feelings, in
which case I may of course trace back the series of events as
far as I please, and call any one " the cause," which being
altered, the subsequent events would be altered ; but at the
time of action the desire itself, to whatever it may be due,
must be the cause of conduct.
8. Now the assertion that there is both a subjective and an
objective condition of conduct tells us nothing whatever as
to the nature of the objective conditions of gratification.
We gain nothing by changing from one mode of statement
to the other. It is idle to say that I want a thing because I
want a thing, or to modify statements by emphasising in
one case the want and in the other the thing, or, again, by
laying a special stress upon the " I." Of course my con-
duct, whatever it is, must be conditioned by my desire ; but
the objective condition may be anything which can affect
my desire. There is, therefore, no prima facie objection to
the hypothesis that these objective conditions may include
the happiness of others. There is no more reason for denying
that we may receive pleasure from the pleasure of another
man than for doubting that we may receive it from the
combustion of coal. The only condition which we have so
far assumed is tiic obvious one that I can only desire that
which has some relation to me, for this is doubtless implied
EGOISTIC INSTINCTS. 227
in saying that I desire it. A desire for warmth, for example,
could not prompt a desire for such a change in the atmos-
pheric conditions as would not affect my bodilv org-anisation.
The desire could not be gratified by a change in the tempera-
ture of Sirius or a fire in a desert island, for that would be
to desire a warmth which did not warm. In short, I must
not so state the objective conditions as to suppose that I can
desire them when they necessarily part company with the
subjective condition. To say that I desire something is to
say that the something has an influence upon me, since it has
an influence upon my happiness; and this condition must
be noticed, because, for the reasons already noticed, the
objective statement generally is too wide, and includes other
conditions besides those which gratify my desires.
9. Hence we reach the problem which has to be considered.
Conduct, I have said, is determined by feeling, or, in other
words, by happiness and unhappiness. My happiness, again,
depends at every moment upon my relation to the external
world, and this external world is constituted partly of thing^s
which I assume to possess, and partly of things which I do
not assume to possess a consciousness analogous to my own.
I may or may not take into account this external conscious-
ness. I may regard an oyster, as I regard a peach, simply as
a toothsome morsel, or I may suppose him to have a certain
capacity for pain or pleasure. I may regard my fellow-men
in either of these ways — as parts of a mechanism or as
sentient organisms. It may happen that, in the former
case, the conditions of my happiness are identical with the
conditions of yours. I may be unable to get my own
dinner without by the same action getting a dinner for you.
If so, there is, we may say, an external identity of interest
and my conduct may be beneficial to you without implyino-
the existence in me of any desire for your happiness as such.
If, however, the knowledge of your happiness has an essential
and unconditional tendency to promote my happiness, the
case is so far altered. I shall then make a distinction between
cases which previously appeared to be identical. I shall not
228 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
hold it to be the same thing whether I walk up a ladder of
wood or a ladder of sentient bodies. There is, as I have said, no
a priori objection to the hypothesis that one kind of feeling
may be as real as the other; that the object of desire may
include the feelings of others, as well as changes in external
objects which do not involve feeling. But there is the differ-
ence that the former kind of feeling admits of some further
analysis in a sense not possible in the other case, though not,
as I think, in the sense supposed by the egoist. Given the
feeling of hunger, for example, I can go no further in the
subjective analysis, though I may assign the correlative
physiological processes. It exists as an ultimate fact, and
so gives the only sufficient explanation of my conduct. But
if I sympathise with your hunger, there is another process
implied, of which it may be possible to give some account. I
suffer because you suffer ; and he may fairly be asked whether
this fact can be made more intelligible or the conditions of its
occurrence explained more precisely. Having done what we
can in that direction, we may be able to return to the original
problem.
II. Sympathy.
lo. Now, in the first place, the recognition that there are
other centres of consciousness besides my own is bound up in
the closest way with the recognition of what is called an
objective world. A thing is held to be objective — in one
sense, at least, of a most ambiguous word — when I hold that
it is perceptible by you as well as by me, and subjective when
I hold that it is perceptible by me alone. I do not assert or
deny that this is the sole meaning; but at least, in assert-
ing the objective existence of anything, I assert it to exist
for others as well as for me. The statement is bound up in
the process by which my world is constituted. It is the
power of so regarding the world which gives it, if I may say
so, a stereoscopic solidity. Each person sees only one aspect
of surrounding realities. He holds it to be real in so far as
he holds that other aspects are visible to his neighbours. The
SYMPATHY. 229
actual sensations of every moment are completed and held
together in the mind by a whole system of ideal perceptions
more or less distinctly present in actual consciousness. The
room in which I sit is part of the house, the house of the city,
and so forth ; and such statements summon into comparative
vividness a set of perceptions not actually present at the
moment, but present to others, and which would be present
to me if I changed my position.
II. To think of anything as real is to call up a system
of such ideal perceptions. It is to rehearse a set of sensa-
tions which are somehow (the " how " is a problem of meta-
physics) regarded as representative of others not actually pre-
sent. If I have to do with simple relations of time and
space, no assignable emotion is produced. I complete my
picture of the exterior of my room by imagining what I should
see from outside, and so I may build up a picture of the whole
world. But the world is interesting to me so far as it is the
dwelling-place of myself and of beings analogous to myself.
The man as directly revealed by my senses is simply an object
of certain colours and dimensions, but the relations in which
he is really interesting to me are those in which he is moved
bv passions like my own. I do not really think of a man
till I have interpreted the external signs by the emotions
which they signify. Till I do that, he is for me merely a
coloured and moving statue. I know not whether he will
be a friend or an enemy, one who will save or destroy my
life. To complete the picture, I must therefore represent his
feelings. I must put myself in his place, feel what he feels,
and measure his conduct by the analogy of my own behaviour
under similar circumstances. The process is the same which
is implied in every intellectual process. I imagine a state of
consciousness not actually present, and besides imagining
mere sensations and perceptions of mechanical relations, I
imagine a set of emotions and reasoning processes analogous
to my own. I complete my picture of the house by putting
myself outside in imagination ; I add the imagined feelings
of standing in the rain and cold, and, in virtue of some in-
230 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
tellectual process not here to be discussed, I take those feel-
ings to be representative of those of the beggar at my door.
Till I have rehearsed those feelings I am not really thinking
of the beo-o-ar, but only of a lay-fig-ure of certain dimensions
CO ^ - y O
and colours. Through this mental operation alone is that
knowledge of the external world conceivable which is yet
necessary to give coherence to our own series of sensations
or to frame them into anything that can properly be called
knowledge.
12. Hence it would appear that sympathy is not an
additional instinct, a faculty which is added when the mind
has reached a certain stage of development, a mere incident
of intellectual growth, but something implied from the first
in the very structure of knowledge. I must be capable of
representative ideas in order to think coherently or to draw
the essential distinction between object and subject. I must
be able to regard certain modes of thought and feeling as
symbolic of modes present in other minds, and to my own in
other positions. To realise the world as a material whole, I
must have representative perceptions of time and space. To
realise the world of thought and feeling, that world upon
which my life and happiness depend at every instant, I must
have representative emotions. " Put yourself in his place "
is not merely a moral precept ; it is a logical rule implied in
the earliest germs of reason as a description of reasoning
itself, so far as it deals with other sentient beings. To know
that a man has certain feelings is to have representative feel-
ings, not equal in intensity, but identical in kind. Sympathy
and reason have so far an identical factor — each implies the
other. I cannot reason about another man except in so far
as I can rehearse his motives ; I cannot feel for him except
in so far as I can regard my feelings as representative. The
two processes are mutually involved, and^ whatever difficulties
may be suggested, it seems clear that I cannot properly know
what another man feels v^ithout in some degree feeling what
he feels,
13. Although I must take for granted the metaphysical
SYMPATHY. 231
implications of this statement, whatever they may be, I must
dwell for a moment upon certain difTiculties which obscure
it even from the scientific point of view. The mechanism of
language tends to introduce certain perplexities ; for it is,
as I have said, one main use of language that it enables us to
reason by symbols without calling into distinct consciousness
all the feelings which are symbolised. The arithmetician per-
forms his processes without evoking a distinct vision of the
numbers with w'hich he deals, or recalling the primary intui-
tions which satisfied him of the truth of his rules. We say
" men " without attempting to call up more than a very small
part of all the thoughts which may at diflerent times be
suggested by the word. I may say, " My servant is ill, there-
fore I will give him a holiday," and may act accordingly,
though a vcrv faint image of illness, holidays, or servants
presents itself to my mind. When I say that a man has
been hanged, the expression is thus liable to many ambiguities.
It may suggest to me simply that a figure of a certain wxight
and shape has been suspended in a certain way. It may call
up merely certain affections of the senses of sight and touch ;
or, again, it may suggest certain visible signs of vital processes,
struggling limbs, the gradual cessation of motion, and the
conversion of a moving and coherent into a motionless and de-
caying body ; or it may further suggest the painful sensations,
the despair, horror, and remorse which I suppose the man to
have felt. I may stop at the external signs, and I may pass
beyond them to the emotions signified. And thus the same
words may call up the mental images which would be gene-
rated in the most and in the least sympathetic witness, and
serve equally to suggest certain mechanical relations as to
stimulate the deepest and most complex emotions. When,
therefore, I say that knowledge implies sympathy, I of course
do not mean to deny that we may have a knowledge of the
external fact, which is, for many purposes, all the knowledge
actually present to our minds, and which implies no sympathy
at all. I need not go beyond the feelings wdiich would be
called up by hanging a dead body, even when I am said to
232 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
know that a man has been put to death by hanging. In
every case, a large part of the possible emotion remains
unrealised.
14. It is more important, perhaps, to remark that I do not
profess to give a complete account of the process. Undoubt-
edly it must be held that the knowledge of the feeling is
something different from a simple rehearsal of the feeling.
The representative feeling may differ not only in intensity
but also in quality from that which it represents. The
knowledge that another man is suffering gives rise to com-
plex or varying emotions. Nothing, of course, is more com-
mon than to find that men take pleasure in humiliating
and mortifying their neighbours. The critic rejoices in tor-
menting a sensitive poet ; the child delights in teazing his
playfellows and his animals ; and it is an undeniable though
a hideous fact that there is such a thing as a voluptuous
pleasure in cruelty. Milton's "lust hard by hate" expresses
a profound psychological truth. And such facts demand a
brief consideration in order to show that they are not incon-
sistent with the theory just stated. They are rather, as I
think, examples of the danger which besets any one who
tries to translate emotional laws into logic, and to pronounce
any variety of human character impossible because it seems
to involve an implicit contradiction.
15. Much cruelty, in the first place, means simple insen-
sibilitv. The defect of sympathy is also an intellectual defect.
The child tormenting an insect or the savage abandoning
his infant is simply not capable (in the common phrase) of
enterino; into the feelins^s of his victim. The child is amused
by the spinning of the cockchafer as he is by the spinning of
a top ; it is simply a curious bit of mechanism. The savage
may throw away a baby when its cries are tiresome because
he does not think of its sufferings at all. Cruelty of this
kind is therefore nothing but intellectual torpor, an inca-
pacity for projecting oneself into the circumstances of others,
and therefore inability even to think about the most impor-
tant set of conditions of the happiness of more developed
SYMPATHY. 233
beings. The dulness which incapacitates a l)Oor for appre-
ciating the feelings of the refined nature is so far a disquali-
fication for all the more complex social activities. And so
we may observe, that as a society becomes more civilised, as
the reasoning faculties become quicker and wider, and the
power of observing many relations between living beings
increases, there is an improvement in the virtue of humanity
if in nothing else. To think about other beings is to stimu-
late our sympathies, and our sensibility is quickened — to
the regret of some people — by the same power which implies
intellectual progress. Men may be as licentious, and in
some w^ays as selfish, in the most as in the least civilised
countries, but they also become more reluctant to inflict
pain, and open their ears to lamentations which were once
interpreted as idle sound.
16. Pleasure, again, in the sufferings of an enemy suggests
more complex considerations, but we may still distinguish
between taking pleasure in pain simply as pain, and that in
which pain is regarded as a necessary concomitant of some
other circumstances. When a man's interests are opposed
to my own, I wish for something which involves disappoint-
ment or vexation to him. Christians find pleasure in the
knowledge that their countrymen have killed, mangled, and
humiliated a large number of foreigners ; but the pain may
be imperfectly realised, or, if realised, realised as a drawback.
The generous enemy becomes capable of the true chivalrous
sentiment, and may desire a victory at the smallest possible
cost to his enemy. The barbarous sentiment implied in a
Roman triumph may have implied rather a want of the per-
ception that other people had feelings than a delight in
their suff'ering; and in an age when sympathy is wider this
delight becomes inexpressibly revolting. The most brutal
John Bull would hardly have wished to expose Napoleon to
insult as well as humiliation. It is simply reasonable in this
sense to love one's enemies. I might wish to prove a rival
controversialist to be a fool, because a conviction of his
folly is necessary to my vanity, but I should be sorry to
234 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
hear that my bitterest or most successful antagonist was
suffering from a toothache. Antagonism, of course, reconciles
us to the pain of our adversaries, and even allows the thought
of that pain to be part of a pleasurable emotion. The sym-
pathetic pang which it produces as represented by our
imagination is swallowed up by a multitude of associated
feelings. We desire, again, that a man should suffer when
we feel that our security is dependent upon his suffering ;
and this sentiment enters for something into the moral desire
of retribution. It is a part, at least, of that sentiment that
the moral order would be out of joint if wrong-doing did
not lead to pain. But this sentiment is compatible with,
though it is not necessarily combined with, a horror of inflict-
ing useless pain upon any one. Wherever the pain, that is,
is not essential as a deterrent, we have so far less desire for
its infliction. I should be heartily glad to know that the
most detestable criminal had, by some accident, become
insensible to the punishment which I think it right should
be inflicted. I do not assert that this is a necessary or even
the general feeling ; but so far as we regard punishment as
useful, that is, as having consequences productive of happi-
ness to others, we do not desire pain in itself. Whatever
other motives may be operative, this is one ingredient in
tbc desire for justice, and even to some extent in the desire
or vengeance ; and, so far as it exists, we must admit that
pain is only desired for extrinsic motives. It is not considered
as a good thing in itself, but as part of the conditions of
good to others than the sufferer.
17. Fresh complexities are introduced when we come to
the enmity which implies not a mere antagonism of interests
but a personal dislike to others. Sympathy, in the sense in
which I am using the w^ord, may give rise to antipathy.
We are led to detest a man's character because we can partly
share his feelings. The saint and the sensualist can each
enter into the motives of the other. The saint is still
accessible to the brutal passions which it has been the labour
of his life to master. It is the wild beast within him which
SYMPATHY.
-JS
he sees incarnated in another agent, and which awakes his
horror and disirust. Conversely the sensuahst mav see in
the saint the triumphant conscience which can still inflict
pangs of remorse upon himself, though it cannot restrain his
conduct. There are conflictino; elements in the character
of every man, and parts of ourselves which we regard with
horror in memory, though under some special stimulus they
may overpower all restraining motives. We can sympathise
with other men, that is, realise their feelings in imagination,
because their character contains the same primary instinct ;
and this sympathy gives rise to admiration or contempt as
the consciousness of our own qualities gives rise to vanity or
humiliation, when the action shows that the dominating
motives differ in certain ways from those which, at the time
of reflection, appear to us to be natural and becoming. We
may thus come to regard a man as a mischievous agency in
the world, as predestined by his very constitution, and not
from mere accidents of circumstance, to thwart and humiliate
us, and as embodying those sentiments which we detest the
more heartily as we can realise them the more vividly. He is
a nuisance to be abated, a corrupting or discordant element
in the general system of things ; and therefore we must take
pleasure in conditions which necessarily involve his suffering
or destruction.
1 8. I do not attempt to give any analysis of such cases.
It is enough to say that in the complex mechanism of human
motives we may often come to results which apparently
conflict with the principles from which they are deduced.
Even in such personal antipathies the sympathy is the
fundamental fact. The hatred which is generated is always
a more or less painful emotion, because our spontaneous
sympathy leads in any case to some conflict of motives. We
cannot hate the man without feeling that some of our own
feelings are taking part against ourselves. And, further, the
feeling of hatred is perfectly compatible with an entire absence
of anything like delight in pain. We may simply desire to
keep the disagreeable person at a distance, to restrain his
236 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
activity or divert it into a harmless channel^ to convert him
to better modes of feeling and so forth. It is only when we
are so related that our satisfaction necessarily implies his
misery that we are tempted actually to desire his suffering.
The distinction between hating the sin and hating the sinner
is often hvpocritical enough^ but it also expresses the rational
conviction that all pain is in itself bad aiid painful to con-
template, though it may be inseparably connected with desir-
able results.
19, But it remains to be admitted that there is apparently
such a thing as pleasure in the pain of others — pure malignity,
which we call devilish, to mark that it is abnormal and signi-
ficant of a perverted nature. The existence of such a feeling
is a puzzle such as that which psychologists have discussed
under the name of the ^Muxury of grief." Sentimentalists
seem, at any rate, to delight in cultivating sorrow, which is
apparently a still more contradictory state of mind than
delight in the sufferings of others. The explanation, so far
as it need be considered here, seems to depend upon the fact
that there is a certain pleasure in almost every kind of excite-
ment. We like what relieves the dulness of our lives and
provides some channel for emotional discharge. The sluggish
and brutal nature delights in the stimulus of horror ; in spec-
tacles of blood and death, even though it would appear at
first siffht that heio-htened excitement meant necessarilv a
heightening of disgust. Men apparently humane and sensitive
have taken delight in executions. The Romans took pleasure
in the sight of dying gladiators ; Spaniards, in the sight of
mangled bulls and horses ; an English mob is fascinated by
a sickening accident in the streets ; and possibly we may
trace a remnant of the same feeling in the pleasure given by
the horrible in tragedies or by "sensational" incidents in
modern romance. We have, again, the more hideous cases
in which cruelty seems to afford a kind of voluptuous delight,
as in some historical monsters who made an art of torture.
Almost any pungent sensation, though provocative of sheer
disgust to the sensitive, seems to yield a kind of pleasure to
SYMPATHY. 237
some natures. The problem must be left to the psychologist.
It is enough here to say^ first, that in all such cases the pain,
whether original or reflected, is but one strand in a highly
complex thread of feeling, and may produce its efl'ect as a
counter-irritant, or as heightening other sensations which are
in alliance with it ; and, secondly, that it is in any case a
comparatively rare and abnormal phenomenon, due to some
morbid condition of the faculties, or perhaps to the survival
of ferocious instincts from times when the intellect and
the sympathies were comparatively dormant. Sympathy is
the natural and fundamental fact. Even the most brutal
of mankind are generally sympathetic so far as to feel rather
pain than pleasure at the sight of suflering. The scum of a
civilised population gathered to pick pockets on a racecourse
would be pained at the sight of a child in danger of being
run over or being brutally assaulted by a ruffian, and would
be disposed to rescue it, or at least to cheer a rescuer, luiless
their spontaneous emotion were overpowered by some ex-
trinsic sentiment.
20. If this account of the sympathetic emotions be approxi-
mately accurate, we see that sympathy is implied in all
thoughts about others. Though it generates antipathy and
discord in numberless cases, the underlying and governing
process is sympathetic. We may say that we think about
other men by becoming other men. We appropriate pro-
visionally their circumstances and emotions. Metaphysicians
and mystics have expressed this by denying the ultimate
validity of individuality, and by saying that in some trans-
cendental sense a man is his neighbour, or that all men are
manifestations of one indivisible substance. The lantjuao'e,
though to my mind untenable, may serve to express the fact.
So far as I svmpathise with you I annex your conscious-
ness. I act as though my nerves could somehow be made
continuous with yours in such a w'ay that a blow which fell
upon your frame would convey a sensation to my brain.
Undoubtedly we must add that this current, so transmitted,
is greatly enfeebled in almost all cases. The reflex feeling is
238 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
normally far less acute than the direct. The thought of the
pains of starvation does not produce a pain at all comparable
to starvation itself. And as the represented object is distant
in time and space, the sensibility becomes rapidly dulled.
Most men have great difficulty in forming any vivid repre-
sentation of distant suffering. The actual sight of a stranger in
agony gives a keener feeling at the moment than the image
of a brother dying at the antipodes ; and the most bene-
volent of men hears with great composure of the destruction
of millions in China. It may, on the other hand, be remarked
in passing, that the suffering of another person may stimulate
a sympathetic person under certain conditions more forcibly
than similar sufferings of his own. The image may inci-
dentally set in motion a whole current of accumulated feeling.
A man who has been watching the sickbed of a wife may
be more moved by an accident to her than by one to himself,
not because the sight of her pain is keener than his own
pain in itself, but because it fires a whole train of anxieties,
hopes, and fears already prepared for explosion. So I may
take enormous trouble to give a very slight pleasure to a
man whom I like, not because I feel his pleasures more than
my own, but because the desire to do him honour is so strong
that I am glad to find any vent for it, however trifling in
itself.
21. Finally, if this be the true account of the process, the
difficulty is not to understand why the thought of your pain
!-hould give me pain, but to understand how it should ever
give me pleasure. It is not more true that to think of a fire
is to revive the sensations of warmth, than it is true that
to think of a man is to revive the emotions and thou2;ht
which we attribute to him. To think of him in any other
sense is to think of the mere doll or statue, the outside
framework, not of the organised mass of consciousness which
determines all the relations in which he is most deeply in-
teresting to us. llie primary sympathy is of course modified
in a thousand ways — by the ease or difficulty with which wc
can adopt his feelings ; by the attractiveness or repulsive-
ALTRUISM. 239
ness of the feelings revealed ; by the degree \n which circum-
stances force us into co-operation or antagonism ; and by
innumerable incidental associations which make it pleasant
or painful to share his feelings. Tf by sympathy we mean
this power of vicarious emotion^ it may give rise to anti-
pathv, to hatred, rivalry, and jealousy, and even to the
diabolical perversion of pleasure in others' pain ; but the
direct and normal case is that in which sympathy leads to
genuine altruism_, or feeling in conformity with that which
it reflects.
III. Altruism.
22. We may now return to the original problem, what
is implied in unselfish or altruistic conduct? Sympathy, in
the sense explained, is not identical with altruism, but it is
the essential condition of altruism. I cannot be truly altru-
istic, that is, until the knowledge of another man's pain is
painfid to me. That is the groundwork of the more complex
sentiments which are involved in all truly moral conduct,
morality implying the existence of certain desires which have
for their immediate object the happiness of others. I have
tried to consider briefly the nature of this underlying senti-
ment. We have now to say precisely in what sense it leads to
self-sacrifice ; but we have still to get rid of certain ambigui-
ties which perplex the discussion before giving the answer,
which is in itself, as I hold, sufficiently clear.
23. How does altruistic conduct differ from that which is
not altruistic? Obviously (if my theory be sound) it does
not differ in any sense which would imply that my conduct
can ever spring from anything but my own feelings. So far as
my actions can be said to be determined by anything else, they
are not properly my actions. I am in such cases part of the
mechanism set in action by some external force, whether it
be the will of another agent or some mechanical circumstance.
Mv limbs arc for the time part of another man's limbs.
Voluntary action, or action determined by the motives of the
agent, is the definition of what is strictly conduct. I may be
240 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
prompted by pains and pleasures which represent those of
another man, but they must not the less be my pains and
pleasures. Hence we must exclude two alternative errors
resulting from the neglect either of the objective or the sub-
jective conditions of conduct, and therefore of the fact that
both must always be present. We may speak, for example, of
a man as preferring the pleasure of another to his own. We
must in such a case be understood to mean, not that the
motives of the other take the place of his own motives,
which is as absurd as to say that the food eaten by the other
nourishes his own organs, but that the sympathy is stronger
than other conflicting motives. When, for example, Sidney
gives the water to the soldier, it is not because Sidney
actually feels the soldier's thirst, but because Sidney's sym-
pathy for the soldier's sufferings is a stronger motive than his
own thirst. Sidney's conduct, as that of the most selfish
man, is always determined by his own feelings ; but in his
case the sympathetic feelings have so great a share in de-
termining conduct, that his compassion is stroiiger than his
thirst. Normally, indeed^ we may say that the reflected feel-
ing will be weaker than the original, the feeling produced
by the thirst of another than the feeling due to my own
thirst ; but this direct sympathy may be enforced by others,
by a sense of duty, justice, and so forth, so as to have a
greater effect upon the conduct. In any case, so far as it is
operative, it must be a feeling of the agent, and does not
imply that he acts without feeling or is moved by another
man's motives, but that the feeling which is due to his
knowledge of another man's feelings is abnormally strong.
24. On the other hand, it is equally erroneous to speak of
motives as being '' selfish" in any other sense than that
already implied, simply because they are my own. This fallacy
has already been noticed. If I say, " I dislike the taste of
wine because it is unpleasant to me/' I either say the same
thing twice or I use words in different senses. I may mean
to imply that I dislike the taste because the immediate sensa-
tion is disagreeable, and to exclude the hypothesis that I dis-
ALTRUISM. 241
like the taste because I think it an indication of unwhole-
some qualities, or have some accidental association which
overpowers the pleasantness of the taste. In that case, I use
'^dislike" to include feeline^s different from the immediate sen-
sation, and '^ unpleasant ^^ to denote the sensation alone; and
so far my statement may be reasonable, though ambiguously
expressed. Now the egoist sometimes falls into a similar
ambiguity in discussing the question of altruism. To say, " I
dislike your pain," and to say, " Your pain is painful to me,"
is to say the very same thing in different words ; but the
second statement is something given as an explanation of
the first, and not as a simple inversion. The inference thus
insinuated is that I dislike your pain because it is painful to
me in some special relation. I do not dislike it as your pain,
but in virtue of some particular consequence, such, for
example, as its making you less able to render me a service.
But this is really to assert that your pain does not give me
pain except as a link in a chain of events which brings about
some other disagreeable consequence. In that case, I do not
really object to your pain so far as it is your pain, but only
by some removable and accidental consequence. What I
really dislike is that consequence, whatever it may be; and
thus the statement that I dislike your pain becomes perverted
into the assertion that I dislike something else ; or, in other
words, it is inferred that sympathy is a mere delusion.
25. This, indeed, is expressly asserted by some psychologists,
who resolve sympathetic emotions into a product of associa-
tion, and explain regard and dislike to the suffering of others
as a case of dislike to the means which survives, when we
have forgotten, for a time at least, the ends to which they
originally owed their attractiveness. If I am right in the
foregoing argument, that is a totally inadequate explanation
of the phenomenon. The pain due to the pain of others is a
direct and necessary result of the very process of thinking
about others. A process of association is no doubt implied,
in so far as it is only by association (so at least I should say) that
we can learn to interpret certain sounds, sights, and so forth,
a
242 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
as indicative of the emotions of others. But we must so
interpret them in order to reason at all about the world of
thought and feelings and in so interpreting them we learn to
sympathise. Your pain is not painful to me because I infer
that some other consequence will result to me^ but because
the thought of your pain is itself painful.
26. This^ indeed, introduces another consideration which
must be taken into account. It is, in fact, true that vour
pain can only be painful to me under a certain condition ;
the condition, namely, that I must know of it or believ^e in
it. The sympathetic emotions, in other words, are clearly
dependent upon a reasoning process, which cannot be said
of some other feelings ; and we may ask how far this may
suggest any distinction between the altruistic and the non-
altruistic emotions. It does obviously suggest a distinction
which is ofttimes of great importance, and which shows that
there is a gap between simple sympathy and fully developed
altruism. We may, in fact, admit that your pain may be
intrinsically painful to me without admitting that I, there-
fore, become altruistic in the fullest sense. Sympathy may
establish only a temporary coincidence, not a permanent
identity of interest. You and I are at one so far as it is true
that the relief of your suffering would relieve me ; but we are
not really one, and therefore my suffering may be relievable
by means which would not relieve yours. If we were in-
separably united ; if, for example, we were confined in a
single cell, so that I necessarily had your sufferings con-
stantly before my eyes, and could not get rid of the svm-
pathetic pain without getting rid of its cause, the original
pain, our interests would be so far identical, and it would
seem to be an unimportant subtlety to consider whether my
desire for your comfort were properly to be called selfish or
altruistic. The same conduct would be dictated on either
hypothesis, as our interests would Ijc virtually identical. It
is clear, however, that this identity can never be perfectly
realised. The pain given by your pain may simply induce
me to shut my eyes. The Pharisee who passed by on the
ALTRUISM. 243
other side may have disHked the sldit of the wounded
traveller as mueh as the good Samaritan. Indeed the sight
of suffering often directs irritation against the sufferer.
Dives is often angry with Lazarus for exposing his sores
before a respectable mansion ; and sometimes goes so far as
to think^ illogically perhaps^ that the beggar must have cul-
tivated his misery in order to irritate the nerves of his neigh-
bours. To give the order, "Take away that damned Lazarus/'
may be as natural an impulse as to say, '^Give him the means
of curing his ailments."
27. The fact thus stated is undeniable. It must be
observed that the limitation which it implies does not apply
to the sympathetic motives, but to every instinct of our
natures, in so far as they involve a belief in the distant or
the future. We do not wonder that a man should continue
to suffer from a disease because we see at once that he cannot
help it; but we think of a sympathetic emotion as some-
thing which can be helped. We can, we say, dismiss or
entertain a thought at our pleasure. It is painful to think
of a neighbour's disease. Then cease to think of it. The
remedy is in every one's hands. Why not adopt it ? To
this we may answer, in the first place, that, as a matter of
fact, it is very generally adopted. People reconcile them-
selves very quickly to the misfortunes of others, and pre-
cisely by ceasing to think about them. Not only so, but
in many cases the remedy is not only common, but often
irresistible, and often (though I am perhaps anticipating)
perfectly consistent with morality. I do not worry myself
about the bad government of Timbuctoo much more than I
worry mvself about the uninhabitable condition of the moon,
and for the same reason — that I can do nothing to improve
either. It would seem to be a general law that feelings
which do not or cannot produce any effect upon conduct
tend to become faint, and ultimately to disappear. And,
morally speaking, deliberate indulgence in emotions of the
painful kind at least, which bear no fruit in action,
is so much w-astc of power, and so far condemnable. If
24+ THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
I am dreaming" about the millennium or fretting about the
evils of Chinese despotism, I am throwing away energies
which might improve the pauperism of London or contribute
to the social enjoyments of my next-door neighbours. But
to say generally that I can annihilate my sympathies because
they give me pain is clearly untrue. I can only abolish
thoughts when there is a sufficient motive to lead me into a
different train of thought. I can perhaps get rid of the
thought of my neighbour's suffering more easily than I can
get rid of certain material conditions. But the simple fact
that a particular emotion is dependent for its existence upon
an intellectual state does not enable men to suppress it. I
should perhaps be happier if I could forget that a surgeon
was in the next room ready to operate upon me in an hour,
but I cannot therefore fix ray mind upon a novel. The
general who broods over possible defeat after giving his
orders, the speculator who has a foretaste of ruin which he
cannot avoid, are on the highroad to suicide. Yet the
actual pain, added to the knowledge that the reflection only
aggravates the evil, leaves men unable to distract their
minds, or to refrain from drinking the bitter cup by antici-
pation as well as in reality. The sympathetic emotions are
equally potent. When a blow is hanging over my familv,
when I see symptoms of deadly and incurable disease in wife
and child, I cannot dispel my melancholy, however clearly I
know it to be useless. It must be added that, although I
have spoken of sympathy with pain, partly because it is the
keenest and most conspicuous phenomenon, it is also true
that great part of our pleasure is dependent upon sympathy,
and that the two are inseparably associated. If I am to live
with my friends, I must share both their joys and sorrows;
and the real question which I have to decide is not whether
I will drop a particular pain, but whether I will or will not
live the wider or the narrower existence. If I can abstract
my mind from thoughts of danger to my wife and child, I
also must give up all the enjoyment which is involved in the
close companionship.
ALTRUISM. 245
28. The true statement would therefore recognise the fact
that emotions are inevitable, whether sympathetic or not,
in proportion not simply to the pain and pleasure at the
moment, but to the intensity and to the degree in which
they form part of my world — the world which is constituted
not by the mere sensations, but by the whole system of
thoughts and emotions sustained by the framework of per-
ception. I can no more strike out at will a fragment of the
world which is recos^nised throutrh the intellect, than of that
which is directly revealed through the sensations. The two
form a continuous whole, which is only modified in a sub-
ordinate degree by the shrinking from pain or the absorption
in pleasure. An emotion closely bound up with some vivid
sensation or perception from which I cannot free myself
is so far the more inevitable. This is equally true whether
sympathetic feeling is present or absent. As a fact, it is
generally easier to get rid of a sick friend than of a tooth-
ache; but the pain of suffering with him may generate the
desire to relieve his sufferings rather than the desire to forget
them, if his life is so bound up with my own that the selfish
remedy is in fact impossible under existing conditions, or if
the action of desertion appears to me as so repulsive in itself
that the pain of the sympathy is overpowered by the pain-
fulness of actino; badlv.
29. This consideration shows that the degree in which our
happiness is associated with the happiness of others is closer
than we might at first sight suppose. It may be necessary^
to my happiness that I should relieve Lazarus, not only
when he is actually present, or when I foresee some ill con-
sequences to me from his misfortunes, but also when I am,
for any reason, unable to dismiss the thought of his suffer-
ings. In many cases this may be impossible without such
a dislocation of my whole system of thought and feeling as
may, for some reason, be impossible. But we cannot yet
say that my conduct is altruistic until wc know what is the
condition which makes it impossible for me to separate my
interests from those of the other. I am still, it mav be
246 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
ur2;ed, as selfish in desiring relief from the vicarious as from
the original pain. I desire a fire as warming and a friend's
happiness as cheering ; the desire for warmth could not
prompt a desire for a fire which could not warm — say, a
fire in the moon — except by a mistaken inference or an
arbitrary association of ideas ; and similarly it may be said
that sympathy can only prompt the desire for a friend's
happiness in so far as it cheers me. That is to say, it is still
my own happiness which I desire. The association of my
own happiness with that of my friend's is still extrinsic. I
am sympathetic but not truly altruistic. If and wherever
they can be separated, therefore, I shall be decided simply
by the consideration of the consequences to me. Wherever
it is possible to obtain relief from the sympathetic pain by
abolishing Lazarus instead of making him happy, I shall
abolish him. This, it may be said, remains equally true
whether the tie which binds me to Lazarus is such as does
or does not involve conditions dependent upon any intel-
lectual inferences and beliefs. I shall always, in any case,
prefer that course of conduct which is possible (and that of
course is always a condition), and which promises the greatest
happiness.
IV. The Rule of Cofidud.
30. This is the question, then, which must be discussed in
order to bring out the real meaning of the question at issue.
So far, in fact, as we have hitherto gone, we have not recog-
nised any difference between the conduct which does and that
which docs not imply the presence of sympathetic motive.
In both cases there is a subjective and an objective condition ;
in both cases I am prompted by my own feelings to do what
is pleasantest to myself. I do so equally whether I drink
the water myself or give it to the sufferer by my side.
Where, then, is the difference ? Since it cannot be in the
fact that in one case I have and in the other I have not
feelings, it can only be in the different law of the feeling.
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 247
In both cases I do what makes me happy^ but that which
makes me happy is very different in the two cases. A desire
for warmth can only prompt a desire for the fire which
warms, and a desire for the happiness of another only the
happiness which cheers. The statement is the precise equi-
valent of the other, if we keep strictly to the same meaning.
But when we ask what will be the law of the feeling, we see
at once that there is an important difference. What happi-
ness will cheer me ? Any happiness in which I believe and
which I can realise. Time and distance have no significance
to me except as diminishing the vividness of the impression.
If it is painful to me to realise your suffering when I see the
knife cutting your flesh, it is painful to me in a certain
proportion to think of the same torture to you in a distant
region. As non-sympathetic, I can desire only the fire
which warms me and which will warm me ; as sympathetic,
I desire the fire which warms you in the arctic regions or
provides warmth for a distant posterity. My feelings are still
my own in either case, but in the latter case they may prompt
me to conduct — such, for example, as economy in fuel for
the sake of my grandchildren's hearths — from which I shall
derive no benefit. Hence, so far as sympathy is real, it obeys
a law which has no necessary reference to any future state
of my own ; it may operate powerfully even in opposition to
any prospect of my happiness to come. The present pain is
the reflection of pain which depends upon conditions which
have no definite or uniform relation to my future happiness,
nor, therefore, to the total happiness which I contemplate
from a given course of conduct.
31. With these explanations we may come to the direct
issue. Admitting that my conduct must always be con-
ditioned by my feelings — by my aversion to painful and
attraction to pleasurable states — are my feelings necessarily
determined by the balance of anticipated pain and pleasure ?
Does the conviction that a certain course of conduct will
obtain for me the maximum of pleasure determine me neces-
sarily to adopt it ? Does that action always make me
248 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
happiest which promises most happiness to me? If these
statements are mutually equivalent^ it would seem that
sympathy must be an illusion, and that I can really desire
another man's happiness only so far as it is a means to my
own happiness. I hold that the inference is wrong, and that
the two statements which are regarded by the egoist as
identical are really incompatible ; and this, I think, is implied
in the foregoing arguments. But the point is of such critical
importance that I must try to bring out the contrast more
clearly.
33. The problem, as I have said, is shortly, What is the
" law " of motive ? May it always be described as a desire
for the greatest happiness of the agent? Let us ask first
whether it can ever be so described. The unreasoning
animal acts from blind instinct; his judgments, so far as he
judges, are limited to the immediate facts ; he judges or sees
this to be a fire, that to be a devouring animal, and so forth ;
but he has no prevision of the remoter consequences, and is
therefore neither selfish nor unselfish, for we can only predi-
cate selfishness where there is at once a knowledge and a
disregard of the feelings of others. A distinction, however,
may already be made in so far as he possesses instincts which
are in consequence, though not in intention, profitable to
others. Animals, as I have sufficiently said, possess instincts,
such as motherly love, non-essential, and in many cases, and
even in the average case, prejudicial to the individual, and
yet essential to the race. These instincts, therefore, must be
developed as the race thrives, and since the animal has no
prevision or only the most rudimentary prevision of conse-
quences, he will act without conscious regard to the con-
sequences. If, in the next place, we suppose the animal to
become enlightened so far as to be able to trace remoter
consequences — or, in other words, to contemplate the distant
and the future as well as the immediate — but without any
correlative extension of sympathies, the result would be a
limitation of these instincts. The instinct, indeed, would
not be abolished ; pleasure might still be derived, for example.
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 249
from the exercise of the maternal functions ; but such a
pleasure would be in the same category as any of the purely
sensual pleasures. A perception that drinking brandy is
mischievous — that is, productive of future suffering — does
not annihilate the pleasure of brandy-drinking, but it tends
to limit the indulgence by introducing the foretaste of misery
to come. The instincts of the non-sympathetic agent would
in the same way be limited so far as their operation was
normally productive of unpleasant consequences ; and, as
a matter of fact, we may observe frequent exemplifications
of this principle. In some societies the unwillingness -of
women to accept the burdens of maternity is proportioned
to their intelligence ; the more thoughtless continue to act
upon animal instincts which involve ultimate self-sacrifices,
\vhilst the more thoughtful restrain the instinct from purely
selfish considerations.
^^. That this, indeed, cannot be the normal case follows
from what has been said ; for, if I am right, the intellectual
development must normally coincide with a development of
the sympathies, and whatever deflections from this coinci-
dence may be possible will be limited by the operation of
our general principle ; for if the increased reasoning power
meant a diminution of social qualities, the intellect would
exercise a disintegrating and enfeebling influence. The
more reasoning society would tend to be supplanted by that
which may be called lower so far as less intelligent, but
which would be superior in so far as better fitted for the
conditions of life. The perception of utility would in such
a case, as I have said, be in conflict with the general con-
ditions of utility. If cleverness carried with it, or so far as
it carries with it, inferior sociability, it is or would be a
mischievous factor, and would tend to be eliminated : the
world would be to the stupid. We may say, therefore, that
the intellectual development must at least carry with it
somethino; which counterbalances this anti-social tendency.
In some way, then, this anti-social tendency must be
counterbalanced, and this may be done to some extent
250 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
without assuming any increase of sympathy, for the enhght-
ened instinct would reveal not merely the disadvantages but
the advantages of acting for others, and, though it would
discourage self-sacrifice, would encourage such action for the
good of others as would bear fruit in good for the agent.
The difficulty of the question depends upon the intricate
intermixture of these intrinsic and extrinsic motives to
altruistic conduct, and we must of course admit with the
egoist that the extrinsic motives to social conduct exist, and
are of great importance, though we deny that they explain
the whole phenomenon ; and this is the point which has to
be made clear.
34. Now the general principle, which may be called the
fundamental axiom of prudence, the rule, namely, ''Act so as
to obtain the maximum of happiness," does not, as we see,
hold strictly even of those actions in which there is no admix-
ture of altruistic motive. It cannot, therefore, have that
absolute or a priori character which is sometimes claimed for
it. In order that it may be approximately verified, a con-
dition is requisite which may or may not be fulfilled. The
conduct must always be determined in this, as in all cases, by
the actually existing feelings. These feelings, again, may
include a foretaste of future pleasures and pains. But, as
a general rule, the influence of the future pleasure is less
than the influence of the immediate pleasure, the degree in
which it is less depending upon the constitution of the agent.
For the unreasoning agent the future is simply non-existent;
but even for the reasoning agent it does not necessarily
follow that conduct will correspond to calculation. If he
knows to a certainty that a present sacrifice of pleasure will
be repaid in kind by pleasures to come, he may still be
unwilling to make the sacrifice — a case which is daily ex-
emplified. He does not care, we may say, for the future self
as nmch as for the present self. It is true, however, that, so
far as he reasons, he tends to regard the future as well as the
present, and therefore, we may say, approximates to an adop-
tion of the prudential axiom. 71ie more reasonable he is, the
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 251
closer he comes to it ; but it still represents an ideal limit
never actually realised, and implying a corresponding
balance of passions which may be more or less perfectly
achieved. And even the approximation is possible in virtue
of the normal conditions of life. It is only in rare cases that
we have to make the kind of choice suggested between an
isolated pleasure in the future or one in the present. If I
had a fixed number of cakes, I might ask whether I should
obtain the maximum pleasure by eating all to-day or leaving
part for to-morrow. The answer would be determined by
the relative power of the immediate appetite and the fore-
taste ; and the stronger my reasoning, the greater the proba-
bility that the perception of the maximum happiness would
represent the governing motive. As a rule, however, the case
is simpler. What is pleasantest now is also most productive
of pleasure. To eat my dinner to-day is normally a condition
towards eating a dinner to-morrow. My appetites have
already been regulated when I set up as a reasoning being.
Each had a place in my system, and a force proportioned to
its normal utility. The appetite for food already approxi-
mately corresponds to the need for food ; that is, to the
importance of the function in the whole system of life. To
satisfy the appetite is therefore to satisfy the conditions of
health, and therefore of maximum enjoyment. The reason
finds the problem already approximately solved, and has
only to work out a closer approximation. It starts with
instincts already harmonised, not antagonistic; and there-
fore in fulfilling the dictates of pleasure I am already act-
ing with an unconscious reference to the needs of my whole
life. The instincts have been moulded by the conditions,
though they do not consciously attend to them. What is
true (as I may note in passing) of the balance between the
primary instincts which do not involve sympathy holds true
equally when sympathy is introduced. Normally it is prudent
to be virtuous, a point which will have to be considered more
fully hereafter.
^^. Meanwhile we may say that, as a rule — leaving the
252 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
question of sympathy out of account — an increase of reason
implies an approximation to the prudential maxim ; that is
to say, that, as a fact, the working of the instincts or feelings
which dictates conduct approximately coincides with the
prevision as to the maximum of happiness obtainable by the
agent. This, however, is not an a priori principle, depen-
dent or incapable of being denied without contradiction,
but a deduction from the general conditions of life and the
mode of development of the faculties ; and the closeness of
the approximation depends upon extrinsic conditions. The
bare foresight that I am sacrificing the maximum of pleasure
to an immediate pleasure certainly does not make yielding
to temptation impossible. It only makes it unreasonable
in a sense in which unreason is thoroughly possible. I may
know that I should gain a greater amount of happiness if
the door of a public-house were locked ; but the knowledge
is not equivalent to locking the door. Still, so far — that is,
excluding all question of sympathy — we accept the maxim as
expressing the general law of the operative motive in reason-
able beings in proportion as they are reasonable. In all
cases the conduct depends upon the actual mechanism of
motive, but that mechanism is so arranged that it is possible
for the immediate conduct to act in conformity with the
formula.
;^6. We now have to introduce the sympathetic motives,
and to inquire whether the same formula is applicable or
approximately applicable. The sympathetic feeling, again,
is one of which it is the law that your pain is therefore pain-
ful to me. The reasoning agent, in so far as not altruistic,
suffers from the knowledge that he will suffer hereafter, and,
so far as altruistic, he suffers from the knowledge that some
one else is suffering or is about to suffer. And, again, I have
already remarked that sympathetic motives are not necessarily
contrasted with others in respect cither of their consequences
or of the fact that they are still feelings of the agent. The
sympathetic motives, so to speak, always develop within the
framework already provided by the other motives^ and the
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 253
two arc often inextricably blended. The external bond of
maternity, implying no affection of the feelings of the
spring, develops into the closer union in which the sympa-
thetic feeling becomes predominant, and both forms may
persist at any stage of development. The mother may still
admire the child as she admires a flower, independently, that
is, of any recognition of its consciousness, and this sentiment
may blend indissolubly with the same maternal love ; and,
again, the non-sympathetic feeling may prompt to a virtual
self-sacrifice. A passion for beauty regarded as a purely
external quality may lead to imprudence as well as the
higher motive of personal affection ; and, in both cases, again,
self-sacrifice is impossible in the sense of action against the
predominant motive. Maternal love is still a feeling of the
mother, and therefore we have only to suppose it strong
enough to make self-sacrifice in a given case impossible. For
the pang of inflicting injury upon the child might be so great
that no other pleasure of which the mother is capable could
repay it. In this case, then, it might be urged that the
highest self-devotion was no devotion at all, for it is still
obedience to the mother's own feelings. In other words, if we
regard consequences, the least sympathetic action may imply
self-sacrifice, whilst the most sympathetic may apparently be
still selfish. This confusion follows if we attempt to base
our distinction upon the bare fact, common to all actions,
that they have both subjective and objective conditions.
37. Let us return, then, to the other problem, what is the
law of the two classes of motives ? Omitting the sympa-
thetic emotions, we have seen that the reasonable agent
approximates to an acceptance of the prudential axiom.
Supposing, then, a case in which the sympathetic feelings do
not come into play — as, for example, a case in which we are
concerned with lifeless objects alone — the maxim can be
applied without difficulty. No conflicting motive opposes
itself to the rejection of any course from which we antici-
pate a balance of unhappiness. We may calculate badly or
we may be misled by association. We sometimes acquire a
254 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
kind of sentiment in regard even to inanimate objects, mis-
led, it may be, by a kind of childish anthropomorphism which
leads us to treat them as though they had feehngs, and to
preserve them even at some cost of happiness to ourselves.
But so far as our action implies any assumption of this kind,
we feel it to be unreasonable, and it tends to disappear as we
become more reasonable. We suppress it if we wish to act
consistently. We approach more closely to the only assign-
able rule of conduct in such cases, that which prescribes action
for a maximum of happiness. Since by hypothesis we are
the only persons concerned, we are the only persons whose
happiness can be reasonably taken into account. If the
maxim applies unreasonably, we must treat every case
in the same way. The mother must be ready to abandon
her child whenever she anticipates more misery than
happiness from the connection. This is not only the sole
rule when we have to deal with material objects, but it
is also the rule in so far as we treat sentient beings
without regard to their feelings. We throw aside shoes
which hurt our feet as soon as we can get better shoes.
We may consider human beings as tools, and treat them in
the same way. We may discharge an old servant who can
no longer do his work without regard to his consequent
starvation. If we had no sympathy, this w^ould be the sole
rule of action. The same rule, again, is possible in regard
to objects (if we may call them objects) to which we do not
attribute actual existence. We derive much pleasure from
sharing in imagination the sorrows and joys of fictitious
persons. We may follow the histories of Juliet or of Jeanie
Deans with an interest not differing in kind from that which
we feel for real human beings ; and in this case (assuming this
pleasure to be our sole motive for reading) the only rational
principle will be to dismiss the fictitious persons from our
thoughts, so far as we are able to do it, directly the imagina-
tion gives us more pain than pleasure. The more reasonable
we are, the more consistently we shall obey this principle,
though, of course, habit and accidental associations often
THE RULE OF CONDUCT.
-33
make our observance of it uncertain. And here, again, it is
possible and common to act in the same way in regard to
human beings — to treat them as mere dreams which pass
from existence as soon as they pass beyond our sphere of
observation. We read habitually of events in a distant
country as we read of events in a novel, with little more
belief in their objective existence, that is, in their existence
independently of our consciousness. Too often we treat even
our friends as old kings treated their fools — as sources of
amusement, to be annihilated for us as soon as they cease to
be amusing. To do so is to treat the object as though it
were unreal or existed solely in relation to us.
38. The difference, then, between the two cases is, in this
respect, sharply marked, and corresponds to the principles
already laid down. To believe in the objective existence of
anvthing is to believe that it exists independently of my
feelings — to believe that it is still there when I shut the eyes
of my body or of my mind. To believe in the existence of
a sentient being is to believe that it has feelings which may
persist when I am not aware of them. A real belief, again,
implies that at the moment of belief I have representative
sensations or emotions corresponding to those which imply
the actual presence of the object. Again, a material object
has an interest only so far as it is a condition of some kind
of feeling, and, when the sympathies are not concerned, of
some feeling of my own, whether implying or not implying
any foretaste of the future. To take any interest in any
material object, therefore, except in this relation, is unrea-
sonable, as it is unreasonable to desire food which cannot
nourish or fire which cannot warm. I want something
which has by hypothesis no relation to my wants. The same
is true of the sentient object so long, and only so long, as I
do not take its sentience into account. But to take the
sentience into account is to sympathise, or at least the
svmpathy is implied in the normal or only possible case.
The only condition necessary for the sympathy to exist, and
to be capable therefore of becoming a motive, is that I
256 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
should really believe in the object, and have, therefore,
representative feelings. To believe in it is to feel for it, to
have sympathies which correspond to my representations,
less vivid as the object is more distant and farther from the
sphere of my possible influence, but still real and therefore
effective motives. Systematically to ignore these relations,
then, is to act as I should act if I were an egoist in the ex-
tremest sense, and held that there was no consciousness in
the world except my own. But really to carry out this
principle is to be an idiot, for an essential part of the world
as interesting to me is constituted by the feelings of other
conscious agents, and I can only ignore their existence at
the cost of losing all the intelligence which distinguishes me
from the lower animal.
39. What, then, is the law of the motives when the in-
fluence of sympathy is admitted ? Can it still be said that
I shall always act for my own greatest happiness ? That, as
we have seen, must be approximately the law of motive for
the non-sympathetic animal, inasmuch as his conduct is
governed by his feelings, and those feelings can only be dis-
tino-uished bv includins:; or excluding; a foretaste of feelings
to come, but still of his own. The only elements in the
problem are therefore the feelings of the agent himself,
including the anticipations of his future state, and I have
suggested reasons for thinking that the correlation must be
such that his perceptions of maximum happiness will natur-
ally coincide with the strongest motive. When we intro-
duce the sympathetic feelings, it still remains as true as
before that the agent is governed by his own feelings, but
the law is no longer stateable in the same way. It is true,
in mathematical phrase, that the conduct of the agent is a
function of his feelings, but some of the feelings are them-
selves functions of independent variables, namely, the feelings
of others, and we therefore cannot deduce the law of conduct
from the agent considered by himself. The colour of a
reflecting body depends upon the intimate structure of the
body, as much as the colour of the non-reflecting body, but
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 257
the law of the colour will in one case necessarily include,
and in the other necessarily exclude, a reference to the sur-
rounding bodies. This, as I take it, gives the true and only
tenable line of distinction. The sympathetic being, that is,
becomes, in virtue of his sympathies, a constituent part of a
larger organisation. He is no more intelligible by himself
alone than the limb is in all its properties intelligible w^ith-
out reference to the body. Each part of the body must of
course be governed by its own properties, but they work in
such intimate connection with the whole organism, that they
are only intelligible, or, in other words, we can only obtain
the law of their action, when we take the whole body into
account. This is equally true of the being which has become
part of the social organism. It is true, we may say, in
respect of the direct sympathies which bind him to some
other person, so that his friend's joys and sorrows are also
his own. It is true, again, whenever such sympathies give
rise to a corporate spirit, to the domestic bonds which unite
families, the patriotism of states, or the military spirit of an
army. It is equally true of those instincts, the sense of hon-
our, and so forth, which are generated by the social factor, and
which, though they do not imply the presence of any special
organisation, are essential to the constitution of the social
tissue. All such instincts are products, we must suppose, of
sympathy; their growth and strength imply a capacity in
each of feeling for others ; and being accessible to impulses
not implying changes in the physical organisation, they are
so worked into the most essential modes of thought and
feeling that they must count as underlying and primary in-
stincts, and any personal element has been eliminated by the
very process of propagation. Though feelings of the indi-
vidual, their law can only be determined by reference to the
general social conditions.
40. This, again, enables us to state in what sense the
prudential axiom must now be limited. To become reason-
able is (to my mind, at least) to act on general principles,
and to act consistently; and this, as I have said, includes
R
258 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the condition that a statement of the real cause of my action
should equally assign the reason of my actions. The law
which my feelings actually follow must coincide with the
principle which commends itself to my reason. In order,
then, that a being provided with social instincts should act
reasonably, it is necessary, not that he should take that
course of conduct which gives the greatest chances of happi-
ness, but that which gives the greatest chance of happiness
to that organisation of which he forms a constituent part.
Certain external conditions were necessary, as I have said,
to the adoption even of the prudential axiom — the condition,
namely, that the immediate pleasure should not be normally
inconsistent with the greatest sum of pleasure ; and it is of
course still more obvious that in the other case the weak
and intermittent sympathies of the less social man should
not be naturally out of harmony with the purely non-
sympathetic instincts. As a rule, the instincts of the social
organism must be closely coincident with those of the
individual ; in fighting for his tribe the savage must be
fighting for himself. Even in the highest societies both
reason and sympathy are feeble enough, but every extension
of reasoning power implies a wider and closer identification
of self with others, and therefore a greater tendency to merge
the prudential in the social axiom as a first principle of con-
duct. In the highest conceivable stage, a large part of con-
duct is still prompted by motives in which the sympathies are
not concerned, just as in the highest organisms each organ
has some properties which have no reference to the organic
union. But this, as has been sufficiently said, implies no in-
compatibility except in particular cases, and it is equally true
that so soon as I become sympathetic, even in the slightest
dco:ree, and thcrebv accessible to the social instincts, the
purely prudential maxim ceases to give the true law of
motive, and therefore of conduct, in all the cases in which
the sympathies or the derivative instincts are called into
action.
41. The explanation may be completed by considering the
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 259
prudential turn given to the facts upon the egoistic hypo-
thesis. That hypothesis starts from the theory, which I have
criticised upon different grounds, that reasoned action means
action for an end. I admit, of course, the truth impHed in
this statement, that in reasoned conduct every action is
regarded not merely in isolation but as part of a system,
and therefore includes more or less conscious reference to
the future as well as to the present ; but I have further
remarked that this must not be so interpreted as to imply
that the subjective condition of conduct can ever be any-
thing else than the present feeling. As soon as we slide
into that fallacious statement, we adopt the egoistic formula,
for in that case the dependent or identical proposition that
the conduct of an agent is determined by his own feelings,
since otherwise it would not be his own conduct, is expressed
by saying that his end must be his own happiness. Even
when we have to do with the sympathetic feelings, of which
it is the primary characteristic, from their most elementary
form, that they reflect the feelings of others, they have to be
forced into conformity with this formula ; and we therefore
have to assume that in all cases of sympathetic feeling there
is an egoistic end, which is dropped from consciousness
at the moment of action. This, upon my theory, is to
admit that all such conduct is unreasonable, or that it would
tend to become impossible in proportion as our reason,
and therefore our prevision of future consequences, became
stronger. This argument, however, is sometimes met by
accepting the apparent paradox, and declaring that a man
may be the happier by taking for his "end^' that which is
not the ultimate end. This, indeed, would still leave any
case of real self-sacrifice unreasonable ; for the advantage,
whatever it may be, of attending exclusively to the imme-
diate end cannot make it reasonable to pursue that end at
the expense of the ultimate end ; but it may be taken to
explain why, in point of fact, men may find pleasure in
pursuing the good of others when they anticipate no ultimate
good to themselves.
26o THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
42. Now this statement certainly expresses an important
psychological truth, which may be worth considering in many
cases. It is no doubt true that the pleasure of any emo-
tional state is in proportion to its intensity, and therefore to
the exclusion of all other emotions for the time. We may
put this into a paradoxical shape if we say that our know-
ledge of any feeling is proportional to its intensity, and yet
that the greater the intensity the less we can know of it.
This is only a way of putting the fact that the presentative
knowledge excludes for the time the representative, I know
anything the more I know its relations to other things, and
I know a feeling as I know the conditions under which it
arises. I know it, again, the better as I have felt it more
keenly, but at the moment the intense feeling excludes all
reflection, and therefore its intensity suppresses knowledge
at the instant, though it is a condition of knowledge when
I come to reflect. In the same way we may hold that when
a man is acting for any end whatever, he may gain it more
effectually by not thinking about it at the time. If I aim
at a mark in order to win a prize, I must not think of the
prize whilst I am aiming, for to think of the prize is to allow
a number of distracting representations to interfere with my
absorption in the immediate action, and they may be equally
distracting at the moment, whether they are in some way
connected or not connected with the action, whether they
are thoughts of the cheers which are to greet my success, or
thoughts of some entirely different character. Exclusion of
everything irrelevant and extrinsic, absolute concentration
upon a single end, is a general condition of successful action,
even when that special end is part of a larger whole, and
would not be desired unless it contributed to something else.
43. This is clear enough, and it holds good of course of
many altruistic actions. I may do good to a man in order
to attain a reward ; I shoot at a mark to gain the prize ;
I cure a patient to get the fee. And, in point of fact, I
think that, as a rule, the mind generally "flickers" — that it
runs along a chain of consequences, stopping sometimes at
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 261
one point, sometimes at another, dwelling upon the final
success or the intermediate struggle, and therefore taking
various, though, so far as it is reasonable, consistent or
mutually dependent ends. But this statement does not in
the least aflfect the reality of each of the motives called into
play. I have no right to select the last state anticipated,
and to say that this alone is the essential motive, even though
other motives taken by themselves may be insufficient with-
out it. Every part of the foreseen consequences has its effect
as much as the ostensible end. I aim at the mark to get the
prize; that is, if it were not for the prize I should not
aim. But it is equally true that the desire for the prize
would not make me aim if the act of aiming were itself
disagreeable in a certain degree. Nor, again, could I dismiss
from my mind all thoughts of the end, and therefore I could
not fulfil the necessary condition of success unless the action
were agreeable up to a certain point. It must be in itself
tolerable, or I should have to call up a thought of extrinsic
consequences, and so far to distract my mind; and there-
fore the necessity of "disengagement" proves nothing against
the reality of each motive, which has for the moment to be
(if I may say so) self-supporting. On the contrary, in order
that it may be self-supporting, the motive must be real.
44. This is equally true in the case of the benevolent
action. The physician is not benevolent enough to cure me
unless he expects a fee ; but unless he is really kind, unless,
that is, he has a real sympathy for my suffering, he must be
always thinking of his fee, which is a very different thing.
He cannot be really benevolent so long as he regards his
patient simply as an instrument upon which he is to operate
for the sake of pay, without real interest in its feelings. I
need not ask whether he will or will not be a better physician
for being benevolent or not; though one may perhaps admit
that on some occasions he will do well to suspend both his
sympathies and his desire of fees, and to full back upon the
simple pleasure of skilful energy. But in any case, if he has
to forget his fee for the time, some other genuine motive
262 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
must take its place; and though the desire to reheve is only
one of the possible substitutes^ it must be real so far as it
has to produce any influence. And a real sympathy, so far
as it exists, is at once a feeling which does not conform to
the purely prudential axiom. He cannot be so good even
as a physician unless he is accessible to motives which may
carry him beyond the area of professional success. The
whole argument, in fact, merely comes to this, that in the
complex system of actions which constitute the active life of
any reasonable being, the suppression of any one motive would
clearly involve the alteration of others; our sympathies would
often be stifled if it were not for the co-operation of motives
of a diff'erent kind, and our non-sympathetic feelings would
be equally limited in their range if such modes of action
would not operate by motives which rest essentially upon
sympathetic feeling.
45. And this suggests a remark which will have to be
developed hereafter. The difference between the sympathetic
and the non-sympathetic feelings is a difference, as we have
seen, in their law or in the fundamental axiom which they
embody. When the egoist, therefore, maintains that it is
paradoxical to say that a man can be the happier for aiming
at something which is not his own happiness, he means that
a man cannot be the happier for sensibility to motives which
obey a different law from that of the simple desire for his
own happiness. Now, from what has gone before, it is plain
that this paradox has really no meaning for us. It is true
that the man acquires sympathies which may deviate from
the law of prudence, and which may therefore involve
self-sacrifice. Even the non- sympathetic instincts may,
as I have argued, involve self-sacrifice, and self-sacrifice is
clearly not essential to the sympathetic instincts ; it is only
an incident which has more or less importance according as
the interests of the society conflict more or less with those
of the individual. If and in so far as this conflict does not
exist, there is no paradox in supposing that the sympathetic
is happier than the non-sympathetic being. He differs in
THE RULE OF CONDUCT. 263
having acquired new sensibilities ; he is not the same man
acting from different motives, which is, in fact, a contradic-
tory assumption, but a diflferent being with a difflirent set of
faculties ; he has gained a fresh capacity which has fresh
advantages as well as fresh dangers. It has indeed this plain
advantage, that he cannot develop as a reasonable agent
without it. To be reasonable, he must be sympathetic ; to
be thoroughly and systematically selfish, he must be an idiot;
or, in other words, we may say that he has made a bargain,
in virtue of which he makes a common stock of pains and
pleasures with the whole society to which he belongs, and
acquires all the new advantages which are dependent upon
the social union. We shall have to consider more fully
whether the bargain be a good one or a bad one ; but we
have at least no a prioi'i right to say that it is bad ; for if it
carries with it an obligation to occasional self-sacrifice, we
cannot tell whether the obligation is or is not oppressive on
the whole till we can tell how it operates in fact and what
are the correlative advantages which it implies.
( 264 )
CHAPTER VII.
MERIT.
I. The Conception of Merit.
I. Altruism is, as I have argued, the faculty essentially
necessary to moral conduct. Were it not a reality, virtue
would be a name and society an impossibility. But, as I
have also said, the altruistic sentiment is not to be identified
with morality. I can only be an efficient member of any
society so far as I can identify myself with others. As altru-
istic, I can imbibe the corporate spirit of any social organism,
and become absorbed in my regiment, my church, my family,
or my club; but the sentiment itself thus generated is some-
thino- different from the altruism of which it is a product.
The elementarv sympathy must be regulated and disciplined
in order that it may give rise to the truly moral sentiments.
Virtues which belong to the type of truthfulness and justice
generally implv a severe restraint of the immediate sympa-
thetic impulses. A hatred of lying is a virtue, because the
typical character, as determined by the conditions of social
vitality, includes thorough trustworthiness. But at any given
moment the love of truth may dictate conduct which, at first
sight, at any rate, is contrary to that dictated by the love
of our neighbours. Hence virtue implies more than simple
altruism or benevolence, namelv, the elaboration and regula-
tion of the sympathetic character which takes place through
the social factor.
2. The recognition of this leads to a corresponding recogni-
tion of another aspect of the same process. As altruistic or
sympathetic, we arc not only sensitive to the pains and
THE CONCEPTION OF MERIT. 265
pleasures of other?, but we catch the contagion of their
complex sentiments. We share their prejudices and passions,
their love?, hatreds, and modes of estimating men and things.
We come to love and hate our own qualities, with a love
and hatred reflected from the feelings of our neighbours,
and transmuted in this case into remorse or self-complacency.
As altruistic we are fitted into the social medium and inoc-
culated with its characteristic sentiments. Hence we have,
amongst other things, the complex sentiment of moral ap-
proval and disapproval. If virtue were identical with altru-
ism, we might identify moral approval with gratitude. It
would be simply a case of loving the man who does us a
good turn, because his action implies love for us or for our
fellows. But this seems to be an inadequate account of the
peculiar sentiment which is elaborated in any complex social
structure. The approval of which virtue is the object requires
to be explained, as well as the motives of which virtue is the
fruit. In both cases we have to consider sentiments which
imply the existence of a true altruism, but which also imply
some modification of the altruistic feelings.
3. Hence arise certain problems which require discussion,
and which take various forms according to the aspect under
which we regard them. The moral code itself, according to
the principles hitherto expounded, is briefly a statement of
the conditions of social vitality. A man is said to do his dufi/
when he obeys this code. He has mei'lt in so far as he obeys
the law; or, according to some theories, he has merit if he
exceeds it, and demerit if he falls short of it. He is under an
obligation, again, to obey the law, as merit implies the fulfil-
ment of the obligation. He is virtuous so far as his character
secures that his conduct shall be invariably in' conformity
with the law; and the conscience is the feeling or group of
feelings which make conformity pleasant and a want of con-
formity painful to him. He is morally responsible for the
duties which he is able to perform. These various phrases
are of course closely connected. To explain one, therefore,
is, in fact, necessarily to explain the other. In some cases we
266 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
think primarily of the social sentiment of approval and dis-
approval, and in the others of the motives by which the agent
is actuated in virtuous conduct. Conduct is meritorious
when regarded as giving a claim upon the approval of others,
and is virtuous when we think of it as implying a disposition
of spontaneous conformity to the moral law. There is the
same kind of difference between the words virtue and merit
as there is between the words reason and argument. A reason
is an argument when it is applied to convince others, and
an argument is a reason when it supplies the ground of the
individual conduct. But there are certain difficulties which
are specially connected with each aspect; they are so far dis-
tinct that they can be separately discussed, and perhaps it does
not much matter in what order we take them. I propose
first to discuss the problems connected with the theory of
merit, and by showing how the conception of merit depends
upon that of virtue we shall clear the ground for the final
question as to the nature of virtuous motive and conscience.
I take for granted for the present, that intrinsically virtuous
motive is possible ; that is, that a man may be so constituted
as to obey the moral law unconditionally. I say, then, that
he is meritorious in so far as he is thus constituted, and I shall
try to explain certain fallacies which obscure this part of the
subject.
4. Merit, in the first place, clearly implies a close con-
nection with virtue. We may assume that, ceteris paribus, it
is proportioned to virtue. That man is the most meritorious
who, under the same conditions, is most virtuous, and that con-
duct the most meritorious which requires the greatest virtue for
its performance. Merit, in the next place, seems to carry a
reference to some reward. So far as meritorious, a man has
a claim upon the approval of his fellows or (upon some
systems) a claim upon the justice of his Maker. It is even
supposed, in some superstitions, that he can obtain a claim
which may be passed to the credit of others, llie genesis,
then, of the theory seems to be simple. So far as we share
the moral sentiment, we wish that virtue should be stimu-
THE CONCEPTION OF MERIT. 267
lated, and therefore that it should be rewarded. The moral
rule begins, as I have argued, in the external form ; it is
stated, " Do this," instead of, " Be this." So long as it is in
this form we need not attend to the motives of the agent.
The conduct is approved simj)ly because it is useful, and it
is equally useful whatever his motives. I desire that a man
should not cut my throat, and may care little whether he is
restrained by a fear of the gallows or of hell, or by a desire
of pavment, or by sympathy for me. As the moral senti-
ment develops, I come to approve of the motives which imply
true morality, or of such a dislike to cutting my throat as
is founded not upon the extrinsic and separable motive, but
upon the intrinsic and inseparable motives of humanity and
good will. But this development does not imply that the old
motive is superseded, only that it is less prominent. The
fear of punishment may be operative or capable of being
called into activity. I still desire that my throat should not
be cut, and therefore that the gallows should remain appli-
cable in case of need, though I desire also that the case may
occur as seldom as possible, and that men may be actuated as
much as possible by the motives which are opposed to murder
as such, irrespectively of possible penal consequences, and so
far as I make this distinction, I recognise a difference in
the merit of the two classes of persons. The man, I say, is
meritorious who does from an intrinsic motive what another
man will do only from an extrinsic motive. The villain
onlv dislikes hantrino; and murder so far as it leads to hano:-
ing; the benevolent man objects to murder whether it has or
has not bad consequences to himself. I consider, therefore,
that he has a certain claim upon me and upon society at large,
inasmuch as he has done for nothino: what another man
will only do for pay, or has refrained spontaneously from
doing something from which another man can only be re-
strained by threats and coercion.
5. The principle so far seems to be simple enough, though,
like many simple principles, it leads to some intricate questions.
If we wish well to virtue, it is suggested, we must wish virtue
268 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
to be rewarded, and vet with the certaintv of reward virtue
disappears. A inau saves my life out of sheer benevolence,
and I reward him out of sheer gratitude. But if he had a
right to be rewarded, or could count upon reward as a
certainty, he would so far cease to be virtuous. He would
be saving my life from avarice instead of benevolence. So far
as I stimulate the extrinsic, I deduct from the intrinsic motive.
The contrast of course appears in many theological contro-
versies. If virtue is to be rewarded by heaven and vice by
hell, do they not, it has been asked, cease to be virtuous and
vicious? One difficulty which applies to human laws can of
course be avoided. A human legislator cannot secure the
coincidence of the extrinsic with the intrinsic motive. If he
pays for virtue, a love of pay takes the place of a love of
virtue, and love of pay may be pressed into the service
of vice ; a svstem of rewards may suggest a system of bribes,
and thus no external sanction can be uniformly annexed
to the moral law. The divine legislator is of course bound
by no such restrictions; he may secure the absolute coin-
cidence of the two classes of motive, and may affix to
virtuous and vicious conduct consequences which are not the
necessary outcome of the conduct itself. The purely self-
regarding motive may thus always operate in the same direc-
tion with the altruistic. The question remains (with which
I have nothing to do here), whether such a theory does not
destroy the essence of virtue by making the appearance of
altruism a mere illusion? In anv case, it illustrates the fact
that merit represents the claim of the virtuous person upon
the universe. In so far as he desires no reward here, he is
held to deserve a reward hereafter; and we need not here
inquire how, upon this hypothesis, a satisfactory distinction
can be drawn between prudence which aims at an immediate,
and virtue which aims at a remote advantage.
6. Merit, then, is a function of the social forces by which
our characters are moulded. It is attributed to any one in so
far as he dispenses with any extrinsic stimulus, or, in other
words, with motives which are equally available for other pur-
THE CONCEPTION OF MERIT. 269
poses. Thus we find that the wants of mankind in particular
social stages generate a particular respect for certain virtues,
which under different conditions cease to be valued so highly,
because the wants can be supplied without calling the virtue
into plav. In sparsely settled countries, for example, hospi-
tality is stimulated bv its obvious convenience. A man is
forced, on penalty of forfeiting the esteem of himself and
his neio;hbours, to render services for nothing which would
elsewhere be rendered for pay. He is regarded as a churl
if he turns away a stranger from his door. The senti-
ment is developed wherever the conditions occur which
make the practice obviously convenient, and may be de-
scribed by saving that in such regions a man is induced to
do what an innkeeper does elsewhere, not by the prospect of a
bill, but bv dread of incurring contempt, or by the correspond-
ing sentiment which has become a part of his own character.
It does not of course follow that when the social demand is
lowered, the creneral level of virtue is lowered. A man who
lives in London may be called upon to approach a higher
standard of benevolence in general than an Arab in the desert
or a backwoodsman in America. But this particular kind of
benevolence is not demanded from him to the same extent,
and we do not censure him for a want of hospitality when
he sends a foreigner to a hotel or passes on a tramp to the
casual ward. A similar change takes place in regard to
many duties which in a rude state of society depend upon
the voluntary public spirit of individuals, and which are pro-
vided for in more civilised conditions by a regular part of the
social machinery. The demand for certain manifestations of
virtue becomes less when society is so constituted that the
corresponding kind of conduct can be commanded without
callimz; for self-sacrifice. Whenever society finds sacrifice of
the individual necessary, it pays for it, we may say, in terms
of merit. The deserving person has a blank form of credit
upon the world at large, not to be filled up in terms of hard
cash. The whole demand for benevolence may increase whilst
270 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
special modes of benevolence are less necessary, and therefore
regarded with less respect.
7. The conception of merit has thus a close analogy to
the economical conception of value. We may define merit
as the value set upon virtue. We have to distinguish between
the merit and the intrinsic virtue of an action as economists
distinguish between the value of any commodity as equiva-
lent to its intrinsic utility and what is called the value in
exchange. Water, as the economists tell us, has a certain
utility, which is, of course, independent of the abundance or
the scarcity of the supply. It has the same effect upon my
thirst whether I live upon the borders of a river or can only
obtain an occasional bucket from a well. But the value
in exchange depends upon the difficulty of attainment, and,
in the ordinary case, gravitates towards a certain average
standard, dependent upon the various processes which con-
stitute the industrial life of a community. The same state-
ments may be made in regard to virtue and merit. Benevo-
lence, we may say, is always benevolence, and truthfulness,
truthfulness ; but the estimate set upon these may vary within
wide limits. The moral law may remain in a sense unaltered,
whilst the price necessary to secure obedience may rise or
fall, the merit of obedience being greater in proportion to
the quantity of extrinsic motive necessary to enforce
obedience upon the average mind. An action is highly
meritorious in one country which in another is a mere
matter of course. That was regarded as an act of heroic
self-restraint in Scipio which would be so natural to a modern
general that to praise him for it would be an insult. We
scarcely thank a mother for a devotion to her child which,
if shown to a stranger, would imply the most unusual
benevolence, and therefore the highest merit. In all societies
some degree of maternal affection is necessary ; but in some,
a mother would be praiseworthy for attentions to her child,
the neglect of which in others, even for the sake of her own
health and comfort, would involve the severest censure. Thus,
we may suppose that whilst the scale of duty remains fixed,
THE CONCEPTION OF MERIT. 271
the zero point of merit may shift upwards or downwards
according to circumstance. Of two courses of conduct, the
same may be regarded in all cases as the best, but the degree
of approval which it invites may change like the price of
a commodity. You are no more obliged to a man, it is
said, for being commonly honest or decently civil than you
have to pay for air in the open fields or for water on the
banks of the Nile. Merit thus carries with it a reference to
an assumed averao;e standard of conduct, and accrues to the
agent in proportion as he reaches that standard. Absolute
merit, if the phrase may be used, means a man's virtue,
considered abstractedly from the social state and the diffi-
culty of attaining it, whilst merit, in the more ordinary sense,
takes those conditions into account. The sober man is in the
first sense equally meritorious everywhere, because he every-
where shows the same quality ; but sobriety may be called
more meritorious in England than in a temperate country,
because the average standard of temperance is lower.
8. It is clear, again, from this that merit can only belong
to voluntary actions. A man is meritorious in so far as he
acts in a way which the average man will only act under from
the stimulus of some extrinsic motive. The act, therefore
must spring from his character ; it must be the fruit of some
motive which we regard as excellent ; and if it did not arise
from a motive — or, in other words, were not voluntary — it
would not, properly speaking, be his conduct at all. The
meritorious disposition must be capable of a stimulus from
the approval or disapproval of the society. There is no
price for commodities the supply of which is entirely beyond
the influence of demand, and we do not praise or blame a
man for qualities incapable of being altered by our praise
or blame. We may like or dislike a man for qualities which
w^e recognise as being entirely beyond control, but the senti-
ment only becomes praise or blame uhen we conceive it as
having a certain power of modifying its objects. Moral
approval is the name of the sentiment developed through
the social medium which modifies a man's character in such
272 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
a way as to fit him to be an efficient member of the social
'^tissue." It is the spiritual pressure which generates and
maintains morality. The whole man is moulded by the
beliefs and sentiments which he imbibes from the surround-
ing medium. He may be forced to obey the external law
both by intrinsic and extrinsic motives ; but so far as he is
really and intrinsically moral^ his character is regulated and
stimulated by the organised opinions of the society to which
he belongs. It is plain, therefore, that his merit, which
corresponds to the degree in which he has been thus regu-
lated, can only accrue in respect of the qualities capable of
being thus influenced, and these are the qualities implied in
all voluntary conduct.
9. In saying, then, that a man has merit, we mean that he
has virtue, whilst we implicitly recognise the fact that virtue
is the product of a certain social discipline. The individual
of course may be a more or less favourable subject of such
discipline ; his innate qualities may be such as spontaneously
mould themselves upon the moral code, or such as are only
forced into it with great difficulty. They are, in any case,
qualities which are modifiable, and susceptible of the social
discipline. When a man obeys the moral law from some
extrinsic motive, he is not, properly speaking, moral at all ;
so far as he can properly be called virtuous, it is because the
outward has become an inward law ; it is no longer a
law in the juridical but in a scientific sense ; it is not a rule
enforced by external sanctions, but the "law" of his charac-
ter, or the formula which expresses the way in which he
spontaneously acts. Society does not force him to act
against his will ; it has annexed and conquered his will
itself; the obligation is internal, and the action supplies its
own motive. The man, if we choose to say so, enforces
upon himself, which is the same thing as to say that he does
without force that which others can only be made to do by
some external force. We imply, therefore, that in this case
virtue is intrinsically desirable, or, in the common phrase,
becomes its own reward.
THE CONCEPTION OF MERIT. 273
10. One other source of possible ambiguity must be
noticed. We speak, perhaps, more commonly of the merit
of an action than of the merit of the agent. What is meant
by such a phrase ? Obviously the moral quality, whatever
it may be, cannot be attributed to an action as distinguished
from the agent. By a kind action we mean the action
which is done by a man because of his kindness, or in so
far as he is kind. In other words, it is an action which
proves him to be kind, or which would not be done unless
he were kind. And in the same way, a meritorious action
is the action which proves a man to have merit, or, in other
words, to be virtuous. Upon this showing — and it is, I think,
the only consistent statement of the case — an action is meri-
torious in so far as it is a manifestation of certain qualities
already existing. But we speak of the action rather than
the agent as meritorious for obvious reasons. For, in the
first place, we can only know a man's character through his
actions. We could not know for certain that Leonidas was
a brave man until he had fallen at Thermopylae, for we
cannot see a man's bravery. We therefore may fall into the
confusion of speaking as though a quality were more real
because it is more clearly established. We are quite right
for honouring a man more who has given proofs of courage
by his behaviour under danger than one whose courage is
only inferred from more indirect inferences. If, then, we
mean by merit proved virtue, we may admit that of two
equally virtuous men one may have more merit than
another. We mean, not that he has more virtue, but that
he has shown more. The case, again, is complicated by the
reflection that action strengthens habit, and therefore that
a man may become actually more virtuous by giving greater
proofs of virtue. This being understood, however, it is only,
a question of words. A man may be equally virtuous whether
he has or has not had opportunities of showing his good
qualities; his intrinsic merit, therefore, is unaffected. But if
by merit we mean the established claim upon our respect,
his merit will, of course, be increased according to the
s
274
THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
opportunities of manifestation. There may have been a
hundred men in the EngUsh fleet as brave as Nelson, but
honour could only be paid to the one who had shown his
valour. That only shows that honour in the world cannot
be proportioned to the merit absolutely, but only to the
merit which has become known.
II. The distinction sometimes gives rise to other difficulties.
Moralists have spoken of the goodness of an action as being
independent of the motive. Persecution, it has been said,
is equally bad, whether it proceeds from a religious motive
associated with a mistaken view of duty, or from some worse
motive— say, a simple love of despotic power. If we judge
morality by "consequences," it is equally wrong in both cases,
and therefore equally condemnable; and hence, if the merit
follows the morality, we must condemn the good man who
persecutes from misguided love of truth, and admire the bad
man who tolerates out of sheer indifference to truth. The
case is interesting because it suggests some troublesome
problems of actual occurrence, but we may answer it suffi-
ciently for our present purpose without much trouble.
According to the previous argument, it is the same thing
whether I say, "This is right," or, "This is commanded by the
moral law," or, "This is what all good men will do." The good
man is one who does what is right or what the moral law
prescribes, and the moral law prescribes that which is right
and which all good men do ; and therefore it is a contradic-
tion to say, " This is right," and to add that it may be done
cither by a good man or a bad man. But I have tried to show
how such an impression arises. The moral law, " Do not
persecute," is one of late growth, and for the simple reason
that the evil of persecution was not perceived until recently;
it therefore presented itself in the first instance in the shape
of an external law or a law of expediency; that is to say,
some people saw that persecution was mischievous but could
not convince others that it was mischievous. Whilst that
was the case, a man might persecute from a good motive,
say, a love of truth, not seeing that he was doing more harm
THE CONCEPTION OF MERIT. 275
than good. Just so, as I have said, good men may still advocate
protection as well as free trade. If protection were recognised
as mischievous^ an advocacy of it would necessarily imply
selfishness, as at present it may imply either selfishness or
intellectual error. But whilst a proposed rule is in this state,
whilst its good or evil results are still disputed, and a con-
viction of its advantage has not forced itself into the accepted
moral standard, it is not properly a moral rule at all, or it is
a moral rule only for the more enlightened, who understand
its true nature. In saying, then, that it is wrong to persecute,
the early advocates of toleration meant that persecution was
mischievous, and therefore wrong for those who recognised
the mischief: but thev misfht admit that a "good" man
might still persecute if he did not see the mischief, meaning
by a good man a man of benevolence and love of truth, but
of a certain degree of stupidity.
12. Hence we may see what is the true criterion and the
cause of difficulty in its application. A given action, as
defined by its external relations, may always, as I have said,
be brought under various principles ; or, in other words, the
conduct may be the result of various motives. Heretics
may be burnt from religious or political motives, or spared
from religious indifference or out of respect for veracity ;
money may be given to the poor from ostentation or from
true charity. The inference, therefore, from the action to
the motive is always more or less precarious : it is precarious,
in particular, in the case of a growing morality, when the
true character of a given rule of conduct is not yet fully
recognised, and may be judged differently by different
people. Whatever we may think of the ultimate ground of
morality, we must all admit that the normal consequences
of any rule of conduct are relevant in determining its
moralitv. When we know that certain modes of indulo^ence
are injurious to health, the indulgence proves imprudence ;
and when we know that any mode of conduct is injurious
to our fellows, such conduct proves selfishness. So long as
the consequences remain uncertain, the implication as to
276 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
character depends upon the state of mind of the agent — that
is, upon his genuine belief as to the nature of his conduct.
Very difficult problems occur when '' material " is not iden-
tified with formal morality ; when, that is, we as lookers-
on are supposed to know that certain conduct is mischievous
in fact, but when at the same time the agent may be igno-
rant, or doubtful, or deluded by some sophistical argument.
The criterion, however, of merit seems to be clear, whatever
the difficulty of applying it. We assume, in the first place,
that the conduct springs from a certain motive; the man
gives money from charity or from ostentation, he is tolerant
from indifference to truth or from love of truthfulness. His
particular action, whatever it may be, is one case of a general
rule, which, again, expresses his character in a certain rela-
tion. In the next place, this rule coincides or diverges from
a given moral code, and the character of which it is a
partial expression is or is not virtuous as judged by that
code. Hence, again, follows the merit of the action. It is
more or less meritorious according to the degree of virtue
implied. Where the moral code is still doubtful, there may
of course be many difficulties in deciding the proper inference.
But, given the moral standard, we simply have to ask
wdiether the character implied does or does not correspond
to that type which spontaneously and invariably obeys the
moral law? The more closely it does so, the higher the
merit, which is, as I have said, nothing but the virtue
regarded from a particular point of view.
13. I have already argued that a true moral law can only
exist when it includes a definition of character. It is at most
an approximate statement of the moral law to say that we
should give money to the poor. The man who gives money
from ostentation is not really acting morally at all, though,
in the particular case, his conduct coincides with that which
morality prescribes. His conduct may be regarded as moral
so long as we attend only to the external rule; but it is a
sham morality which he obeys, for the character indicated
is not that which docs what really belongs to the best social
THE CONCEPTION OF MERIT. 277
type, and therefore not that which is prescribed by a tenable
moral code. A i2:enuine moral law distino-uishes classes of con-
duct not according to external circumstances, but according to
the motives involved ; and therefore, when the conformity to
the law is only external, it is more proper to say that it is not
conformity at all. Vanity or avarice may often prompt the
actions which are equally commanded by a sense of duty or
by genuine love of my neighbours. The question whether
such actions are or are not virtuous is only intelligible as a
question as to the motives from which they spring. We may
or may not be able to answer that question decisively in any
particular case, but till it is answered we cannot say how
far the conduct is strictly meritorious. The test would be
given by placing a man in such a position that the only
motives operative are the intrinsic motives to virtue. If he
acts rightly when he can have no other motive for action
except those w^hich we hold to be virtuous, he is really
virtuous ; if not, we must suppose that his conformity to the
moral law was simply accidental. And this, it may be added,
is independent of any hypothesis as to the ultimate nature
of the intrinsically virtuous motive. If there be such a thing
as love of virtue for its own sake, the virtuous man must obey
the rule when all other motives, including those derived from
the happiness of his fellows, make the other way. If, on the
other hand, virtue is merely a form of selfishness, it is absurd
to suppose that virtue can ever command conduct which is
on the whole opposed to the interests of the individual.
But on that hypothesis we should consider a man to be in-
trinsically virtuous, and therefore meritorious, who, though
systematically selfish, never allowed immediate interests
to overpower a proper attention to his total interests. In
any case, his character must be such as to imply invariable
obedience to the moral code ; or, as we may safely say that
no one is virtuous up to this point, we should rather say
that he is virtuous or meritorious in proportion as he reaches
this ideal standard.
14. We have said, then, that a man's intrinsic merit is
278 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
not merely proportioned to his virtue, but is his virtue con-
sidered under a particular aspect, namely, as causing the
moral approval of his fellows, and that the merit of an
action means simply his proved virtue, that virtue, namely,
which he must possess in order to do the action in question ;
and, in saying this, we have assumed certain very simple
principles, which hav^e nevertheless produced libraries of con-
troversy. We assume, in fact, that merit can only attach
to voluntary conduct; for that is the same thing as to say
that it attaches to the character. Conduct which does not
spring from motives or from character is not, properly speak-
ing, conduct at all, A man is not truly an agent in matters
in which he is passive. In the next place, merit, as we have
seen, has a reference to a certain assumed standard : a man
is more or less meritorious as he is above or below the ordi-
nary standard in respect of virtue. Therefore conduct has
positive merit only in so far as it is more or less difficult for
the average man. Thirdly, the criterion of merit is that the
motive implied should be truly virtuous; that is, that its
agent is so far in conformity with the moral type. Now
these conditions are frequently expressed by saying that
merit implies free-will, that it implies effort, and that it
implies a love of right for the sake of right. A man can
have no merit so far as he acts under compulsion, or without
difficulty, or from some other motive than a love of virtue.
Other conceptions, especially that of ^' moral responsibility,"
are equally involved in the controversies which have arisen
upon these points ; but it will be sufficient if I state the
bearing of my own theories upon the main points at issue.
II. Free- Will.
15. I have already said in a sunmiary way that I reject
the free-will theory, so far, at least, and only so far, as it
implies a negative of the "universal postulate" in regard to
human conduct. I would willingly pass by the whole con-
troversy with this statement. But it seems necessary to
FREE-WILL. 279
traverse expressly the contention that a ^^ a determinist "
must logically be a disbeliever in merit. In one sense, in-
deed, that contention is admissible. I admit that there can
be no question of merit as between man and his Maker.
The potter has no right to be angry with his pots. If he
wanted them different, he should have made them differ-
ent. The consistent theologian must choose between the
Creator and the Judge. He must abandon the conception
of merit or the conception of absolute dependence. The
free-will argument, as understood by the school which seri-
ously maintains it, is an illogical attempt to reconcile two
conceptions which are radically contradictory by the device
of substituting the word '^mystery" for the plainer word
'' nonsense." Admitting the inherent difficulty of the ques-
tion, I must still admit frankly that to my mind the one
insuperable difficulty is the difficulty of reconciling deter-
minism with the ordinary theology. That difficulty, how-
ever, ceases to trouble us when we admit (with many theo-
logians) that the ordinary theology is erroneous. If any one
denies this, I must be content to refer him to the many
metaphysicians who, from the days of Hobbes and Jona-
than Edwards, have fully discussed the question. I proceed
to argue that not only is determinism consistent with a
belief in merit and moral responsibility, but that it is im-
plied at every step by that belief.
16. Let us start from a particular case. I sign what I
know to be a malicious libel. I am, then, a malevolent
liar. My conduct proves that I am neither benevolent nor
truthful. I deserve blame, and my conduct is de-meritorious.
But it is proved that my hand was held by overpowering
force. My action, then, was not wrong, or rather it was
not my action. My body was employed by somebody else, as
my pen was employed. My character, then, had no influence
upon the result. I may have been the most truthful and
benevolent of men. The moral law applies to my character,
and not to the mechanical movements of my limbs when
impelled by another man's will. Suppose it now proved
2 So THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
that a pistol was held to my head or a bribe offered to me.
How am I now to be judged? From the whole operative
motive and the total implication as to character. The new
motives^ fear of death and love of money, are not in them-
selves bad^ for they may be shared by the best of men. The
implication as to my malevolence or falseness is not so strong
as before^ as the new motive counts for something. If the
temptation was very great and the injury to my victim very
trifling, it may perhaps be thought that my conduct was
such as an average man would adopt under the circum-
stances. If so^ I am not thought bad, though I should un-
doubtedly be better if I had enough courage, sense of hon-
our, and benevolence to resist the temptation. It may be
thought that resistance would have required heroic virtue,
or possibly that my yielding to a bribe implies a greed
which is still more contemptible than malevolence. Hence
arise many difficult psychological and moral problems : what
is the implication as to character ? what is the right morality?
and so forth. But the criterion remains the same, namely,
what was the quality of the motive indicated, and how far
is it indicative of a certain constitution of my character in
respect of morality ?
17. This is, I think, the argument sanctioned by common
sense, and to my mind it is perfectly sound and satisfactory.
The principle assumed is simple. I infer motive from con-
duct : so far as other causes do not account for the conduct,
my inference stands ; so far as other causes are assignable,
the inference must be modified accordingly; and the strength
of the motive is measured by the resistance which it over-
comes. So, in the case suggested, we only infer malevolence
in so far as the conduct is determined by the character of
the agent, and we infer that degree of malevolence which is
necessary to account for the action when the influence of
other motives is deducted. I reason precisely as I reason
in determining, for example, the motion of a body when I
set down, say, to the tension of a particular rope all the
share in supporting a given weight which is not otherwise
FREE-WILL. 281
explained. At every step in tlic process I assume that there
is a causal connection between character and conduct, so
that I may infer motives from actions, and reciprocally
actions from motives. I assume freedom, in the sense of
freedom from external force, wherever I assume merit, because
the internal force accounts and must account for all that
part of the phenomenon for which the external force does
not account. Coercion or external force makes motive
irrelevant, and therefore annihilates the inference to motive.
But the inference would equally break down if I denied this
causal relation between action and motive. If, that is,
conduct did not imply motive when there was no coercion,
I could make no inference as to motive from the fact of
freedom. If, therefore, by assuming freedom, I mean to imply
that motive does not determine conduct, or that, given the
character, the man may either act or abstain from acting, I
so far destroy the inference as to virtue and merit. But,
upon my assumptions, this is to assume an absurdity, if not
a contradiction in terms. It is to destroy the sole postulate
in virtue of which reasoning is possible at all, or to make
the very essence of reasoning impossible.
18. Let us suppose, in fact, that my inference is uncertain,
or, as it is sometimes put, that the agent and all the relevant
circumstances being constant, the conduct varies. The same
man will in one case give and in another refrain from giving.
What is the legitimate inference ? Since the action varies,
I infer that some of the conditions must vary. Now in
many cases this is apparently an accurate statement of the
facts. The same man is liberal at one moment, stingy at
another. I infer that his character has varied, and that he
has seen one beggar before dinner and another after, or
that some accidental association of ideas {'' accidental " in
the sense that it is due to some combination not dependent
either upon his character or the assumed facts) has for the
moment modified his disposition. This, of course, is possible
upon any hypothesis. So far as this explanation is hypo-
thetic, the merit or the virtue is diminished in proportion
282 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
to the uncertainty. The man is less liberal than I supposed,
for his liberality is limited by a previously unknown con-
dition. He is only liberal when his temper is unruffled, or
when he is under the influence of a particular association.
But this is not enough for the advocate of free-will, for I
have still assumed that some variation of character or cir-
cumstance accounts for the varvino- conduct. He asserts
that, all conditions down to the minutest remaining constant,
there is still a possibility of variation in conduct. I deny
the possibility ; but, assuming it for the sake of argument,
I deny that the inference is legitimate. If the conduct
varies, and if no assignable change of conditions can account
for it, I cannot assume the intervention of some inscrutable
or unassignable condition which, as independent both of
character and circumstances, can only be described in nega-
tive terms. We are virtually postulating a blind fatality.
Some unknown and unknowable power must have governed
the action. But so far as that is the case, all inferences as
to merit and virtue are as illegitimate as in the case of
external coercion. Whatever determines conduct inde-
pendently of character so far destroys the moral value of
conduct. To say that a man is benevolent means that he
will always be benevolent ; to say that an action is bene-
volent means that it proves the man to be benevolent. What-
ever diminishes the certainty that a man is benevolent now
and will be benevolent hereafter must so far diminish his
virtue, and makes the whole theory contradictory. By con-
founding coercion with internal determination we fall into
endless perplexities ; for whereas we must admit that a man
is more truthful in proportion as he is certain always to
speak the truth, we make it an essential condition of his
virtue that it is intrinsically uncertain whether he will speak
the truth or lie. Indeed, if free-will be essential, then the
more free-will the better, and the smaller the certainty of
truth the greater the virtue.
19. The same argument of course applies to the correlative
theory of responsibility. A man is responsible for that alone
FREE-WILL. 2S3
which he can do or leave undone. Obviously so if we mean
for that the doing or the not doing of which depends upon
his character ; for otherwise there is no inference as to
character. I am not responsible for dying when my throat
is cut, for I shall die equally whether I am a saint or a
sinner ; but I am responsible for cutting my throat, for I
shall not do so (assuming the immorality of suicide) if I am
a saint, but only if I am a sinner. If it is urged that, being
a saint, I am still free to cut my throat or leave it alone,
that is true in the sense in which it is true that, being a
saint, I may become a sinner. But the more saintly I am
the smaller is the possibility. If a fate called free-will or
anything else intervenes, and causes me to cut my throat
whilst I am still a saint, I am not the more but the less
responsible for an action which does not spring from my
character.
20. But, it is said, admitting the relation between char-
acter and conduct, it is true that each man can form his own
character. Undoubtedly every man is always forming his
own character. Every act tends to generate a habit or to
modify character, and consciously to form character is an
act like any other, and subject to the conditions already
stated. Nothing but fresh confusion is introduced by
attempting to draw the old distinction upon these lines.
We say, for example, that a man is less • responsible for
licentiousness who has been brought up in a corrupt society.
The argument is sound if reasonably interpreted. It is true
that a man who is now a drunkard may have been originally
as sober as another man who owes his sobriety to the absence
of temptations. The moral worth of the two men was
originally the same, and the difference is due to the differ-
ence of circumstance. Again, it is true that the whole in-
ference as to character is often very different according to
the different mode in which it has been formed. The man
who has been seduced to drinking by strong temptations is
as much a drunkard as the man who has taken to drink
without them^ but he has not given the same proof of
284 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
weakness of character, and may probably be more estimable
in other ways. When everybody drank, drunkenness was
more consistent with a sense of honour than it now is.
Such considerations show the necessity of guiding our judg-
ment by very complex inferences, and show that the merit
— in the sense of the proved virtue — of given conduct may
vary widely when the particular action alone is given. But
it is impossible to make this the ground for a distinction
between qualities due to circumstance and others due to the
man himself. In all actions, as in the whole of our lives,
there is a constant action and reaction between the external
and internal conditions. We cannot disentangle them into
two separate series of events, any more than we can say
whether breathing depends more upon the air or the lungs.
Every character is developed under circumstances, and the
development depends upon the continuous adjustment of
the relations. If we suppose that every man's "self" is a
separate entity of precisely the same qualities, then the
difference between the developed characters is due entirely
to circumstances, and therefore can have no merit on the
free-will theory, or to a mysterious act of choice which is due
neither to circumstance nor to a difference — for such differ-
ence is supposed not to exist — in the choosing subject. If,
again, the difference is due to some distinction between the
original selves, we come back to the determinist hypothesis;
for this difference is the condition of all subsequent differ-
ences, and must be itself due to previous growth, or to the
absolute will of the Creator. Or, finally, we come back to
the unintelligible theory of " accident" or "fatality" as the
foundation of merit, though merit is only intelligible as
excluding accident.
21. This argument has been so frequently and forcibly
stated that further insistence is needless. Identify free-will
with the occurrence of chance, and the conception of merit
becomes contradictory and repulsive. Exclude chance, and
you are virtually a determinist. From this dilemma I can
sec no escape, and I am not aware of a plausible answer.
FREE-WILL. 285
The advocates of free-will theories are frequently content to
admit the force of the argument^ but retort it by suggesting
equal difficulties in the opposing theory, and asserting this
to be one of the speculations which lead to inevitable anti-
nomies. The practical reason is therefore left to choose the
most edifvinsf alternative. Though I am far from admitting
this assertion, I think that it is true in this as in many other
cases, that each party to the controversy is most effective
when assailing the position of its antagonists. I must
therefore give my reply to that which I take to be the most
telling argument of my opponents. The pith of it seems
to be as follows: — Moral responsibility, it is said, implies
freedom. A man is only responsible for that which he
causes. Now the cmisa causce is also the causa causaii. If
I am caused as well as cause, the cause of me is the cause of
my conduct; I am only a passive link in the chain which
transmits the force. Thus, as each individual is the product
of something external to himself, his responsibility is really
shifted to that something. The universe or the first cause
is alone responsible, and since it is responsible to itself alone,
responsibility becomes a mere illusion.
22. I admit, of course, the first statement. I am respon-
sible for that, and for that alone, which I cause. But does
the fact that I am also " caused " relieve me of responsibility ?
This I deny. A man's character is what it is ; it makes no
difference that, like everything in the universe, it has grown
according to assignable laws instead of springing into being
miraculously. Certain qualities of character are' virtuous,
and not the less so because their existence depends upon
conditions. The criterion of merit or responsibility is the
dependence of conduct upon character, and this remains
unaffected so long as- the character is the true proximate
cause of conduct. A man is not responsible when his hand
is another man's tool ; he is responsible whenever it is moved
by his will. I do not diminish a man's responsibility when
I '^ cause" him to act, but only when I cause him to '^act"
involuntarily. So far as I know a man's character, and
286 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
apply the motives which induce him to act^ I may be said
to cause his conduct, but I do not diminish his responsibihty.
If I give a man half-a-crown to shoot my enemy, he is not
the less a brutal murderer. His responsibility is measured
by the guilt of committing murder for half-a-crown. I have
only brought out the fact that he is a brute, and of course
encouraged the growth of his brutal habits. My guilt in the
murder is the same as if I had myself used the knife ; his
cruWt is the same as if his motive had been the plunder of
the victim instead of the bribe from me.
23. In this sense conduct may be '^caused" without
lessening the agent's responsibility; and this suggests the
inquiry which, if fully cleared up, would do more than any-
thing to remove the obscurities of these problems. I can
only touch upon it so far as it is relevant to the immediate
purpose. What is the meaning of the word '' cause " ? We
are apt to think of cause and effect as of two separate things,
one of which somehow governs or coerces the other. If we
carefully restrict ourselves to the necessary implications of the
word, and consider the cause as a constituent part of the total
process which is called the effect, many illusory associations
vanish. Thus, in the familiar phrase, a man is said to be
enslaved by his passions, as though he and his passions were
separable entities, and he could still be the same man without
them. All that can really be meant is that certain instincts
are unusually potent ; and to say what he would have done
without them is to say what a different man would have done.
They are not external fetters capable of being removed or
added without altering the man, but parts of the man him-
self. Yet this metaphorical phrase leads to a confusion
between strong will and absence of will, and we declare a
man incapable of choice just because he chooses so strongly.
In the same way we might speak of an assembly as being
enslaved by the majority, as though the assembly were an
entity separate from the majority ; and thus wc should con-
fuse a condition of energetic action with a condition of
impotence; such, for example, as one in which the assembly
FREE-WILL. 287
is controlled by a foreign body. So^ if we state that a man's
conduct is determined by his character, we identify a state-
ment which implies the highest degree of volitional energy
with one in which volition has no influence. A lover is a
slave to his passion only in the sense that a part of himself
prompts him to vigorous activity, and his will is not sus-
pended but intensified. The case exemplifies the obvious
absurdity of confounding external with internal coercion, or
rather of using such a phrase as internal coercion at all. Self-
coercion can only mean determination in the logical sense.
Every conceivable object has certain qualities, and we are in-
dulging in a meaningless figure of speech if we speak of the
quality as something separate from the thing, and ^'forcing"
it to act in such and such a way. To say every material body
has weight is of course the same thing as to say that it is
heavy, and does not imply that weight is like a chain pulling
at the body and separable from it ; but some such feeling
seems to be always creeping in when we speak of the causa-
tion of conduct or of character.
24. Let us look at this a little more closely. What is
implied in the statements with which we are here concerned?
A man is an organism, and may be considered from without
as built up of mutually dependent organs, or from within
as consisting; of certain faculties or instincts. When we
say that his conduct is caused by one of those instincts, we
do not mean that there is a man plus the instinct, but that
the whole man, regarded as a unit, including this instinct,
acts in a certain way in which a man (if such a man be
possible) without the instinct would not act; or, again, if
the instinct be an essential part of the man, that the conduct
varies according to some variation in this instinct, or, in
other words, in the character considered in the corresponding
relation. "The cause of charity is benevolence," means
simply that benevolent men are charitable ; malevolent men
are not. ''The cause of eating is hunger," means that a
man eats more or less as he is more or less hun2:rv. If,
again, we speak of self-caused conduct, we use words inac-
288 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
curately^ as when we speak of self-coercion ; but the mean-
ing is clear enough. Briefly, we mean that the conduct in
question arises from an internal and not from an external
variation ; that it depends upon certain organic processes
which take place whilst the medium or external set of condi-
tions remains constant. I go to sleep because I am tired,
and my fatigue arises from my own activity, not from any
change in the surrounding conditions. A certain set of
external conditions is always necessary for my existence, and
therefore for my existence in any particular state, and I may,
if I please, consider them as a "cause" of my conduct. But
the cause is, so to speak, latent. It remains a constant, and
therefore is not relevant in determining the particular action
wdiich depends immediately upon processes taking place
within the sphere of my own organisation. In these cases,
then, to speak of my conduct as caused, is clearly not to
assert that there is something besides me and my surround-
ings which coerces me, but simply that I have certain
qualities which display themselves in certain ways, and are
the manifestation of my character. But we now have to
deal with external causes. My conduct at a given moment
is determined by my surroundings. I read because a book
is present, run away because there is danger, and so forth.
Am I therefore, as is sometimes said, the creature of circum-
stances ? Undoubtedly my conduct depends upon circum-
stances, but it is just equally true that it depends upon my
character. Both factors are essential, and neither at any
given moment is simply the product of the other. I am
now repeating the same set of intellectual operations as
before upon a larger whole. Instead of considering a man
as a separate organism, I include the whole set of processes
of which he forms a part, and, as before, there is a mutual
dependence, and no one part is to be regarded more than
another as determining or creating the other part. If, in
fact, I could analyse the whole universe (so far as is necessary
for the problem under consideration) into its constituent
factors, one of these factors would be the a<2;ent with certain
FREE-WILL. 2S9
qualities. If the surroundings are all known, I can infer
various conditions by which the agent is limited, but there
would still remain an indeterminate factor, namely, the
character of the man himself. So, again, given the man, I
could infer a great part of the surroundings, namely, all the
conditions necessary for his existence in his actual state. This
merely states that wherever there is a complex whole with
mutually dependent parts, I can, so far as my knowledge
goes, infer either the parts from the whole or one part from
another; but it does not imply that besides all the constituent
parts there is a something else corresponding to a coercive
force. And this is equally true if I go back to what is called
the historical cause. The universe is a continuous system; no
abrupt changes suddenly take place. We could not suppose
them to take place without supposing that identical processes
might suddenly become different, which is like supposing that
a straight line may be produced in two different directions.
Hence every agent is a continuation of some preceding pro-
cess. He has not suddenly sprung into existence from
nowhere in particular ; the man has grown out of the
child. We might (though the language would be somewhat
strained) call the child in this sense the "cause" of the man.
But for the child the man would not exist. But there is not
a child pli/s a man, in which case there might be a coercion
of the man by the child. The child and man form a con-
tinuous whole, with properties slowly varying according to
its character and the external circumstances. A man, atrain.
has of course qualities which he has inherited; but this is
not to be understood as if there were a man plus inherited
qualities, which, therefore, somehow diminish his respon-
sibility. The whole man is inherited, if we may use such a
phrase. He starts at his birth with qualities dependent of
course upon the qualities of his parents, for their character-
istics and condition are the sole relevant conditions. The
fact that he inherits a particular temper no more implies that
he is one thing and the temper another thing superimposed,
than the fact that he inherits the general characteristics of
T
290 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
humanity would imply that the man is something in addi-
tion to all his essential qualities. From the child^ again^ we
may (within certain limits) infer the man. It is equally
true that from the man we may infer the child. It is true
that the man must have certain qualities which he would not
have had the child been different^ and it is equally true that
the child must have had certain qualities which he would
not have had if the man were different. In both cases we are
looking at a continuous process from varying points^ and we
can infer either backwards or forwards. The latter attitude is
more customary^ owing to the conditions of human conduct.
But it is not implied that something survives from the earlier
stage which is additional to^ and capable therefore of limit-
ing or coercing^ the later stage. Our power of inferring
simply expresses the fact of continuity and nothing more ;
and I may observe in passing that, even if we denied this
axiom, and supposed that men could spring into existence
out of nothing, it is impossible to see how their " responsi-
bility" or "free-will" would be affected.
25. The whole illusion in this part of the question seems
to rest upon a simple principle. Philosophers tell us (and
with undeniable truth) that "chance" is a mere name for
ignorance. It is a chance whether a penny will fall heads
or tails uppermost ; that is, we do not know which way it
will fall. I say equally when I am crossing a mountain
that it is a chance whether the other side of a rido-e is a
precipice or a slope. In this case, then, I assert nothing as
to the thing itself, for that is already there ; there is already
either a precipice or a slope ; but only assert that I do not
know which. And this, which is admittedly true of chance,
is equally true of the necessity which is the negation of
chance. It is simply a name for certainty, as chance for
absence of certainty. Thus, if I say you will "necessarily"
act in such a way, I mean that I know that you will act in
that way, and I mean nothing more. My knowledge may
be founded upon a knowledge of your character, and upon
a knowledge of certain physical limitations which make your
FREE-WILL.
291
character irrelevant. In this sense, conduct or action de-
pendent upon character can rarely be certain or " necessary"
beyond a certain point, because we have rarely any accurate
knowledge of character. The data are more complex, but
they are not in themselves less determinate. An indeter-
minate thing is a non-existent thing, for it would be
something which is at once one thing and another thing.
The same applies to all such words as "necessary," "^^ pro-
bable," "potential," "possible,'* and so forth. They arc
simply names of the observer's state of mind, which, by
one of the most familiar of all fallacies, are supposed to
denote qualities of the thing observed. What I see to exist
" necessarily," may be only probable for you, but the thing
itself either exists or does not exist, and by saying "necessary"
I add nothing except a statement as to my knowledge. The
use of the word " necessary " in regard to conduct has given
offence from this common confusion of ideas. If I sav. for
example, that a man will necessarily commit murder under
given circumstances, I mean that I am quite certain that he
will. Why am I certain ? Because I know him to have the
murderous character. I do not assert the existence of a neces-
sity as of something external to his character, which will make
him commit murder whether he likes it or not, but simply
that I know that he will like it. And thus the only meaning\\
of the necessity of conduct is that people have fixed qualities \\
of character, which do, as a matter of fact (not determine )
their conduct from without), but manifest themselves m//
conduct; in other words, that people have characters. If
they have not, I do not see how they can be virtuous, and
meritorious, and responsible.
26. Finally, let us return to the causa causce argument.
The statement is, that if action is caused, the original cause
alone can be responsible. If this is interpreted bv the
hypothesis of a Creator separate from the universe, who
has yet moulded it as the seal moulds the wax, and who at
every instant sustains and supports it, I admit that it is im-
possible to conceive of responsibility to such a being. It is
292 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the case of a man bribing me to a crime and then punish-
ing me for committing it. I may be equally responsible^ as
I have said^ to others, but I do not see how I can be re-
sponsible to him. But the bare fact that an omniscient, or
even a highly intelligent being could foresee my actions with
certainty, would not destroy my responsibility. Such fore-
knowledge, it used to be argued, implied predestination, and
therefore an incapacity of the individual to act otherwise.
But the determination implied would not be an external
fate coercing the character, but simply the character itself.
I know that a man will remain motionless, not because I
know him to be in fetters, but because I know that he is
indolent. In one case, I should infer that he will be motion-
less whatever his character ; in the other, that he will be
motionless, assuming his character. The two cases are really
mutually exclusive, though they are so often confounded.
Prediction, in short, does not imply a man plus a fate, but a
man alone.
27. I am not, however, properly concerned with the so-
called transcendental causes. Within the sphere of scientific
thought, the case is as I have argued it. A man is respon-
sible, I have said, for those actions which are caused by his
moral character. The fact that he is himself " caused," or
that his actions are caused by circumstances, is only relevant
in so far as this statement means that his character ceases to
be a cause at all ; in other words, as the same phenomena
would result whatever his character might be. If my
benevolence causes my action, if, that is, a person not
benevolent would act differently, then I have the merit of
benevolence. The fact that my action depends upon circum-
stances— that is, would be different if circumstances differed
— is irrelevant if it also depends upon my character. My
character is still a true cause. The fact that my character
has been developed under the action of circumstances is
equally irrelevant so long as it is my character. The two
factors are implied at every stage of the process, and the
so-called " dependence " of one upon the other means simply
FREE-WILL. 293
that T cannot infer the whole phenomenon from either taken
separately. Finally^ if I refer to the origin or the historical
cause of my character, it is of course true that the man's
character would be different if the character of the child's
character had been different, or the child's if the parents' had
been different. If the child had certain instincts, the man
will have corresponding iristincts ; as also if the parents
were monkeys instead of men, the child would be a monkey.
But there are not separate qualities which are left behind by
the parents or the child to hamper the man ; the whole of
the man's qualities are continuous with the qualities existing
in any previous stage of the same person. There is not a
common something which becomes either monkey or man
as a different form is imposed upon it. If we could suppose
a sudden appearance of the man out of nothing or by the
fiat of a Creator, we should still only shift the responsibility to
the Creator or to chance. We may infer the child from the
man as well as the man from the child, and there is no more
necessity in the one case than the other, except in the sense
which means certainty. When we know from one pheno-
menon that another exists, it is simply that we can (for some
reason) identify the two as parts of a whole of mutually
dependent parts. From an eye we infer an ear or a leg ; it is
not because the eye has a power to make ears and legs out of
formless matter, or because, besides eyes and ears and legs
and every part of the organism, there is some additional
coercive force which holds them together, but simply that
each part carries with it a reference to the rest. The diffi-
culty is dispelled so far as it can be dispelled when we have
got rid of the troublesome conception of necessity as a name
for something more than the certainty of the observer.
When we firmly grasp and push to its legitimate conse-
quences the truth that probability, chance, necessity, deter-
mination, and so forth, are simply names of our own states
of mind, or, in other words, have only a subjective validity;
that a thing either exists or does not exist, and that no
fresh quality is predicated when we say that it exists neces-
294 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
sarily; and that all dependence of one thing upon another
implies a mutual relation and not an abolition of one of the
things — we have got as far as we can towards removing the
perplexity now under consideration. But it is not likely to
disappear to-day or to-morrow.
TIL Efort.
28. I pass, therefore, to a further condition of morality,
which involves some similar ambiguities. The free-will
condition implies (upon my view) a misunderstanding of the
undeniable proposition that a man can be virtuous or meri-
torious in respect of those actions alon^ which are con-
ditioned by his character, or which are really his actions.
The agent must be really an agent^ not a bit of mechanism,
or a transmitter of internal force. But, in the next place, as
I have said, the qualities in respect of which a man is meri-
torious must be those which are amenable to discipline.
The moralised man is the trained savage ; he helps a stranger
instead of attacking him ; and this modified instinct which
he has acquired through the social factor distinguishes him
from the immoral man, in whom the instinct is deficient.
Thus, again, it seems that merit implies an effort. Those
actions, I have said, are regarded as meritorious which the
average man would not do without extrinsic reward, and
that character is meritorious which implies the modification
necessary to such conduct. Hence, again, it is often said,
with more or less propriety, that a man deserves nothing
for conduct which is pleasant or purely " natural." As these
statements involve various perplexities, I must seek to give
at least the clue by which they may be unravelled.
39. I observe, then, that (as already stated) a judgment
of merit implies reference to some standard ; and this implies,
again, that the person is supposed to belong to a certain
class, and to have the essential properties of that class.
When I say " a good " or " a bad " man, I of course use the
words in a diflcrcnt sense from those in which I should speak
EFFORT. 295
of a good or bad horse. I mean that the man is better or
worse than the average man, and I take for granted that
he has all the qualities essential to humanity. This already
involves one ambiguity, for it becomes a question how far
certain qualities which may be absent should put a man
outside the class to which we are in all cases making a tacit
reference. What are the characteristics, one might ask,
which bring a man within the sphere of morality ? It is
not "fair," we often say, to judge a man in one age by the
moral standard of another age. It is not fair to judge a
man exposed to temptation by the standard applicable to
one who is not tempted. And with these difficulties may
be classed the more practical difficulties which so frequently
occur in criminal law, when we have to decide how far a
child or a madman can be considered as responsible for his
actions. The difficulty results to a great extent from a
confusion between different classes of questions. When we
speak of the merit of an action, we really speak, as I have
said, of the qualities which it implies. If we have solved
that question, which may be one of extreme difficulty, we
have next to ask how far and in what way the man who has
those qualities differs from the moral man, and how far,
therefore, they imply morality or the reverse? Keeping
these problems apart, we shall see, I think, that though they
involve great difficulties of application, the governing prin-
ciple is sufficiently clear.
30. A man tortures a prisoner, but torture is not con-
demned by the morality of the time. Is the torturer wicked?
Clearly not wicked according to one standard, and clearly
wicked accordino; to ours. Which standard should we
apply ? That, I should say, depends upon the problem
which we are considering. He is not proved to be a bad
man according to the morality of the day. The action,
therefore, does not imply the same degree of cruelty which
would be implied by a similar action now. We should not
be justified in inferring that he was cruel in other relations
of life, as we should now be justified in a similar inference.
296 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
Suppose that we have made our inferences correctly, and
discovered that the man was up to the average standard of
his time, our judgment is complete. He was not in advance
of his time, and we do not respect him so much as we should
respect one who was in advance. He is not so good a man,
again, as a man who is up to an improved moral standard;
that is, he is not so uniformly merciful or benevolent.
Possibly his innate qualities were as good ; and had he been
born under the improved standard, he would have been
as good. That, as it seems to me, is all that we can say.
"Merit" does not mean a separable quality which is the
same at all periods, but carries with it a statement of rela-
tion to a varying standard, and therefore cannot be definitely
valued apart from the circumstances without a sophistry.
Each of the two men, we must reply, is equally good,
measured by his own standard ; their innate qualities may
have been equally good also; but one man is absolutely
better in so far as he represents a more advanced type of
humanity. We cannot sum up these various statements by
a single statement about " merit." That can only be done
satisfactorily when we assume that both agents belong to
the same class, and are to be judged by a single standard.
We fall into the same kind of perplexity as if we were to
compare the wealth of a man of to-day with the wealth of
his ancestor. We may compare the amount of gold which
each man possesses, or the amount of actual enjoyment
which it purchases, or the position in the society which it
confers; but to answer definitely the question which is in-
volved, we must distinguish the sense in which the question
is asked. Then the ambiguity disappears, though the diffi-
culty of answering may be immense.
31. The question is more perplexing when we have to do
with cases such as the child or the madman, when the indi-
vidual has qualities (or an absence of qualities) which seem
to take him out of the class. But the same mode of answer-
ing applies equally. Thus, for example, children and some
adults are without the passions which are regulated by one
EFFORT. 297
important part of the moral law. What are we to think of
them ? Simply this, that they are without these passions.
If^ then, they refrain from certain vices, their abstinence
does not prove chastity. It simply shows that in respect
of this quality they are neutral, neither good nor bad. It
would be a clear mistake in logic to identify the case of the
man who has certain passions under control and the man
who has not the passions at all. But a man is neither moral
nor immoral in so far as he has the passions, for in them-
selves they are neither good nor bad. The man who has
them not will indeed be so far disqualified for certain social
relations, as, on the other hand, he will be free from certain
temptations. The ordinary inferences as to character, and
therefore our judgment of his virtue or merit, will be falla-
cious. But he will still have a character, which may be
either virtuous or the reverse in the highest degree in all
other respects, and we shall judge him, if we judge rightly,
according to the conformity of his character to the type, so
far as it goes. He cannot be a perfect man in the full sense,
for he is without qualities which are essential to the race,
but then the defect is not such as to imply any moral
defect in any of the relations which he is capable of fulfilling.
It would therefore be absurd to call him either moral or
immoral in respect of this defect. We can only say that he
is defective, but that the defect is morally neutral. There
may be a liability to error in our ordinary inferences as to
the facts of character, and, when the facts are known, in
saying what degree of deflection is implied ; but the prin-
ciple seems to be simple.
33. Thus, again, we have the case of the madman, with
all the ever-recurring difficulties of deciding what is meant
by madness. It is agreed, of course, that a madman is not
responsible so far as he is under actual illusions, and supposes
himself to be beheading a cabbage when he is really killing
a man. The test and the ordinary inferences as to character
would fail. But madness shades into sanity by imperceptible
degrees, and we are asked to pronounce a moral judgment
298 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
upon such cases as that of the "homicidal mania." A mad-
man, it is suggested, is not responsible, because he cannot
help it or has lost his free-will ; the sane man can help
himself, and is therefore responsible. As I consider free-will
to be an illusion, I cannot accept this theory, nor can I see
why the madman should be supposed to be without it. The
more unaccountable a man's actions, the more one would
be inclined to admit the presence of some arbitrary agent.
A man who possessed free-will in a large degree, whose
actions obeyed no assignable rule, would certainly appear
to be mad. The argument, however, points to the obvious
explanation. No one would consider a man to be less
responsible for a murder in proportion to the strength of his
malice. The more malicious he is, the more certain he is to
commit murder ; the less is his malice restrainable by fear,
or conscience, or any other motive ; and therefore, in the
judgment of every man^ the greater is the crime. We hold
the madman to be not responsible for precisely the opposite
reason, namely, that in him murder does not imply malice,
but some different impulse; he is not accessible to the
ordinary motives. '' Homicidal mania," if used simply to
imply a high degree of cruelty or malice, would not take the
sufferer out of the ordinary moral code ; it can only do so
when it means that his mental machinery is out of gear, so
that the ordinary motives do not have their normal effect.
His mind, we say, is deranged. He deviates from, the type,
not as a man deviates in whom certain passions are unusually
strong, but by some undefined and undefinable organic dif-
ference, which prevents him from being amenable to the
natural motives. Murder is in him not the manifestation of
malice, but a proof that his brain is in an abnormal condition,
due perhaps to an accident or to some obscure constitutional
defect entirely unconnected with his moral character, and
therefore not justifying the ordinary inference. This, as it
seems to mc, is more or less explicitly assumed in all cases of
madness. We do not call a man mad uuless we assume a
deflection in his psychological organisation from that of the
EFFORT. 299
type which prevents him from being amenable to the moral
motives, and such a deflection as implies disease and a dis-
integration of the faculties necessary for a due discharge of
the vital functions. The difficulty of saying in a given case
what constitutes this deflection is enormous; but in any case
we do not judge that the actions of the sane man are
independent of motives whilst those of the madman are de-
pendent, but that whilst both have motives, the madman's
motives are ^'irrational" or abnormal.
^^. The perplexity which thus intrudes itself into our
conceptions of merit is a difficulty in judging of facts.
What character does a given action imply? What is the
value of a given character ? What is the class to which a
man is to be referred, and how far should our judgment be
affected by his passions or qualities which distinguish him
from other members of the class ? All such questions are
very difficult in themselves, and in our rough daily estimates
of merit we have to solve them after a very summary fashion,
and often with very inconsistent results. We apply one
measure of merit in particular, which, though perfectly
rational in itself, has led to various perplexities. Conduct,
I have said, is meritorious so far as it proves merit ; it can
only prove merit so far as it implies difficulty for the average
man. Leonidas was as brave before Thermopylae as after ;
he was only known to be brave when he had proved his
courage by accepting a fate from which cowards shrank.
Hence, it is argued, merit only accrues in respect of difficult
performance; whilst again it is said the greater the difficulty
the greater the merit, and thus that whatever a man does
simply to please himself is no credit to him.
34, The fallacy which is sometimes involved in this state-
ment is too simple to require a long examination ; the full
statement of the case is enough to expose it. The man is
most meritorious who has most virtue; consequently, if we
assume that a certain task has to be performed, the man
who performs it most easily is the most virtuous. Leonidas
was braver in proportion as he had no tendency to run
300 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
away ; I am honester in proportion as T feel less disposition
to pocket my neighbour's spoons. A man who felt no
disposition whatever to commit any sin would so far be
absolutely perfect, and such a character is attributed by
Christians to a divine man. Christ was not the less perfect
if he never felt the least velleity to do wrong; on the con-
trary, such a character represents the unattainable moral
ideal. For the same reason it is true that, if we suppose the
task to increase in difficulty, the man is most honest who
overcomes the greatest difficulty — that is, the greatest diffi-
culty for a given strength. The less the difficulty for him,
the greater the difficulty which he can overcome. The
greater the danger, the greater the bravery ; the heavier the
bribe offiired, the greater the honesty displayed in resisting
it, and so forth. The principle is precisely the same as in
the case of a mechanical exertion ; the man is the strongest
who can lift the heaviest weight, or who can lift a given
weight with the greatest ease. But (and it is a proof of the
loose argument which has often been accepted in ethical
disputes) the two cases have sometimes been confounded.
It would plainly be absurd to say, " The man is strongest who
lifts the greatest v»^eight ; therefore the man who makes the
greatest effort ; therefore the man who makes the greatest
struggle to lift a given weight." But it has occasionally
been said that the man is most virtuous who resists the
greatest temptation ; therefore the man who has the greatest
struggle; therefore the man who has the greatest difficulty
in resisting a given temptation. Though the fallacy
docs not occur in this bare form, it is not unfrequently
implied in the assumption that the effort, taken absolutelv,
is the measure of merit ; we are occasionally tempted, that
is, to confound the difficulty which arises from an extrinsic
or morally neutral motive with that which arises from the
moral (or immoral) impulse itself. We are thus led to
excuse a man for the very qualities which make him wicked.
True he committed a murder, but he was so spiteful that he
could not help it ; or he was exceedingly kind, but he is so
EFFORT. 301
good-natured that it cost him no efTort. Obviously such
reasoning is absurd, but it suggests the necessity of guarding
our statement.
'^^. The man, I have said, is most virtuous who performs
a given virtuous act with the least effort ; but on looking
closer, we see that this statement might lead to the mis-
understanding already explained. We might argue, in fact,
that temperance showed greater virtue, when, in truth, it
merely shows a defect in some faculty of enjoyment. If a
man resists any inducement because it has no charms for
him, his act does not prove virtue, unless the inducement be
such as to appeal only to the wicked. Our formula really
involves an assumption which must be explicitly stated. The
man is most meritorious who is virtuous with least effort,
provided always that he has the normal passions of a man.
We virtually assume as the basis of our comparisons that two
men are constituted in the same way so far as their moral
qualities are not involved ; that each of them is equally sen-
sitive to certain modes of enjoyment so long as the enjoy-
ment is not opposed by any moral motive. Then we say,
and are justified in saying, that the man is most virtuous
who is so constituted that virtuous conduct is easiest to him.
If, for example, two men enjoy the taste of wine equally,
the man is most temperate to whom abstinence from exces-
sive use of wine costs the least exertion. But if one man
abstains because he dislikes wine, we cannot argue as to his
moral superiority; for, in the first place, his abstinence in
that case affords no presumption that he will refrain in other
cases ; and, in the next place, a man is so far the worse as
he is wanting in any capacity not intrinsically bad. A taste
for wine exposes a man to certain temptations, but it is also
presumably a symptom of certain organic advantages which
make him so far a more eflective being than the man in
whom it is deficient.
'^6. This brings us to a very important point. The infer-
ence from a particular act is always precarious, and part of
our perplexity arises from deciding what is or is not implied
302 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
in any given line of conduct. Conduct, which is the same
so far as the external circumstances are concerned, may be a
manifestation of very diiferent qualities of character acci-
dentally coinciding upon this particular point. The man
with strong but disciplined passions may act in the same
way upon a given occasion as the man without passions,
though he would on other occasions act differently. Hence
the "merit" of the action is indeterminate, inasmuch as
it may result from different motives. Putting this aside, or
assumins; the motive to be ascertained, we have therefore a
further question of facts. We may ask, in fact, whether the
primitive instincts of which a man's nature is composed are
to be regarded as morally indifferent, or whether there are
various primitive instincts, some of which are morally good,
whilst others are morally bad? In the latter case, the suppres-
sion of a bad instinct would of course imply a higher pitch
of virtue ; and this doctrine seems to be assumed in ascetic
systems, and is sometimes even pushed to the degree of
maintaining (in words at least) that all the natural instincts
are bad. It w^ould be superfluous for me to assign the
grounds upon which I reject this theory. The whole doc-
trine of evolution seems to imply that absolutely pernicious
instincts are eliminated in the struggle for existence, and to
fall in with the other assumption that virtue implies a cer-
tain organisation of the instincts, and not the extirpation of
any existing instincts. Assuming this for the present, the
inference as to the particular question before us seems to be
simple.
37. Every new sensibility or faculty is so far an advantage
to the agent. A man is a completer being or at a higher
stage of development in so far as he has acquired any faculty
not shared by his fellows. (I assume, of course, that it also
implies a total increase of power.) Again, every such faculty,
so far as it is morally indifferent, exposes its possessor to fresh
temptations, as well as gives him fresh capacities for virtue.
Cultivated tastes often encourage indolence, as they also
enable us to confer fresh services upon our fellows. If even
EFFORT. 303
a sensual appetite, such as a love of wine, exposes a man
to temptation, it also helps materially to save him from a
sour and unsociable temper. A man so far as he possesses
greater faculties is not necessarily more moral or less moral ;
he is only capable of a more extensive virtue or a wider
deviation from virtue. He is moral in the highest sense
when he possesses the most richly endowed nature, and when
it is also so disciplined that he — that is, when his instincts —
are so correlated and organised that he spontaneouslyobeys the
moral law. To be defective in any faculty is to be on a lower
platform, and to come under the moral law at a smaller
number of points. An action which proves such a defect
proves nothing as to the morality of the agent in the cases
where morality is possible for him. But it is also true, of
course, that such a defect saves a man from certain tempta-
tions, as it also removes some opportunities for moral excel-
lence. He is without a faculty which may lead him into
moral ruin, as, if properly disciplined, it may enrich and
strengthen his morality.
38. Hence, therefore, we may say that, in one sense, effort
is essential to merit. A man, that is, must possess the
" natural" instincts in order to become a proper subject for
morality at all. If he possess them in any given degree,
he is the more moral in proportion as they are so disciplined
that moral action is easy for him. But inasmuch as the
instincts are themselves neutral, this always implies a certain
accessibility to temptation, and therefore a certain struggle.
He cannot be properly temperate unless he is capable of
enjoying the pleasures which tempt to excess. If he has no
such capacity, he is not in this respect a moral agent at all.
So far therefore as the effort is taken as a symptom that he
is accessible to the temptation, it is certainly essential to
virtue. But assuming a certain strength of the appetites,
the more virtuous he is, the less will be the effort in a given
case, for the more thoroughly they will be harmonised and
disciplined. No human being, we may add, can be absolutely
or infinitely virtuous. Every motive in a finite being must
304 ' THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
have a finite strength. We may therefore say with the cynic
that every man has his price. Some conceivable strength of
temptation would overpower any human virtue. Thus a
capacity for sinning is implied in a capacity for doing right,
for both imply the existence of passions which may be
enlisted on either side of the struggle. We may even say in
this sense that the more a man is capable of sinning, the
more he is capable of virtue, for the virtuous and the vicious
character are different modifications of the same primitive
instincts, and the man is on a higher stas;e the more thev
are developed. But given the instincts, the temptation to
sin and the disposition to sin can no more prove a man to be
virtuous than the actual sin.
IV. Knowledge.
39. This brings us to the third consideration. The doctrine
that virtue implies effort is associated with the doctrine that
the primary instincts are either corrupt or neutral. Some
theological systems, starting from the dogma of the corruption
of human nature, are logically drawn to the conclusion that
virtue represents a supernatural influence governing and
subduing the natural instincts. The philosopher who rejects
this domia and denies the validitv of this division between
the natural and the supernatural so far admits the method
as to assign to reason the functions of divine grace. Reason
thus dominates and controls the passions, though they are
not regarded as positively bad, but rather as neutral or
morallv indifferent. So far as a man acts from instinct he acts
" irrationally,^' and therefore not morally. Every instinct,
as I have said, may be the ally or the opponent of the moral
motives. A mother's love makes her sacrifice herself to her
children, but it may also lead her to cruelty to others for
their fjood. It is onlv virtuous then, or meritorious, insofar
as it implies a love of virtue and a principle of action which
will guide her when her passions are on the wrong side.
Conduct, it is inferred, is truly virtuous when, and only
KNOWLEDGE. ' 305
whcn^ the action is done because it is virtuous. The motive
must be the pure love of virtue or of virtue for its own sake.
Otherwise, since conduct dictated by the emotions alone is
morally neutral, or even, as it is sometimes said, arbitrary,
it cannot be regarded as properly speaking virtuous.
40. The principle involved in this reasoning is implied in
all that I have said. To say that an action is virtuous is to
say that it is a manifestation of a virtuous character. It is
perfectly true, therefore, that we cannot infer virtue from
an action which springs from a motive conmion to all men
or to all animals, such as hunger or fear. An action which
only proves that a man has an appetite or dislikes pain
does not prove him to be either good or bad. A man's
virtue or intrinsic merit depends upon his whole character,
and his character is a complex of many instincts connected
by laws inscrutable to our imperfect methods, and acting
and reacting in a vast variety of most delicate and intricate
ways. The question as to virtue or merit is the question as
to whether the whole character does or does not imply action
in conformity with the moral law. The question, then,
may be asked, how far such conformity is possible without
an explicit recognition of the law. If it is possible for a
man to act as the law directs without so acting because the
law directs, then his conduct is said to be "materially" but
not "formally" moral. Now there can be no a priori objec-
tion to such a conformity. It is not true (as some language
seems to imply) that conduct dictated by instinct or emo-
tion is arbitrary. Nothing is arbitrary. Every instinet
has its own law, though it may not consciously recognise
the law. And though each instinct, taken separately, may
be morally indifierent, it does not follow that the complex
character built up of those instincts is morally indifferent.
An instinct is not a separate entity, but expresses the reac-
tion of the whole character under a special stimulus; and
the whole must have laws of its own, which express more or
less approximation to, or deviation from, the moral type.
How far that conformity involves an explicit recognition of
u
3o6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the law is a question of facts^ of great complexity doubtless,
upon which a few words must here be sufficient.
41. It is clear^ in the -first place^ that reason is in some
sense essential to virtue. I deny the possibility of separating
the reason from the feelings as two distinct faculties^ and
hold, on the contrary, that in every act of an intelligent
being both reason and emotion are necessarily involved.
Morality proper becomes possible at the point at which
sympathy is possible ; and sympathy involves reason, for it
involves the recognition of other centres of consciousness.
The germs of morality may be present at an earlier stage,
but the germ is not the developed product. The moral law,
again, involves the knowledge of many facts, and often of
very complex facts. Cruelty and kindness cannot emerge
until we recognise the existence of other sentient beings,
nor truthfulness or justice till we can understand general
rules, nor chastity and temperance till we can distinguish
between the cases of legitimate and illegitimate indulgence.
The growth of any of the social relationships, of the state or
the family, imposes obligations which cannot be appreciated
until those relationships are intelligible; and in the higher
stages of life this involves very complex conceptions. Every
development of intelligence implies an extension of the
emotional range, and consequently of the sphere of duty.
Conversely, every extension of the moral code implies a deve-
lopment both of intelligence and feeling. A man who could
feel without thinking or think without feeling is an incon-
ceivable being, and we have no more to do with him than
an ordinary geometer with space of four dimensions.
42. Consistently with this, it still remains such that a man
may (and indeed must) act regularly though he does not act
by rule ; or again, that he may act in conformity with a
moral rule without an explicit regard to its moral character.
He may become aware that, in fact, it expresses his character,
though he has not referred to it as the reason of his actions.
The moral law is the ^'objective" law of his conduct, but
not the '''subjective" law or " reason." I eat when I am
KNOWLEDGE. 307
hungry ; so far I act temperately, though I may not think of
the rule. I help a man in distress because distress always
affects me, though I never think of the general principle ;
and so far I am charitable without recoo-nisino; the dutv of
charity. The more spontaneous the kindly feeling, the less
the need for reference to a moral rule; and accordingly we
regard a man with some suspicion who has always to remind
himself of the moral obligation in order that he may do what
others do spontaneously. This indeed follows if we regard
morality as the product of a character which allows the
various instincts to operate in their proper places instead of
superseding them by some different faculty, and it suggests
the answer to our difficulty. Maternal love, it is said, is
not virtuous so far as it is a mere natural instinct. This
(upon our hypothesis) means that it is not virtuous because
it is consistent with many bad qualities, and may prompt to
injustice on behalf of the children; but no one can deny
that it is so far virtuous that it is implied in a virtuous
character. We should condemn a mother in whom it was
deficient, and condemn her expressly on the ground that she
would be ''wanting in natural feeling." The feeling does
not constitute positive merit, because it is assumed in the
average standard ; but for the same reason its absence is a
positive demerit, or a conclusive proof of inferiority to the
moral type. The mother who had no affection for her child
would be so far a bad woman ; she would be without the
emotions which are the very groundwork of all the virtues.
It is of course true that the affection is not sufficient bv
itself to make her virtuous, and that even then, in many
cases, it may lead her astray. Still it is essential to virtue,
and, in the vast majority of cases, favourable to virtue;
whilst, in the rare cases in which it leads to wrongdoino-,
it may be held in check by other sympathetic feelings which
spring from the same root without any conscious reference
to a moral law. It is true that so long as that conscious
reference is absent we are without the full guarantee for
a regular observance of the moral law. A recognition of
3o8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
that law is, on every hypothesis, the crown and final outcome
of the moralised character ; but a close approximation to
morality may exist previously, just because it is a product,
and not a precedent condition. If this be the true state of
the case or an approximation to it, if morality may exist
in fact without a previous reference to the moral law, we
are quarrelling over words if we deny the name " virtuous "
to such characters.
43. What is true of the maternal affections is true of all
the instincts by which conduct is determined. A man is
virtuous, not so far as he is without passions, nor so far as
they are dominated by some external force, but so far as they
constitute a harmonised whole, determining the approxima-
tion of character to the best social type. The main and
essential condition of morality is the altruism which enables
a man to appropriate the feelings of others^ and so to acquire
instincts with a reference to the social good. That quality,
which is not a separate organ, but an inseparable incident of
the development of the reasoning and feeling agent, supplies
the necessary leverage upon which the social sentiments
operate. Its bare existence, even in a high degree, does not
suffice to make a man thoroughly moral, but it capacitates him
for morality, and renders immorality proportionately difficult.
A man is moral because and in so far as his instincts are
correlated according to a certain type. He cannot become
thoroughly moral, especially in a society in which the moral
law has been distinctly formulated, without becoming con-
scious of the law of his own action, and the recognition be-
comes of great importance as a guide for his conduct in cases
where, without such a rule, he might fail to perceive the true
nature of his conduct. He may be brave, temperate, and
truthful without ever reflecting upon the law which com-
mands the corresponding actions; his sympathies may be so
strong as to guard him against most kinds of wrongdoing ;
and if so, I should certainly call him virtuous, though he
should never think of right and wrong as such, but be
always guided by his immediate feelings. Undoubtedly such
KNOWLEDGE. 309
a man would still be defective, as a man would be defective
who trusted to his immediate perceptions for the knowledge
that two sides of a triangle were greater than the third in
every particular case, instead of recognising the general
principle. But upon my theory, the recognition of the
general rule follows from the specific intuitions instead of
preceding them. Upon a different philosophical theory the
facts would be differently expressed. Meanwhile I can only
say, that, upon my showing, it is simply a question of fact
how far the actual observance of the law involves a recogni-
tion of the law, and one which cannot be solved by a priori
considerations.
44. This brings us to the question which must be more
fully considered in the next chapter. What is the nature of
conscience, or the intrinsic motives to right-doing? The
question is obviously of the highest importance, and the
answer to it will clench this part of the inquiry. At pre-
sent I have only tried to show that, whatever it may be,
intrinsic merit is properly a name for the virtuous character
considered in a special relation, and that the perplexities
arise in great measure from a confusion between merit in
this sense and that merely relative merit which means not
the actual virtue, but the virtue proved by any given action;
or, again, between the qualities considered in themselves and
the estimate placed upon them at different periods. Clear-
ing away these difficulties, there remain difficulties which I
have considered, and of which I need only remark in con-
clusion, that they are all more or less associated with the
familiar illusion sanctioned by the double sense of the word
'Maw." A scientific law, as has been so often said, is nothing
but a generalised statement of facts ; but, in spite of all that
has been said, it is difficult to avoid the impression that it
corresponds in some way to an external something impressed
upon the facts. In this way true if not self-evident state-
ments lead to inextricable labyrinths of confusion. If we
speak of a man's character as obeying a law, we mean only
that he has a fixed character. We are taken to mean that
3IO THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
besides this character there is a law which governs the cliar-
acter^ and thus external coercion is confounded with internal
determination, and freedom, in the sense of freedom of the
character from itself as well as freedom from an outward
restraint, is made a condition of moral conduct. Again, if
we take the rule as a something forced upon a set of bad or
neutral instincts, we assume that an effort corresponding to
this process is essential to virtue. Virtue is not simply the
expression of a certain harmony between the instincts, but
a constraining power opposed to instinct and emotion in
general. And so, finally, this abstraction becomes the sole
principle of virtuous conduct, and virtue is only possible in
so far as it is recognised. Thus, according to my theory,
the various conditions of merit which we have been con-
sidering are distortions of some perfectly simple principles.
The simple fact is, that when we speak of a man's conduct
as virtuous, we assume that it is really conduct, that is, really
determined by his character; that it is the conduct of a real
man, that is, of one who has the normal instincts, appetites, and
emotions ; and really virtuous, that is, the manifestation of a
character which conforms to the type and implies a uniform
obedience to the law. This is distorted into the assumption
that a man must be free, not only from outward restraint,
but from his own character ; that his feelings must not only
be regulated by each other, but entirely suppressed by some
external power; and, finally, that he must not only act
rationally, but act from abstract principles of reason instead
of regulated emotion.
( 311 )
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CONSCIENCE.
I. Theories of Conscience.
1. Having thus attempted to clear away the ambiguities
connected with the word " merit/' and to show that merit
means simply the value set upon virtue^ we have still to ask,
What is the quality valued ? A man, I have said, can only
be virtuous when he obeys the moral law "spontaneously,"
" unconditionally," or from the intrinsic motives implied in
the law itself. A man gives money to the poor ; is he
charitable ? The question can only be answered if I know
the motive, or, which is the same thing, know how the man
will act when circumstances vary. If he acts from direct
sympathy, he is charitable ; if from ostentation, he is only
acting from a desire of praise. His action conforms externally
in this particular case to the rule which would be dictated by
charity, but it is not therefore charitable. The truly chari-
table man would give wherever he could relieve distress,
whether he received praise or failed to receive it ; the osten-
tatious man would do whatever gained praise, whether his
action did or did not relieve his nei2;hbour. If we make a
similar statement in regard to virtuous conduct generally,
we must say that a man is truly virtuous only when he acts
from an intrinsically virtuous motive — when his action is
therefore a guarantee that he will always be virtuous, or
when the simple fact that conduct of a certain kind is com-
manded by the moral law is a sufficient motive with him for
adopting that mode of conduct.
2. What, then, is the intrinsic motive to virtue ?
312 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
Various explanations may be adopted according to our
moral theory. In any case, it may be admitted that con-
duct is only virtuous in so far as it is the manifestation
of a truly virtuous character — that is, of a character
such that the agent will always act in conformity to the
moral law. Obedience to a law is sometimes explained
most simply from the analogy of the positive law as im-
plying respect for some external authority. The motive,
then, common to all virtuous conduct is the motive (what-
ever it may be) which prompts obedience to this rule.
With theological utilitarians, for example, it is taken to be
the fear of supernatural penalties. The difficulty which
then occurs is that the motive appears to be extrinsic ; it is
fear of a god or devil which makes us moral ; and though
we may say that, as a fact, the Deity affixes penalties to
conduct of a certain kind, the connection seems to be arbi-
trary. We cannot say why this or that particular kind of
conduct should be punished or rewarded, and morality is
thus explained by explaining it away. This, again, may be
avoided by saying, with the ordinary utilitarians, that moralitv
means that conduct which produces a maximum of happi-
ness. The difficulty presents itself that the test seems to put
all kinds of happiness on a level, and therefore to affiard no
apparent means of explaining the specific feeling attached
to moral conduct, or the difference between the propositions
"This is right" and "This is useful." Another answer is
therefore adopted, and we are told that the essential motive
to morality is not the fear of a deity simply, but the fear of
a good deity, or that there is a specific feeling, different
from all others, to which we give the name of Conscience,
and which supplies its own credentials. The obvious diffi-
culty is that such an explanation explains nothing. We
cannot tell what a good deity will approve unless we know
what is meant by goodness ; and if goodness is explained to
us by a faculty of which it is the sole function to declare
what is good, we fall into a vicious circle. Another answer
is, therefore, to say that the law gives its own authority in
THEORIES OF CONSCIENCE. 313
the same sense as a logical proposition ; it is ])incling because
reasonable; we cannot deny its validity without falling into
a contradiction in terms. Conduct is virtuous only when it
implies a love of virtue "for its own sake;" and this is
interpreted to mean that the rule, when apprehended by
the reason, compels our assent by its inherent reasonable-
ness, like the rule that things which are equal to a third are
equal to each other. But here we assume that conduct can
be determined without reference to feeling, and we explain
the uniformity of action by an assumption which makes
action unintelligible,
3. How are these various difficulties to be met? The
method which resolves morality into reason is, from my
point of view, unacceptable upon grounds sufficiently indi-
cated in the whole course of my argument. I have, in fact,
assumed all along that conduct is determined by feeling, and
this, which appears to me to be true, so far as we can push
our analysis, is certainly true, I think, within the sphere of
science. It is true, that is, that we are determined to act
by our desires, appetites, or emotions, even if the metaphy-
sician and the outologist can by some means explain a desire
as a process of the individual or the universal reason. The
statement that I eat because I am hungry expresses a fact
with which we are concerned, even if it be not the ultimate
form of expression. Any rule, again, which is deduced from
the pure reason seems to me to have too wide an application.
Formal rationality has no special relation to ethics. No
moralist has succeeded in any plausible deduction of the
moral code without tacitly introducing an appeal to specific
facts properly irrelevant to his doctrine. If general logical
rules can be deduced in this way, moral rules can only be
deduced by some dexterous sleight of hand. " Ought" and
"ought not" (as Hume somewhere says) are suddenly in-
serted in the place of " is " and " is not," Nor, again, can
such a method decide between different codes of morality so
long as they satisfy the general condition of logical coher-
ence. " Let every one care for one," is as good a rule in
314 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the sense of formal logic as the rule, " Let every one love
his neighbour as himself." We can only decide which is
the best rule by appealing to facts given by experience, but
not deducible from any d priori canon of logic. Not only
so, but the law, as generally stated, seems to me to give a
wrong rule in many cases. In some senses it tends (as I
shall have to observe hereafter) to make the external rule
unconditional instead of the internal, and to substitute
" Do this " for " Be this." And, finallv, I think that it is
at bottom an inadequate statement of the undeniable truth
that not only is logical consistence implied in the moral
law, but that the emotional development implies at every
step a corresponding development of the reason. It may be
maintained that as men are, to be perfectly reasonable is
also to be perfectly moral. But we cannot omit the con-
dition "as men are," or infer morality, without taking into
account the specific constitution of men and human society,
and we shall have perhaps further to affix a special sense to
the words " perfectly reasonable."
4. The theory, again, of an autonomous or independent
conscience, of a faculty which exists as a primitive and ele-
mentary instinct, and which is therefore incapable of further
analysis, appears to be equally untenable. I agree, indeed,
that here too we have an inaccurate statement of a highly
important truth. The theory needs the less discussion be-
cause it is part of an obsolete form of speculation. Nothing
is easier than to make out a list of separate faculties and to
call it a psychology. The plan had its negative advantages
so far as it was in useful antithesis to an easy-going analysis,
which was too quickly satisfied with explanations of complex
mental phenomena. At the present day no one will deny
the propriety of rigidly cross-examining the claims of anv
instinct to be an ultimate factor in the orcjanisation. The
difliculties which apply to all such speculations (as, for ex-
ample, to the phrenological theory of separate organs) are
not diminished in the case of conscience. When we take
into account any theory of evolution they arc greatly
THEORIES OF CONSCIENCE. 315
increased. The conscience appears historically as a develop-
ment of simpler instincts. The broad fact must be admitted
that "material morality" makes its appearance long before
any conscious recognition of a moral law. We may pro-
bably trace the germs of the moral instincts down to the
associations of animals ; and we may at least assume that
men live together and obey certain rules, of which the exist-
ing moral law is a continuous development, long before they
have any distinct conception of such a law, as distinguished
from other rules with which it is originally identified, and
from which it is slowly disengaged as civilisation advances.
It would require a very forced interpretation of the pro-
cess to see in it the introduction of an entirely new factor
instead of a gradual development of previously existing
sensibilities.
5. Without appealing to the evolutionist, we need not
hesitate to say that the theory of conscience as an elementary
faculty is untenable or superfluous. Conscience in any case
means the pain felt by the wrongdoer, or rather the sen-
sibility implied by that pain. It is exerted when we judge
that we have deserved blame, and we deserve blame when
we display some moral deficiency. Now a separate instinct
— a physical appetite, for example, such as hunger or lust —
mav give us pain when its dictates are suppressed by some
conflicting impulse. It corresponds to a particular function
of the organism ; it is excited by the appropriate stimulus,
and is the sole instinct directly interested in a given class of
actions. It is supreme within its own province, but it has
to struggle because it is part of a complex whole which can
only act in one way at once, though accessible to a variety
of stimuli. But it is impossible to conceive of the conscience,
in accordance with this analogy, as a particular faculty
co-ordinate with others, or as possessing a separate province
within which alone it is applicable. We may indeed say,
in a sense already explained, that some conduct is morally
indiflerent, and therefore, if we will, outside the sway of the
conscience. That is merely to say that many actions do
3i6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
not justify any inference as to the moral character^ and are
therefore neither meritorious nor demeritorious in the sense
of proving virtue or vice. From the fact that a man is
hungry or obeys hunger we can only infer that he has a
quality common to the virtuous and the vicious. No moral
judgment arises. But this does not mean that the instinct
itself has no moral quality; only that the quality cannot be
inferred from the particular action. A man's appetite for
food has certain determinate relations to his other instincts
and affections ; and according as it exerts a certain influence^
the man is either greedy or temperate, and so far vicious
or virtuous. Hence a man's intrinsic merit or his virtue is
always a function of his character considered as a whole,
and is affected by every variation of the elementary instincts,
though his merit, in the sense of his manifested or proved
virtue, is not inferable from the simple fact that he has
some instinct which may be exerted either for or against the
moral law. Conscience, in short, always implies a judgment
of the whole character, although, as a rule, it considers only
some special manifestation, and a defect or fitness in some
special relation. If it were an instinct co-ordinate with
others, we should then require a further judgment to say
whether it was in excess or defect relatively to the whole
of which it forms a part ; and this other faculty would have
a better claim to be called conscience.
6. In this sense, it may be remarked, the love of virtue
" for its own sake " is sometimes used so as to convey
an absurdity. I may love eating for its own sake, because
there is a specific appetite which corresponds to a particular
stimulus, and I mean simply to say that the act of eating
is pleasant because it gratifies this appetite, whilst no other
appetite is directly interested. But it is impossible to con-
ceive of a love of virtue for its own sake as implying a state
of mind in which the conscience was gratified whilst no
other instinct was interested. If conduct is such as to give
no direct stimulus to anv of the other instincts, to my
love or hate, or hope or fear, or my physical appetites or
THEORIES OF CONSCIENCE. 317
feelings, then the conscience cannot be stimulated. Tt is
awakened whenever the agent perceives that his appetites
are excessive or his emotions distorted ; but it has nothing
to act upon when none of his appetites or emotions are
concerned. By the love of virtue for its own sake, we
can only mean that the fact that an action is moral, with
all the necessary implications of that statement, whatever
they may be, is enough to determine to that action ; and not
that it has absolutely no other implications, which would,
in fact, be to make it inconceivable as conduct at all.
7. If we still speak of the conscience as a separate faculty,
but admit that it is stimulated only when other emotions
are stimulated, the proposition seems to evade our grasp.
If we consider it as a simple feeling, excited through the
perception of other emotions, its law must be dependent
upon them. The specific emotion will be produced when
certain conditions arise which can be stated independently
or in terms of the other instincts. It is a kind of parasi-
tical or dependent sensibility, which gives its responses in
obedience to the impinging forces. It varies as they vary;
and therefore, whether we admit or reject the hypothesis, it
cannot give its own law directly. We must inquire else-
where what are the conditions under which it produces a
painful or a pleasurable emotion. If, on the other hand, we
conceive of conscience as a something which judges of
an action by some inherent power, we see that we really
have to attribute to it reasoning and feeling, a power of
estimating an action, comparing it with a rule, of weighing
and sympathising with all the various passions concerned; and,
in short, we find (as is generally the case with the separate
faculties of psychologists) that we are not really speaking of
a conscience as one amongst various powers of an individual,
but of a conscientious man, who is somehow a spectator of
the agent from within,
8. Without further expanding considerations which are
sufficiently obvious, and which refer to a rather anti-
quated form of theory, I must come to the question,
3i8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
What, then, Is the conscience? If it be neither a distinct
emotion nor a purely intellectual judgment, how are we to
account for it? I admit, of course, that there is such a
feeling — or rather, my theory rests upon the admission that
it exists. Conduct is determined by feeling, and virtuous
conduct by the particular kind of feeling which we call the
conscience. I consider it, indeed, to be not a primary attri-
bute of the agent (to borrow Spinoza's language), but a mode
of the attributes. It is not the less important. Remorse
for crime is clearly amongst the most poignant of emotions.
It has driven some men mad ; it has blighted the whole
lives of others ; it has in all ages been one great source of
the power of the classes who were able to regulate its action
and alleviate its pangs. Its existence is as undeniable as the
existence of hunger or cold or heat. Yet I feel bound to
add that well-meaning moralists are much given to exaggerate
the sorrow which it actually excites. In almost every case
the pain which we feel for a bad act is complex, and due
only in part to our conviction that we have broken the
moral law. The sorrow which I feel for having injured a
friend is made up in part, but only in part, of the sorrow
which I feel for having injured him wrongfully. We may
frequently observe how faint is the purely conscientious
emotion. I kill a man, let us suppose, by an accident — by
carelessly handling a loaded gun, or when really trying to
do him a service, as by mistaking him in the dark for a wild
beast, whose attack might be fatal to us both. Or, again, I
mean to kill him, and take every step in my power, but he
escapes by some entirely unforeseen circumstance. I give
him what I believe to be poison, and it turns out to be a
wholesome drink ; or, vice versa, I poison him meaning to
do him good. Now my guilt is obviously proportioned in
such cases to my intention : the carelessness is precisely the
same whether it produces fatal effects or none; the malice
is equal whether the object docs or docs not happen to
escape. But it cannot be doubted, I think, that as a rule
the remorse felt by most men depends almost entirely upon
THE SENSE OF SHAME. 319
the event. Men arc made wretched for life when they have
killed a friend by pure accident^ even where the carelessness
has been most trifling; they speedily acquit themselves for
the ffuilt of an action dictated bv a malevolent intention,
and completed so far as depended upon them, when by some
accident the intention has not been realised. These facts
may show, as indeed I think they do show, that men reason
very loosely in such matters, and often receive pain or
pleasure from mere illusions of the imagination. But this
comes to the same thing — namely, that, as a matter of
fact, the purely conscientious feeling, the pain resulting
from the consciousness of my wickedness, is often very
feeble, and that much of what we call by that name is
the simpler feeling of regret for the mischief caused, irre-
spectively of the wickedness of causing it. Deduct from
repentance all that is not purely moral, and we must admit
that conscience is not so strong de facto as perhaps it ought
to be de jure. Indeed I should say that most men find
nothing easier than to suppress its stings, when some imme-
diately bad consequence, or the contempt and abhorrence
of their neighbours, does not constantly instil the venom.
This is as far as possible from proving that an increased
strength of conscience is not highly desirable, and that, even
in the existing state of things, its influence is not of the last
importance. The force of gravitation, as physicists tell us,
is intrinsically very feeble compared with many others, but
it keeps the planets in their orbits ; and so the sense of duty,
faint and flickering as it is in the great mass of men, is suffi-
cient to keep the social order from disruption.
II. The Sense of Shame.
9. To explain fully what is meant by conscience, or by
any other mode of feeling, would require a complete psycho-
logy, such as is not at present in existence. It is enough for
my purpose if I can show that it is explicable in conformity
with the theory already laid down. We have to ask how
320 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the conduct forbidden by the moral law comes to excite a
specific sentiment^ which we interpret as disapproval when the
agent is some one else^ as a pang of conscience when he is our-
self ? The difficulty seems to be, that if we interpret it as a
simple emotion, it appears to be more or less arbitrary ; if as
an intellectual perception, it is difficult to see how it can affect
conduct ; whilst the theory which makes conscience an inde-
pendent faculty, invested both with intellectual and emotional
attributes, seems only to evade the difficulty by help of an
unjustifiable assumption. In any case, it seems clear, how-
ever, that there must be both an intellectual and an emotional
side to the process. The old moralists distinguished between
the conscience which declared the law and that which
punished a breach of the law. Each process, in fact, seems
to imply the other. If I perceive that conduct is wrong
because forbidden by law, the sense that I am breaking the
law must be painful, in order that the law may have any
binding force. If, again, we suppose that every wrong act is
attended by a specific feeling, I could construct the law by
generalising from my experience of the feeling. This or that
act causes the specific pain called remorse; these actions,
therefore, are forbidden by the moral law; or the moral law
is a statement of the actions which cause remorse. A wrong
action would be definable as a remorse-causing action. The
function of conscience would be similar to that of hearing
in regard to music. The ear decides authoritatively that
certain sounds are discordant and others harmonious. The
scientific observer notes these cases, and proceeds to determine,
with the help of his reason and his other senses, what are the
conditions which produce disagreeable sounds. If the con-
science were in fact as distinct and separable a faculty as the
hearing, we should be able to decide by a similar process what
were the conditions which caused painful and pleasurable
emotions of this particular class. It might, of course, turn
out that the conscience varied indefinitely from one man to
another, or that it gave uniform decisions in all men. In
the former case, we should again have to inquire what were
THE SENSE OF SHAME. 321
the laws of its variation, and then to inquire whether, and if
so, in what sense, one conscience could be regarded as better
than another. We have, however, the prehminary difficulty
already stated, that the conscience is not in this way marked
off from all other modes of feeling or reasoning, and that
the law is given much more distinctly than the feelino; by
which it is enforced.
10. There is, indeed, a sensibility which seems to have
as good a claim as any other to be regarded as elementary,
and which is clearly concerned in most of our moral judg-
ments. The sense of shame appears to me, so far as one
can judge by the direct introspective method, to be one of the
most distinctive of our feelings, and the presumption seems
to be confirmed by its having a distinct physical manifestation
of blushing. If we assume that this emotion is really some-
thing distinct in itself, we may ask, as we ask in the case of
music, what are the conditions under which it arises? It is
clearly excited by breaches of the moral law, and especially
by detected breaches. A man is ashamed of himself for con-
duct which is actually condemned by the moral judgment of
his neighbours, so far at least as he sympathises with the
general morality, and he is ashamed of conduct which would
be condemned if known. In most men, however, and indeed
in all but exceptionally sensitive men, the shame is enor-
mously increased by the actual condemnation, and, in many
cases, seems to be exclusively due to the consciousness of this
condemnation. Again, so far as I can guess, it does not appear
to me that the sense of shame is proportioned to the moral
gravity of the offence. There is a difficulty in speaking posi-
tively upon such a matter, because the relative importance of
different kinds of offences is very differently estimated by
different moralists, and it is hard to sunu'est any assionable
measure of the gravity. Some moralists, for example, attach a
preponderating importance to veracity and others to chastity ;
some think more of the virtue of justice, and others of the
virtue of benevolence ; but it is not possible to define in any
way the weight assigned to difierent considerations, especially
X
322 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
as there is no agreement as to the irrelevancy of particular
considerations. Speaking roughly, however, one would say
that a sense of shame is more excited bv offences of sensuality
than by offences of cruelty. We say, indeed, "What a shame ! "
when we hear of a gross act of oppression ; but a man con-
victed of tvrannv seems hardly to be liable to shame in the
same way as a man convicted of some offence against purity.
This tvrant may excite more abhorrence but less disgust; he
is not regarded with contempt, and the sense of being con-
temptible is peculiarly connected with shame.
II. Thus, again, we find that the conduct enforced by
the sense of shame seems to extend beyond the sphere of
morality proper. We may perhaps say, in a general way,
that indecency is wrong; but there are a great many acts
which we call indecorous, if not actually indecent, to which
we should scruple to give so grave a name. A want of com-
pliance with the regulations of the society in which we live
excites shame, often very acutely and painfully, and yet we
should hesitate to describe it as immoral. This, of course,
comes in partly under a familiar principle. If it is right to
obey a ruler, it is right to obey his particular commands in
cases where the conduct would otherwise be indifferent ; and
so, in many cases, it is right to do at Rome as Rome does ;
it is right to cover parts of the body in England which it
may be right to leave bare in Abyssinia. But it seems also
to be true that the emotion of shame extends beyond the
actions which would be regarded as in any sense wicked.
Nobody would call a man immoral for appearing at a
dinner-party in a shooting-coat, but a young man would
probably feel more ashamed of himself for such an action
than for many offences which he would admit to be far
graver. Many sensitive people would feel far less shame
if detected in a crime than in connnitting an indecent
action, even though the breach of decency were involuntary,
and therefore not in any sense immoral. So women may
cease to be virtuous without ceasing to be modest, and some
might possibly prefer a loss of virtue to a loss of modesty.
THE SENSE OF SHAME. 323
12. The same may be said in cases which arc less ambi-
guous. Decency may always be regarded as a kind of minor
morality; but the sense of shame is often most powerfully
excited in cases where there is no question of morality at
all. There are few things which a man remembers with a
more hearty and ineffaceable sense of shame than his having
— in the vulgar phrase — made a fool of himself. A youth
who has tried to say something witty, and whose luckless
joke has fallen flat or provoked ridicule, has a memory
which will revisit him in dreams, and make him blush in
private whenever it recurs to him. Even a grave moralist
may often, I suspect, suffer more pain for such slips than is
visited upon him for indisputable moral offences. And not
only thus, but in many cases the sense of shame operates
against the moral code. The boy who thinks it right to
say his prayers is ashamed when his practice is detected by
unsympathetic observers. In some cases a young man is
ashamed of chastity and sobriety when his companions act
upon different principles, even though they do not explicitly
deny the validity of the moral code. We call this, of course, a
false shame, and doubtless it is " false " in the sense that it
can only be justified by false reasoning; but it is, whilst it
lasts, as real as any other feeling, and therefore, whatever
the cause of its being enlisted in the service of the enemy,
it is clear that it is not invariably to be found as an ally of
conscience.
13. Now the general principle which appears to be in-
volved in this case is simply that a sense of shame is somehow
involved in a state of heightened self-consciousness. The
bare fact that we are the objects of attention is sufficient to
produce the painful seiisation of shyness, and that even when
we are the objects of admiring attention. We see ourselves
through the eyes of others; we attend to ourselves out of
sympathy with their attention to us, and are at once object
and subject of our own feelings. When, in addition to this,
the attention is of a hostile kind, or the self-consciousness a
consciousness of defects; when we are the objects of our
324 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
own hatred^ contempt^ disgust, or ridicule, we have some of
the most disagreeable emotions of which our nature is cap-
able. If this be the general law of the feeling, it is intelli-
gible that it should be closely connected with, and yet in
many respects diverge from, the conscientious feeling. So
far as we break the moral law we are acting in opposition
to the general sentiment, and therefore incurring disapproval.
But the law of shame does not coincide precisely with the
moral code; for, in the first place, our feeling in regard to
different moral offences seems to differ in quality, and our
abhorrence of crueltv, though it may be in some senses
stronger, is less keen, and therefore less provocative of the
sense of shame, than the spasm of physical disgust which we
feel for some kinds of sensuality ; and, in the next place,
the code extends beyond the moral code, inasmuch as many
things are exquisitely ridiculous which are not immoral ;
and, finally, it may even conflict with morality, in that case,
at least, in which a kind of spurious moral code is formed by
a special section of society, or in cases where the conduct
deflects from the average standard, not by falling short, but
by exceeding it in a way which seems to imply a tacit
reproach to others.
14. The sense of shame, then, is in some sense implicated
in conscientious feeling. It is clearly a part of the emotion
which restrains me from wrongdoing. I shrink from detec-
tion in shameful conduct, and from conduct which would be
shameful if detected. The motive, whether I call it con-
scientiousness or not, acts on behalf of any accepted moral
code ; but we cannot identify it with the conscience, because
it operates fitfully, affects conduct which is not moral, and is
sometimes even opposed to morality; as also because it con-
demns crimes which are found out much more emphatically
than the same crimes when they are not found out. The
question therefore arises how such an emotion can supply an
intrinsic motive to virtue. Has it not rather a dangerous and
disturbino; influence ? So far as I am accessible to shame, shall
I not be inclined to over-estimate the judgment of the special
THE SENSE OF SHAME. 325
class in which T live, to regard decorum as of more importance
than real virtue, to make respectability the measure of my
conduct, to prefer the infliction of a real injury upon one
who cannot complain to showing the least disregard in public
to the slightest fancies of a conspicuous ruler, to obey codes
which I disapprove in my heart, such as that which enforces
duellin(r, and to break throujrh moral laws which are {generally
neo-lected, such as that which condemns bribery ; and, above
all, shall I not feel a much greater fear of being found out
than of beinc- g-uJltv? To this I should replv: Undoubtedlv
shame often acts in this undesirable way. It is not identical
with conscience, and when badly informed or regulated it
may even put obstacles in the way of moral progress, and
account for the fitful and apparently arbitrary fluctuations in
the moral standard. But I should also find it impossible to
say that the shame felt by a sinner is not part of the con-
scientious feeling or of the intrinsic sanction of morality.
The difficulty is, that if we admit it as part of the conscien-
tious feeling, we admit an element of feeling which may vary
from one man to another, and which does not account for
the specific character of conscience. This requires a little
further consideration.
15. Shame, in the first place, is the name of a certain state
of consciousness. I know that I am ashamed as I know that
I have the toothache, or as I know that I am amused — by
direct feeling. It is so far an ultimate fact, which cannot
be explained any more than any other immediate feeling or
emotion ; we feci, and therefore we know that wc feel, and
no more can be said. But we may, of course, proceed to
ask, What are the conditions under which this feeling is
generated? It involves, we say, a certain intellectual per-
ception ; we have only, then, to say what is this perception
in order to assign the law of the feeling. So, for example, it
would be easy to suggest that shame arises when we perceive
our inferiority to others, and then to infer that shame is the
perception of inferiority. This method, however tempting it
may be, leads in fact to endless confusion. Nothing is really
326 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
more difficult than to discover the law of a feeling. Philo-
sophers dispute endlessly as to the definitions of such words
as " beautiful," " ludicrous/' or " shameful." Although
every one may understand what is the emotion which arises
when we see a beautiful object, or are moved to laughter by
the ludicrous, or to blushing by the shameful, it is at least as
difficult to discover the law of these emotions as to discover
the law of any physical phenomena, and the only satisfactory
method is in either case by a systematic interrogation of
experience; we should, in fact, have to discover all the cases
in which we do, in fact, feel the emotion in question. When
we are ashamed we are ashamed, and we are often ashamed
when our preconceived formula seems to be inapplicable.
We feel, and in each particular case we know our feeling, or
in other words we are conscious ; but we are not by any means
directly conscious of the law of the feeling, or able to say in
what other cases it will arise. So soon as we begin to gene-
ralise we are liable to indefinite error, and we are just as apt
to go wrong about the phenomena of our own consciousness
as about any other phenomena. The reason is, as I should
say, that the perception, for example, of our inferiority is not
a bare logical process, but is also a mode of feeling: it involves
a comparison of immediate and represented states of feeling;
and the compound emotion which arises will vary as they
vary, and cannot be deduced from the simple statement of
the identity or diversity of two conceptions. In fact,
nothing is more common than to find that the philosophical
definition hopelessly breaks down, and that we do not feel
wdiat our theorists tell us that we shall feel when the case
actually occurs. In short, to find the law of any of these
modes of feeling requires, not a simple generalisation of
a formal loi2;ical statement, but a verifiable and scientific
psychology.
i6. The feeling of shame, then, appears as a positive datum
in our theories. It represents a matter of fact which can
only be explained and its laws determined through careful
observation. In this sense it seems to irive rise to direct and
THE SENSE OF SHAME. 327
unassailable intuitions. In any given case, at least, I am
conscious of feeling or of not feeling shame, and I may, if I
please, state this as an intuitive perception, that the condition
in which I am placed is shameful. Nor, again, am I much
further advanced if I admit that shame arises whenever I am
conscious of doimr something disgustins;, ridiculous, or even
strongly provocative of the attention of others; for I must
ask what are the conditions which make conduct ridiculous,
disgusting, and so forth. This is no easier than to say what
makes it shameful. And not only so, but it would seem
that the relation is reciprocal ; that is to say, that a man in
whom a sensibility to shame is keen will find things ludicrous
or disgusting which are not so to his less sensitive neighbour;
and thus, again, we seem to be falling into a vicious circle, or
to have an insoluble problem.
17. The case, however, so far as we are concerned, may
be sufficiently solved. In the first, shame, considered as a
mode of feeling, has a certain and conceivably determinable
function in the moral constitution. It is not arbitrary except
in the sense that it is a datum which is given by experience,
but cannot be deduced by any a priori process. It is not
arbitrary in the sense of being susceptible of indefinite varia-
tion, which seems to be the impression of those who would
say that to admit such a feeling as determining the conscience
is to make morality a mere "matter of taste." Even taste
or fashion is not " arbitrary " in the full sense of the word,
for in that sense nothing is arbitrary; it has its laws, though
thev are laws consistent with a very wide variation from one
individual to another. The emotion is of course limited by
the physiological and psychological laws of the individual
structure. It may, as I have said, vary very widely in some
respects. A degree of nudity which is excusable in one
region is disgusting in another ; and, generally speaking,
the emotion — as follows from its general nature — is of course
very amenable to custom. As a medical student soon loses
the sense of horror at surgical operations, a child brought up
in a degraded social state feels no instinctive revolt against
328 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
impurity, dishonesty, falsehood, or cruelty. But the variation,
though it is impossible to assign its limits, because we have
not the necessary experience for deciding such a problem, is
clearly not indefinite, llie instinctive repugnance to sights
of blood and mangled flesh may be suppressed, but it could
not be generated at pleasure in regard to any other objects.
So, as I have suggested, the feeling of shame is specially
stimulated where certain passions are concerned, and this
implies the existence of physiological laws which cannot be
altered so long as the most fundamental properties of human
nature remain. We may doubt how far it would be possible,
by any course of training, to invert the sense of shame in
particular cases, and to make those actions disgraceful which
are now honourable or vice versa. But in any case, it is
clear that the variation is limited and forced to take place
along certain lines, if we may so speak, by the constitution
of our nature. It can no more be arbitrarily changed at the
will of some other person than a legislator could order men
to be seasick on land and comfortable at sea, or force our
gorge to rise at wholesome food and make carrion appetising.
The organism is not the less subject to precise laws because it
is capable of responding in a vast variety of ways to different
stimuli.
1 8. Undoubtedly, however, the possible variation is great
enough to conform to the observed variability of moral
codes. If men are, in fact, shameless in certain respects in
one country and ashamed in another ; if the standards of
courage, purity, truthfulness, and benevolence vary widely,
and without any corresponding variation in the innate
powers of the individual, it follows of course that the deter-
mining condition must be the social medium. What is not
explained by the individual organism must be explained by
the social organism. If modern Englishmen are disgusted
by conduct which did not disgust Socrates, we must explain
the difference by the whole social development which has
taken place in the interval ; and, if my theory of morality
be correct, this shows in what sense variation is possible.
THE SENSE OF SHAME. 329
The existence of a social order or a certain stage of develop-
ment implies a corresponding development in the individual,
considered as a constituent part of the society. This develop-
ment implies on the one hand the attainment of a certain
moral standard, which, again, implies obedience to and
respect for the primary moral laws; and, on the other, it
implies that the whole character of the individual, including
the sense of shame, which is one of the most powerful factors
in determining his conduct, must be so modified as to imply
an acceptance of the standard. The fixed element which
causes the sense of shame to develop, so to speak, along
certain lines, is simply the social necessity. I have tried to
show in what sense morality is essential to social vitality,
and in that sense and within these limits the sense of shame
must be so moulded as to maintain the moral standard,
unless the society is not to deteriorate, and to raise it if the
society is to make progress.
19. This is enough to show that there are narrow though
not easily assignable limits to a possible variation of the
instinctive feeling. Social development implies moral deve-
lopment, but it of course implies much more. It implies the
development of a certain type of character, which includes
as essential certain moral qualities. It implies, that is, the
growth of mutual confidence, peacefulness, the restraint of
antisocial passions, and so forth. But though a certain
moral conformation is implied, and is essential to the social
efficiency of the agent, his possession of these qualities does
not define his character. We may have an indefinite variety
of talents and sensibilities not directly concerned in this
morality. Consistently with moral excellence, he mav be
an artist, a philosopher or a poet, a statesman or an artisan,
a priest or a lawyer, and in each case his character and his
intellect will be stimulated in different ways and have differ-
ent excellences. The morality is an attribute of the core or
nucleus of character, separable only by an abstraction, not
as a concrete entity : it defines the qualities necessary in
every relation ; it imposes certain limits upon every instinct,
330 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
and is itself strengthened or weakened by the reaction of
every part of our natures. There is no reason therefore to
suppose that it has any faculty peculiar to itself. A given
instinctj such as the sense of shame^ may be so developed
that the whole character conforms to the moral type; but it
may be called into play in many cases where morality is not
immediately concerned^ and every other instinct must also
have a part along with it in enforcing the moral law. The
qualities implied by morality do not correspond to any
separate instinct any more than moral actions constitute a
separate class amongst other qualities. They only define cer-
tain modes of reaction of the whole organism in particular
relations.
20. It follows that the dictates of an instinct such as
shame are not arbitrary in the sense sometimes assumed.
If, in fact, some conduct were condemned simply as offensive
to a separate instinct which might or might not be present,
there would be a difficulty in obtaining a fixed rule. This
disgusts me and that disgusts you; who is to say which is in
the right? To this it may be answered that he is right who
is disgusted by really mischievous things. The answer is
satisfactory as far as it goes, but it leaves a difficulty un-
solved. If the instinct which forbids certain conduct, say a
sense of decency, were something separate and unsociable,
we must ask whether it has a rio;ht to be considered in the
matter. Indecent conduct is no doubt mischievous so far
as it gives pain, but we can get rid of the sense of decency,
and then the conduct will not give that kind of pain. The
objection, then, to the indecent action is extrinsic; it is not
bad simply because indecent, but because it has some other
ill effect; and if the sense of decency could be abolished
without any other alteration in character, we might propose
to get rid of it as, on the whole, a troublesome and illusory
quality. We should then object only to those indecent
actions which appeared to be mischievous upon other grounds,
and judge directly by their utility as so measured, without
considering their superfluous or supplementary inconvenience.
THE SENSE OF SHAME. 331
When, however, we consider the whole problem, this is
obviously inadequate. Undoubtedly the evil of indecent
actions is not confined to the simple pain inflicted upon that
particular sensibility. The sense of decency is closely con-
nected with the virtue of purity, and it is desirable to main-
tain it as a kind of outpost which defends a virtue most
essential to society. But this, as we have seen, does not
exhaust the utility of the instinct, when we consider it not as
a separate mode of feeling, but as a sensibility implied in the
whole development of character. A man, that is, who is not
endowed with a capacity for such feeling, must be made
throutrhout of coarser fibre. A society in which some code
of decency is not developed must be entirely wanting in a
refinement and delicacy which is an essential symptom, and
reciprocally an essential condition, of any but the lowest stages
of barbarism. The penal code may vary widely; some code
is necessary if men are to be more than a herd of brutes.
We must, in short, as I have previously said, consider the
whole oriranisation of man in society. We cannot measure
the value of a sense of decency by simply considering a
particular set of bad consequences resulting from indecent
actions other than the shock to decency, but the whole
difference between a state of society which possesses and one
which does not possess such a code. That difference would
probably turn out to be the difference between a thoroughly
brutalised and a really refined and intelligent social state, in
which the moral qualities were in harmony with the general
advance in the scale of civilisation. To ask what is the use
of a sense of decency is to ask how far any tolerable social
order could be constructed without stimulating the various
emotive sensibilities which are concerned in generating that
sense and forming a corresponding code, and no mode of
inquiry can be satisfactory which omits a full consideration
of all the implied conditions.
332 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
III. Esthetic Judgments.
2T. The value, therefore, of any particular instinct depends
upon its place in the whole character, and is thus not arbi-
trary in the sense in which it would be arbitrary if we could
speak intelligibly of men as made up of different faculties,
any one of which could be removed without implying a
chano-e of the whole organisation. The question remains
how it comes to pass that the conscientious feeling, which is
thus a function of the whole character and not a specific
faculty, comes to have so distinctive a quality as is at least
frequently attributed to it? This difficulty, as I may observe
in the first place, is not peculiar to ethical judgments. When
we say, " This is beautiful or ugly," we refer to a set of feel-
ings which, in the judgment of common sense, are quite as
distinctive in respect of quality as those to which we refer
when we say, "This is right or wrong," if by those words
we mean agreeable or offensive to the moral feeling. In the
latter case, it is true, there is also a reference to a fixed rule,
which is supposed to be the same for every one, whilst the
aesthetic judgment has little or no reference to any such rule.
This, however, only means that the laws of the aesthetic
feelings are much more dependent upon the idiosyncrasies of
the individual than the laws of the ethical feelings. I will
consider directly what is implied in this. It is not incon-
sistent with the statement, which seems in any case to be
true, that we know as well what is meant by the sense of the
beautiful as by the sense of the morally right, just as we know
what is meant by the sensual appetite for food, although one
man likes one food and one another. The class to which the
feelings belong is as distinctly marked off from other classes,
thou2:h it is more variable in its dictates.
23. Now the aesthetic feelings, whatever else they may
be, are not a set of separate emotions, distinct from others
as one physical appetite is distinct from another. On the
contrary, it is the prerogative of art to call into play every
ESTHETIC JUDGMENTS. 333
possible variety of emotion. We say that a woman, a sun-
set, a picture, a tunc, or a simple colour or form, is beautiful.
We mean that some of our passions are agreeably stimulated,
not that a set of passions distinct from those which affect us
in other relations is stimulated. In one case, it is the direct
pleasure of the senses; in others, moods which call into play
an indefinite variety of intellectual processes; as in reading
a fine poem, our pleasure may be derived from the tender
melancholy of old associations or from thoughts of the sorrows
and joys of the whole human race. To decide what consti-
tutes the aesthetic mood would be to enter upon a very thorny
problem, for which I am not competent, and which does not
appear to be relevant to the present question. One point,
however, is sufBcient for my purpose. We may assume, that
is, the truth of the general statement that the end of all truly
ffisthetic indulgence is the immediate pleasure ; and this state-
ment would be sufficient if it could be made quite accurate
for my present purpose.
23. I find, indeed, a certain difficulty in stating this
criterion to my satisfaction, and the difficulty arises, I think,
from the fact that the distinction is not so absolute as is
frequently assumed. All conduct whatever is determined
in the sense already explained by the pleasantness or painful-
ness of the corresponding feeling; and conduct in this sense
must include both aesthetic and other modes of activity. The
proposition, for example, must be equally true whether I am
composing or listening to music, or painting pictures, or fight-
ing, or labouring in the fields. It must be equally true, again,
that the immediate pleasure is the sole determining condition,
whether I am drinking a glass of wine or listening to a song;
and we should be stretching the definition of aesthetic enjoy-
ment too widelv if we used it to include the former kind of
pleasure. The distinction seems to correspond to the distinc-
tion between play and work. Certain activities are con-
sciously intended to procure some future pleasure and to
modify the conditions of my existence ; in others, I have no
thouo-hts of anything beyond the present, and I find pleasure
334 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
in the simple utterance of my emotions and their direct
stimulation without reference to future consequences. If I
hunt to get food, I am at work ; if I hunt without caring for
any ulterior results, I am at play. When I read a storv or
see a play, the same emotions are stimulated which would be
affected if I were reading history or witnessing a scene in
real life : the sense of the unreality of the objects presented
to my eyes or my imagination converts my feelings into the
aesthetic state as it deprives them of the normal influence
upon conduct. In Dryden's Ode, Alexander passes through
all the emotions in turn of pride, ambition, love, pitv, and
anger, till one happens to coincide with an opportunity for
action, and the emotional force which had previously expended
itself in vague excitement suddenly discharges along a fixed
channel and propels him to energetic action. In one case, it
seems, we are, so to speak, merely discharo^ino- feelino- or blow-
ing off steam ; in the other, applying it to the purpose of
doing mechanical work.
24. The difference, then, between aesthetic and other
pleasures depends upon the form of the gratification, not
upon the instincts gratified. The poet or the artist appeals
to my love, hate, or sympathy as much as the preacher or
the philosopher, though he does not direct them to any
specific practical end ; and hence we have the variability of
the aesthetic canons of taste which seems to distincruish them
from the rule of conscience. Whatever gives pleasure may
give aesthetic pleasure, and there seems to be in some direc-
tions hardly any limits to the divergence of individual tastes.
If I like this colour or taste and you like that, we are equally
pleased, and there is no criterion for deciding our difference.
So treacherous and fluctuatino- a mode of feelino- should there-
fore, it is said, be excluded from moral judgments if morality
is not to be regarded as a mere fashion. The answer, so far
as the moralist is concerned, is not difficult. However vari-
able the taste may be, it is not — for nothing is — absolutely
variable. Even in the simple case of a direct pleasure of the
senses — a love of bright colours, for example — the scientific
ESTHETIC JUDGMENTS. 335
observer may show that certaui sensibiHties are essentially
connected with certain organic conditions, and thus that
some imply healthy and others morbid conditions. The
sense of the beautiful, again, implies the presence of an
intellectual element, and the development of the intellect
thus imposes certain conditions on the development of the
taste. So, for example, the pleasure which we derive from
the sight of a fine figure or a perfect statue implies a power
of judging of certain relations of form, a capacity for recog-
nising that a given conformation corresponds to the best
possible combination of strength and activity. It is, indeed,
another question to ask why such a combination should give
us pleasure; and we need not attempt to decide whether the
recognition is explicit or implicit, whether we feel or reason,
or judge by an instinct, or in any degree by a recognised
formula. In any case the taste must conform to the facts,
and will be more or less the same whenever the conditions of
strength and activity are the same, and a perception that they
are fulfilled gives pleasure; and this is equally true where
the perception which gives pleasure involves some condition
of the intellectual emotions.
25. This, I think, explains the sense in which we must
admit that the conscience includes an aesthetic element, and
in which we may properly speak of a moral sense. Any
pleasurable emotion whatever may be involved in what is
called aesthetic pleasure. We derive pleasure, therefore, from
a vast variety of perceptions which have no assignable rela-
tion to moral feeling. Anything which stimulates the emo-
tions agreeably may give rise to an aesthetic pleasure, the
only conditions being that the mode of feeling must be
agreeable, and must not be expended on what we call prac-
tical effort. One kind of aesthetic pleasure, therefore, is that
which we derive from the contemplation of certain characters
or the play of certain emotions in our fellows. Moral
approval includes the pleasure derived from the contemplation
of virtuous character, and may therefore give rise to an
aesthetic pleasure. If we admire heroism, unselfishness.
33^ ' THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
simplicity, and other moral qualities iu real life, the artist
may appeal to that emotion as well as to any other: he may
set before us imaginary ideals, from the contemplation of
which we may derive a very keen as well as very elevating
pleasure, or he may provide us with a means of uttering the
emotions which are habitually stimulated by such contem-
plation^ or by the directly moral emotions themselves. So
far as there is any emotional element in our approval of
moral conduct, it may take the aesthetic form. According
to me, it would be impossible that morality itself should be
maintained if it did not excite these pleasurable emotions.
The conception of merit implies, as I have argued, the social
pressure which consists in a general approval and admiration
of certain qualities and a disapproval and contempt of their
opposites. The emotion may pass from one phase to the
other according to circumstances. It is in the aesthetic phase
when we simply enjoy the contemplation of some beautiful
moral tvpe set before us in history or fiction, and passes^into
the practical phase as soon as it begins to have a definite
relation to the conduct of our lives. If^ for example, I admire
the simplicity and tenderness of the " Vicar of Wakefield "
whilst I am reading Goldsmith's masterpiece, I am simply in
the aesthetic frame of mind. If an analogous case presents
itself at the moment, the emotion kindled by the artist may
prompt me to charitable and so far moral action. The strains
of military music may produce aii ardent excitement which
expends itself in mere feeling, or may stimulate a regiment to
mount a dangerous breach.
26. But admitting the existence of the feeling, how far
does it bring any guarantee of conformity to the moral law ?
How far are the dictates of the moral sense infallible or
authoritative? The bare fact that the contemplation of
certain emotions or types of character is pleasurable does not
prove that they are morally good or bad, for, in the first
place, no moral cjuestion mav be raised. I may simply be
sympathising with emotions common to the good and the
bad ; but if a moral sentiment be involved, the bare fact that
mSTIIETIC JUDGMENTS. 337
you and I approve is clearly not conclusive as to its Tightness.
Nor does it always follow that a conviction of the moral
excellence of certain character or conduct will suffice to make
the contemplation agreeable. This, indeed, is obvious from
a consideration of the way in which we suppose the moral
law to arise. When I say that I know an action to be right,
I mav mean simplv that it is in conformity with a law which,
for whatever reason, I respect. So long as the moral law is
stated in the external form, and is obeved from some extrinsic
motive, such as respect for the authority of the supposed
legislator, I may approve obedience without feeling any
vivid and spontaneous pleasure. I admit this or that to be
right — that is, commanded — and on the whole, therefore, I
wish to see it done; but I do not feel that spontaneous and
instinctive sympathy which is necessary to generate aesthetic
pleasure. It is only in so far as the moral law has become
the law of my character, and expresses the way in which my
emotions act previously to reflection upon any abstract prin-
ciple, that I can be said to have a moral sense. Undoubtedly
this moral instinct may be exceedingly powerful and sensitive
in some characters, and give indications more delicate than
anv process of deliberate calculation. A man of fine moral
sensibility mav perceive emotional discords as a man of fine
musical ear mav be sensitive to differences of sound too slight
to be measured by scientific observers. So we may in certain
cases accept the judgment of a man who is remarkable for a
keen sense of honour. The fact that certain conduct does
not shock him is evidence that it cannot be dishonourable :
we hold that his instinctive perceptions supply a more delicate
test than can be embodied in any cut-and-dried formula.
37. We may admit, then, that the thorough assimilation
of the moral law implies the growth of a sensibility which
may be called aesthetic — a capacity for receiving delight from
the bare contemplation of high moral qualities, abstractedly
from any special advantages expected from them, or from
any extrinsic consequences. We may agree that to some
extent this sensibility must be developed in every truly virtu-
338 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
ous person^ that is, in any person in whom the instincts
which dictate obedience to the moral law have become de-
finitely organised; and, further, that this aesthetic pleasure
implies a corresponding sentiment as governing practice, and
that in the more finely constituted natures it implies a deli-
cacy of discrimination beyond that which can be formulated
in any of the accepted moral commonplaces. Unless, in-
deed, the moral sense is cultivated up to this pitch, so that
we take a spontaneous delight in the spectacle of heroic or
philanthropic energy, we can hardly say that a society has
become tolerably moralised. But we still have to admit
that there is an apparently arbitrary or indeterminate ele-
ment in such feeling. It varies from one man to another,
and it is difficult to suggest any test for distinguishing'be-
tween the healthy and the morbid sensibility ; between that
exquisite perception which outruns the more tangible tests
and the perverted perception which is biassed by some in-
dividual peculiarity. A man of a high sense of honour, for
example, may be Quixotic ; he may attach undue value to
certain considerations, and sanction a retro2;rade instead of
an advanced moral code.
28. What then is the fixed element? The instinctive
feeling always includes, we may say, an intellectual judg-
ment. But what is this implicit judgment? It is prima
facie a judgment that this or that conduct gives pleasure.
But as different things may please different people, two diver-
gent judgments may be equally right. It is still, after all, a
question of taste, and therefore comes within the proverbial
exclusion from a possibility of logical decision. It is clear,
however, that even a question of taste may often admit of
being brought to an issue of facts. So, in the analogy
already suggested, two sculptors may prefer two different
ideals, yet both of them may agree in preferring that form
which represents, say, the most perfect combination of
strength and agility. There is therefore a clear objective
test. One of the two forms represented will in fact perform
a given feat with the least effort, or with a given effort pro-
THE CONSCIENCE. 339
dace the greatest results. The process of educating the
taste is virtually a process of learning to solve such problems
instinctively, and we may say that the taste is best which
solves them most accurately. The question is therefore a
question of fact, though it may be one of such complexity
that it is impossible to obtain more than an approximate
solution.
29. Now, if we apply this analogy, we have to say what
is the problem presented to the moralist. Every moral
judgment, as I have argued, is an implicit (if not an explicit)
approval of a certain type of character. It includes, there-
fore, an assertion that the highest type includes certain
qualities of character, which, of course, imply corresponding
modes of conduct. The highest type, again, must, according
to our theory, be that which is on the whole best fitted for
the conditions of social welfare. The problem is just as
precise as the problem which physical conformation is best
adapted to satisfy the conditions of health, strength, and
activity. The fact, so far as it is a fact, that we cannot
obtain an accurate solution does not prove that there is no
such solution to be found, but only that the solution requires
longer observation and a more elaborate set of experiments
before we can hit upon it. The experiment, in fact, is that
which is being always carried on by the collective experience
of the race; and though we have established beyond a
possibility of doubt certain general principles which are the
basis of the accepted moral code, there is still a considerable
margin of uncertainty in details. Upon this assumption,
the problem for the moralist is analogous to the problem for
the artist ; each is virtually trying to discover a certain type
which has definite conditions to satisfy — briefly spcakino-,
that of bodily vigour in one case and of social vitality in the
other.
IV, The Consciejice.
30. But it must also be admitted that, although I have
argued that this gives a correct definition of morality, or a
340 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
description of the function actually discharged by the moral
sentiments, I have not maintained^ nor does it seem to be
in fact maintainable, that it is a description of the explicit
aim of moral conduct. I have considered what is.the ground
or cause of morality, what is the explanation of its existence
to an independent observer ; but I have not considered what
is the reason which is consciously admitted by moral agents.
The society is moral up to a certain standard " because " the
society could not reach a certain stage of development without
being so far moral. But this does not imply that the end of
every man, so far as moral, is the elevation of society or
the preservation of its vigour. On the contrary, it may be
true that though the moral man contributes to that end, he
may never think about it. So far as the units are moral, the
social organism which they constitute is healthy ; but a man's
reason for being moral need not include any reference to that
fact, nor need the reasons always be identical. A man may
act from a given instinct without asking how he comes to
have that instinct, nor whether it is original or derivative,
permanent or destructible, useful in any sense to himself or to
others. Indeed, the plausibility of rival systems of ethics is
partly due to the fact that men may be moral, that is, may
obey certain external rules of conduct, from different motives ;
with some the motive may be fear of hell, an association
with certain accidental circumstances, or some instinct which
has been generated thev know not how; or, again, the im-
mediate motive may be a desire of consistency, or direct
sympathy with their surrounding neighbours; and although
it is true that, in each of these cases, there .corresponds a
certain type of character, and the difference might be revealed
by the occurrence of special conditions, still, under the average
circumstances of life, the resulting rule of conduct may be
approximately the same. How far one motive or system of
motives is more strictly entitled to be called conscientious than
another is a question to be considered directly; and thus
we have to ask how the different modes of reorardinir morality
can all lead to the same result, or how men should obtain the
THE CONSCIENCE. 341
answer to one problem when they are apparently aiming at
another ?
31. The answer, as I take it, follows from the facts alreadv
stated. Tq any particular association of human beings there
must correspond a certain corporate sentiment. A state
implies the existence of feelings of loyalty or patriotism; a
church, a certain religious sentiment which carries with it
attachment to the ecclesiastical order; an armv implies dis-
cipline ; a college, a school, and a club imply certain sentiments
of mutual goodwill and readiness to accejit the conditions of
common action for the purposes of the particular association.
Whatever ma.y be the cause of the existing sentiments, what-
ever may be the end of the association or the function of the
social organ, the corporate sentiment which holds it together
must always imply conformity to certain rules necessary to
the welfare of the body ; and as the sentiment is vigorous or
feeble, the body will so far tend to flourish or decay. More-
over, the sentiment which springs up and binds men together
implies something which it is often very hard to distinguish
from a moral sentiment. The spirit of loyalty to some special
association sometimes conflicts with the ordinary moral law,
and is often strong; enoutrh to overcome it. A thief is
bound to his gang by a sentiment which we call immoral,
because it implies conduct condemned by the prevailing moral
code ; but so far as it implies a genuine identification of him-
self with the gang, and a sacrifice of his private interests to
those of the community, it is rather a kind of spurious or
class morality, implying obedience to a rival moral code. So
the member of a particular class acquires a sense of oblifration
to the class even where its interests conflict with those of the
organism at large. The proverbial noblesse oblige may imply
a more refined sense of honour, but it also frequently implies
a regard for the privileges of the class abstractedly from the
question of their utility to the whole communitv. When we
take the wider associations, the state, for example, it becomes
diflicult to distinguish between the sphere of conscience and
that of the more specific sentiment. Patriotism, we sav, is
342 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
a dutv; and of course It is a duty in every man to promote
the welfare of the nation to which he belongs. But there
are cases — unfortunately of not infrequent occurrence — in
which the duty of patriotism seems to diverge from the duty
in a wider sense. Even intelligent people are not ashamed
to limit their obligations by the supposed interests of their
country — to declare that it is a man's " duty" to be for his
country "right or wrong" — to promote the happiness of
Englishmen even at the expense of the general welfare of the
world, or even to extend the British empire at the expense of
the happiness of all its constituent members. The sense of
duty or obligation to any class to which we may happen to
belong seems to have very much the same quality, so to
speak, as the moral sense, though we only use the word " duty "
when we are not considering the class, or when it is so large
that our intellectual horizon does not practically extend
beyond it.
32. Now, upon my showing, the sense of duty or the purely
moral oblio-ation has the same relation to the " social tissue "
as the various special sentiments corresponding to each organ
or association have to the body to which they correspond.
I am patriotic so far as Englishman, and moral so far as
human being, or rather as a constituent member of a certain
social order. The difficulty, then, with which we are now con-
cerned is simply that in the one case there is, and in the other
there is not, a certain definite and rounded body which may
serve as the concrete object of my devotion. It would be
hopeless to attempt an analysis of all the sentiments which
go to form patriotism, and it is enough to say that at times
they include the most unselfish emotions and the widest
intellectual culture, as in the case of our best statesmen,
whilst sometimes the sentiment may exhibit itself in the
grotesque form of the aversion of a clown for a race of which
he only knows that it uses strange words, and includes such
a sentiment in its composition many unamiable and selfish
feelings. And yet there is so much similarity that the clown
and the statesman may be equally ready to die for the flag, or
THE CONSCIENCE. 343
uphold what is generally supposed to be the honour of their
nation. Now if the nation were something formless and
indefinite, something which had no definite internal symbols
and could issue no definite orders, how could any devotion
be either generated or displayed ? And this seems to be the
case with that extremely indefinite entity the " social tissue,"
which can neither give rules nor be regarded as an object of
devotion.
^^. The answer seems to bs twofold. In the first place,
every possible form of association implies some moral training.
So far as a man is a member of any larger organisation, the
qualities which fit him for social action are stimulated and
disciplined. As a citizen, as a member of a church, and in
everv other capacity in life, he learns subordination, self-
restraint, consideration for others, and so forth. The quality
of every particular organ depends upon the qualities of the
tissue from which it is constituted, and have invariably an
influence upon it. The character of each unit is affected
in some degree by his position as a member of the larger
body, and the modification thus impressed affects him in all
other capacities. If I learn obedience as a soldier or self-
restraint as a member of a club, I shall be so far adapted
to display the same characteristics in any other relation in
which I may be placed. And further, as a general rule, the
conditions of vitality of the society at large must be also
conditions for the vigour of any particular association formed
from it. Anvthino: which contributes to a man's health in
general is also useful in any particular employment. There
is not one set of sanitary rules for a peasant and another for
an artisan, though each occupation has its special conditions,
which may be regarded as modifications of the more general.
This is equally true of the conditions of social health. So
far as a man is morally better, he is better fitted for the
particular duties imposed upon him by his special position
in the general organisation. In fact, if an association were
so constituted as to require a set of rules different from the
general rules, or, in other words, if immorality were a condi-
344 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
tion of membership^ it would correspond to a morbid growth
instead of a normal organ. The society would so far be in
a condition of decay, and the elimination of the association
in question would be necessary for its vitality. The general
condition, in short, of social vigour implies an approximate
identity of interests between the whole and every constituent
part. It is, of course, true indeed that the special interests
of a particular part of the community may conflict with
those of the whole, and it is the chief duty of a statesman
to guard against such deviations on pain of revolution or
social decay. The devotion of the soldier may tell in favour
of despotism, and patriotic spirit may lead to the most
atrocious conduct towards outsiders. In such cases, of
course, we have imperfect or one-sided moral systems, but
they are still moral. That is to say, qualities are stimulated
which are so far moral as they imply an identity between
the individual and some larger organism, although the
interests of that organism diverge from those of society at
large. In order that a man may be an effective member of
any society, he must have certain moral qualifications, and
what is required is an enlargement of his perceptions which
shall force him to take into account wider considerations of
a similar kind ; to sympathise with men even though they
use different symbols for communication, and to respect other
claims upon his loyalty than those which are associated with
military leadership. The morality impressed upon a man is
not always, perhaps it is never, absolutely right — that is, it is
never an absolutely correct impression of the ideal qualities;
but it must be almost always an approximate expression,
and capable generally of reconciliation by a simple widen-
ing of the field of view.
34. In the next place, the true school of morality is the
family, which represents a mode of association altogether
closer, more intimate than any other, and in which there is
not the same possibility of deviation from the moral code.
The moral quality of every man is determined to a very great
extent in his infancy. We learn our morality, not from
THE CONSCIENCE. 345
books and lessons, but in the nursery, or at our mother's
knee, or from intercourse with our brothers and sisters.
There it is that the core of character is fixed, and that the
deepest organic quaHties are permanently stamped upon us.
The essential part of our education, we may say, is that
which we receive in the stage of absolute dependence upon
others. The adult, it is true, acquires passions of which
the infant was incapable, but it is still through the family rela-
tions that they are principally disciplined. The purity of the
domestic relations is the essential guarantee for a most im-
portant class of virtues, and the family is moulded and deter-
mined by the discipline to which thev are subject. The
sympathies, again, receive their chief stimulus through the
domestic relations, and it is in the sphere of the family that
we normally find a degree of altruism which is scarcely to be
expected elsewhere. The love of a mother is the typical and
central virtue of which all others seem to be faint reflections.
It is, as I have said, in the family that the binding forces
which hold society together come as it were to the surface,
and are directly visible without admixture of any ties of an
inferior order of intimacy ; and therefore the family is the
main organ of morality.
^^. This familiar fact gives the historical explanation of
the moral sense in so far as it shows how the development of
the conscience naturally takes place. It shows further, I
think, what is to be regarded as the true form of moralitv.
The child has become a moral agent as it has learned self-
restraint, sympathy, truthfulness in the special concrete case.
It knows nothing whatever of society at large, or of the
formulas sanctioned by moral philosophers. It is a good
child because it loves its parents and has imbibed certain
organic instincts around which all later developments of
feeling group themselves spontaneously. The assumed end
of moral conduct has never been presented to it, and cannot
supply it with a motive. It has never thought of the greatest
happiness of the greatest number, nor is it capable of a priori
deductions or categorical imperatives. If the morality taught
346 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
is avowedly based upon some theological dogma, the child
can only conceive of the Deity as an invisible father, or per-
haps as an invisible being who always approves the paternal
commands. What jxives the real force to the moral teachino-
which it may receive is the stimulus given to its affections
by its actual intercourse with the little microcosm which
bounds its intellectual vision. In what sense, then, is the
morality of the child determined by conditions of social
welfare? Obviously not by any conscious appreciation of
those conditions. As obviously the conditions may be called
operative in this sense, that as the social tissue is composed
of human beings, whose most intimate bond is the family
relation, the conditions of social welfare are necessarily coin-
cident with the general conditions of family welfare. So far
as men are better husbands, fathers, and sons, and women
better wives, mothers, and daughters, society is in a more
wholesome condition. Every variation in the strength and
purity of the family relations implies a corresponding variation
in the stability of the society at large. As the cohesion of a
whole tissue depends upon the cohesion of the compound
molecules of which it is built up, so the society depends upon
the family ; whatever qualities are useful in one relation are
useful in the other. The good child becomes the good man
by simply widening its sphere of svmpathy, exerting the same
qualities under a new stimulus, and generalising in its other
relations the same principles which it has applied in the
nurserv.
36. This statement, indeed, requires to be guarded. It is
obvious, and I certainly should not seek to evade the admission,
that the family affections, like those which are generated in
any wider association, may lead to a kind of compound selfish-
ness. As a man's patriotism may make him a bad cosmo-
politan, or his attachment to a particular church may make
him intolerant of other religions, so his love to his family
may make him a corrupt judge or an avaricious tradesman.
Fathers of families are capable, it is said, of anything; that is,
of any amount of injustice to others. And, again, it is of
THE CONSCIENCE. 347
course a commonplace that the domestic relations incapacitate
a man for heroic action either of the good or bad. A man's
fondness for his children may make him less disposed to run
risks for the good of his race. It follows that the domestic
virtues are not a sufficient condition of virtue in general.
This, of course, is undeniable, but it does not conflict with
the principle as properly understood. For, in the first place,
though domestic virtue does not of necessity imply public
virtue in a corresponding degree, it implies some moral
qualities. What is essentially bad in other social relations is
bad, if not permanently bad, in the family relations. To be
a good member of a family, a man must practise the duties
of chastity, temperance, truthfulness, and of kindliness and
justice to at least his immediate surroundings. He must have
taken the great step of crossing the tremendous gulf which
separates each man from the rest of the universe ; and that
gulf once crossed, all further advance is a question of time and
cultivation of the sympathies. The question remains, What
will be the law of the sympathies? The purely egoistic form
may of course observe the external law of domestic virtue as
of other virtues ; he may be kind to his wife as to his horse,
with an exclusive view to his own comfort; but in that case
his virtue is an outside sham which will disappear when
accident divides the interests of the persons related to liini.
But admitting the reality of altruism, we must also admit
that it is naturally stimulated in the family case at the earliest
period of life, and that family affections are both the type and
the root of all truly altruistic feeling. As soon as we are
affected by the sorrow of our brothers, we can be really moved
by the sorrow of any other human being who comes into
any relation to us. We have the raw material of the moral
sense, which will afterwards be developed and regulated by
our position in the whole social organism. The development
in different cases of course varies greatly. Some men have
very strong affections for those whom they see, and very weak
sympathies for the distant, because, perhaps, the imaginative
faculty is weak ; whilst in other cases the relation is reversed.
348 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
The affection In the particular case does not of itself deter-
mine the law of the affection in other cases^ and that will
vary according to individual idiosyncrasies. If my affection
for my family rests upon genuine altruism, then so far as I
am reasonable I shall sympathise with others in so far as I
am able to realise their feelings, and to my power of being
useful to them, that is, of giving a practical effect to mv feel-
ings. That is, as I love my brother I shall love others, and
discharge whatever duties arise from other relations. If I
love him only in name, and am kind to him only to gain some
advantage to myself, then, of course, I am a good brother and
a good friend only in name. To ask how far the domestic
affection will prompt to others is to ask how far it is real.
37. Thus we may say that, if we start from the general
point of view, the organisation of society implies a certain
distribution of functions which has been gradually elaborated
in obedience to the general conditions of welfare. As a cer-
tain constitution of the family is bound up in the very struc-
ture of the social tissue, all other relations have been developed
with reference to these primary relations. And therefore,
if a man acted with an explicit reference to the welfare of
the whole organisation, he would necessarily acquire the
characteristics essential to the good son, husband, and father,
as well as those essential to the good citizen, soldier, or
craftsman. The whole problem has been worked out by a
single process, and therefore every part of the organism has
been developed with reference to the rest. But if we start
from the opposite or individual point of view, which neces-
sarily corresponds to the historical development in each par-
ticular case, the character is developed through the immediate
surroundings; the man learns to be affectionate, truthful,
and so forth through his relation to his own little world,
without being even able for a long time to apprehend the
general principle, and so acquires the qualities which fit him
for other relations as he comes to be sensible of them and
required to act on them. Whether we start from the whole
and argue to the constituent part or reverse the process, we
THE CONSCIENCE. 349
come to the same conclusion, though what is laid down as
an explicit principle in one case is implicitly assumed in the
other, and gradually ev^olved in the process of life.
38. And further, it must of course be admitted that in
many particular cases the duties may conflict. The general
qualities which fit a man for excellence in the v^arious rela-
tions of life are identical, so far as the moralist can take
notice of them, but he cannot say what weight is to be
given to special considerations in given cases. It is plain
that so far as a man acts as a judge, he must not be moved
by the interests of his family ; and the same character which
causes a man to act justly as a father will make him act
justly as a judge, for he will feel that such conduct is im-
posed upon him by the claims of the wider organism, and
he will not wish that his children more than himself should
be helped by corrupt actions. But it is not possible to lay
down a general moral principle which shall decide whether
a man should devote himself to a domestic or a public career.
For, in the first place, it involves the difficult question of
facts as to which career will be the most useful, and, in the
next place, the answer must partly depend upon the indivi-
dual character. If a man's affections are strong but narrow,
he will be better fitted for one position; if diffusive and
lively, better fitted for another; and we cannot say which
man is the most moral. Such discussions really take us
beyond the sphere of morality into questions of prudence,
which can generally be decided by nothing but instinctive
tact.
39. For my immediate purpose I have gone far enough.
The moral law being, in brief, conformity to the conditions
of social welfare, conscience is the name of the intrinsic
motives to such conformity. So far as we feel ourselves to
be members of any social organisation and identify ourselves
with it, we are, in virtue of that sentiment, prompted to this
conformity and feel a sense of obligation. In this way a
kind of subordinate conscience is formed in regard to even
the more cursory forms of association, and still more in re-
350 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
gard to the more permanent and conspicuous, through which
our stronger instincts are gratified. When pubHc spirit im-
poses upon us sacrifices to our country, we are actuated by
a feeUng which is of the same kind as conscience, and is
often indistinguishably blended with it. But it is the
pecuHarity of the moral law that it belongs to us, not in
any special capacity, but as belonging to the indefinite and
formless organisation of the race at large. On the other
hand, although this organisation has no form or definite
limits, we are in the closest possible contact with it, and it is
the underlying substance of all other associations, and
especially as the main bonds which hold it together are
those of the family relations. Our whole character is
moulded from our earliest infancy by the family tie, and
the conformation of character so impressed upon us carries
with it the wider moral sensibilities. The conscience, there-
fore, is not a separate faculty which responds only to a
special set of stimuli, but is a compound feeling to which all
the strongest instincts of our nature contribute. Through
our affections for our friends and our brothers our feelings
are stamped and moulded, and prepared to be developed
under the action of all the other relations into which we are
brought, as our intellects and sympathies expand and our
passions come into play. In this way the primary instincts
undergo modifications, causing them to act in certain ways,
and to obey certain rules which have necessarily a moral
quality, or, in other words, a definite relation to the condi-
tions of social welfare. The perception that this rule is
formed bv somethino; outside us, that we imbibe it from the
medium in which we live, gives the sense of obligation,
though we may become conscious of it as the expression of
instincts which have grown up before distinct reflection,
and are involved in all our modes of thought and feeling.
And as the process of working it into our character is always
more or less imperfect, we have, as a rule, plenty of oppor-
tunities for finding that obedience costs an eflbrt, though
disobedience may bring with it a pang. The conscience is
THE CONSCIENCE. 351
the utterance of the public spirit of the race, ordering us to
obey the primary conditions of its welfare, and it acts not
the less forcibly though we may not understand the source
of its authority or the end at which it is aiming.
40. I will conclude by applying this to the particular case
of maternal love, which seems to be as well the purest
type as an original germ of virtue. It has been denied by
sage philosophers that it is a virtue at all, and this because
it is an instinct, which therefore implies at most a compound
selfishness, and involves no explicit recognition of the general
principle of morality. A mother is not good because she loves
her children, but would be virtuous if she deduced the dutv of
doing good to them from some abstract principle — from the
doctrine that you must act so that your rule may be a rule
for all. or again from the belief that by doing them good she
was actino- from a wise calculation of her own greatest inte-
rest, or of the greatest happiness of the greatest number. I
hold, on the contrary, that a mother who loves her children
is so far good, though happily she has not much merit, as
the virtue is a very common one, and therefore that it is
more accurate to say that a mother who does not love her
children is very bad. But how is this admission of the in-
stinctive character of the virtue to be reconciled with the
doctrine that it is reasonable as the embodiment of a general
principle in a particular case? My answer is that we must
distinguish two closely allied questions. If you ask, " Why
is maternal love a virtue?" the answer is, "Because it is
essential to social virtue ; " because, in other words, the
vitality of every society from the earliest period is dependent
upon the vigorous action of this instinct. The same con-
sideration shows that, though an essential, it is not a sufficient
condition of virtue. The love for infants must be controlled
by some interest in others. It can be controlled by the
wider instinct generally because the instinct springs from the
same root, and the sympathy excited in the mother by the
dependent infant is homogeneous with her sympathy for other
infants, and for all to whom she can render services. The
352 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
altruism, again, which is thus generated becomes, in a mind
capable of reflection, the conscious acceptance of the general
principle, which of course receives additional strength when
it is explicitly announced as part of the fundamental convic-
tion of the society. It is reinforced by all the other motives,
which are enabled to co-operate with it because society is so
developed as to secure their normal coincidence. In this
sense, then, the general condition may be stated as deter-
minins; the moral character of the instinct : it is essential,
and perceived to be essential, to social welfare, and therefore
(for this is the only reason we can give) it is a virtue, and a
recoc^nised virtue. But if we look at the case from the
opposite side, and ask for the mother's reason of action, we
must invert the order of the deduction. The mother loves
because she is so constituted as to be capable of loving, and
because she is part of a society in which the instinct is stimu-
lated and fostered. For her the love is its own justification;
she has the sentiment, and need look no further. The wider
love which she comes to feel for others is not the cause of
the narrower instinct, but the product whea it comes to be
enlin-htened and extended ; and the conscientious feeling itself
which sanctions and strengthens the primary instinct is not
something which exists independently, but which springs
from the instinct as developed through the emotions and the
imbibation of the social instincts. The cause, in other words,
must be found in the social utility ; the reason in the indi-
vidual constitution as developed by the social life.
41. And this leads to a new division of the subject. I
have started from the condition of social welfare, and tried to
show how this implies the growth of a sense of obligation in
its constituent members; but now we must start from the
opposite pole; each man has to be regarded as acting from his
instincts, however it may have come to pass that he has those
instincts, and therefore as acting with an immediate reference
to his happiness. Whence we have to inquire what is the
relation between morality and happiness, which I shall proceed
to do in the next two chapters.
( 353 )
CHAPTER IX.
HAPPINESS AS A CRITERION.
I. Utilitarianism.
I. The phrase "utility," I have remarked, has a double
sense. Conduct mav be called " useful " as it contributes to
the preservation of the agent, or as it contributes to his
happiness ; and it is an essential part of the evolution theory
that these two characteristics must approximately coincide ;
that is, that there must be a correlation between the per-
nicious and the painful on the one hand, and on the other
between the beneficial and the agreeable. By applying this
principle to the social organism, we have come to the
conclusion that the development of the society implies the
development of certain moral instincts in the individual, or
that the individual must be so constituted as to be capable
of identifying himself with the society, and of finding his
pleasure and pain in conduct which is socially beneficial or
pernicious. The necessary condition for morality is altruism.
The altruistic person is moulded and modifiejd by the society
of which he forms a part, and acquires the moral sense which
implies a certain intellectual and emotional constitution. But
the facts may be equally regarded from the opposite point
of view. Conduct, we say, is a function of character and
circumstance. If we ask, " Why does a man act in such a way
under given circumstances?" the immediate answer must
always be in the form, " Because it is pleasant," or, in other
words, because it gratifies some of the instincts which toiiether
form his character. This must in all cases give the reason
of his conduct. But if we choose to go further and ask, " Whv
z
354 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
is it pleasant ? " the answer must be given by showing how his
character comes to be constituted in this particular way; and
the only explanation that can be given is the exposition of
the relations which the agent bears to the whole system of
which he forms a part. " Why do I eat ? " To satisfy hunger.
"Why do I hunger?" Because I am constituted in such a
way that the consumption of, and, therefore, the desire for,
food is essential to my life. In this case I assign (so far as
it can be assigned) the cause of my conduct. The problem
hitherto considered has corresponded to this last question. We
have asked what is the cause of the development of morality,
and we have answered by reference to the social organism.
We have still to ask what is the reason of morality, or what
are the motives which operate upon the individual.
2. A moral agent must have a reason for moral action,
and the reason must clearly have some relation to his happi-
ness. The conduct must be always that in which he finds
happiness at the time, and the " end " must always be
either his own happiness or the happiness of others. If, in
fact, the preservation of the race meant the continuance of
misery; if, like Milton's devils, we were kept in existence in
order —
" Strongly to suffer and endure our woes,"
we could not reasonably desire existence. We have, therefore,
to justify morality both as happiness-giving and as life-pre-
serving. If the ends necessarily diverged, we should get into
considerable difficulties; but, as I have urged, the very principle
of evolution implies that there must be at least an approximate
coincidence, and there is no apparent a priori reason why
the coincidence should not be indefinitely close. The pessi-
mist indeed may regard life as essentially miserable. He
escapes from the conclusion that annihilation is desirable
by declaring that it is impossible. All that is left for us
tipon his showing is to minimise the misery which cannot
be annulled. His morality, therefore, aims at what is
equivalent to a maximum of happiness, although he states it
UTILITARIANISM. 355
in the opposite form of a minimum of misery. With this
question, at any rate, I am not for the present concerned. I
assume that, in any case, we are invariably determined by
pain and pleasure, though it is equally true that our pain
and pleasure have a necessary relation to the tendency of
the corresponding conduct to our preservation or destruction.
We have now to ask how the moral rule can be constructed
from this secondary point of view, always bearing in mind
the condition defined by the primary. The rules which
formerly appeared as conditions of maintaining the vigour of
the race will now appear as conditions of securing its happi-
ness. We have to inquire how the two are related; whether
the rule constructed on the one principle coincides necessarilv,
and how far it coincides, with that constructed on the other;
and under what condition that which is the cause of moral
conduct will or will not supply an adequate reason or motive
for such conduct to the agent. This, in the utilitarian phraseo-
logy which now becomes appropriate, is to inquire into the
criterion and the sanction of morality ; and in this chapter
I shall speak of the first of these problems.
3. Utilitarianism is the system which endeavours to con-
struct the moral rule exclusively from the principle of happi-
ness, and I propose to ask briefly what modification must
be imposed upon this system in order to make it square with
the theory here adopted. The general assumption upon which
it proceeds may be easily laid down. Happiness is the sole
end of conduct; the '^utility" of an action is its tendency to
produce happiness; its morality is measured by its utility;
that conduct is right which produces most happiness, and
by this we must be understood to mean which produces
most happiness on the average; for since we can seldom
calculate more than a small part of the consequences of any
action, we are forced to act upon rules correspondino- to the
general limits of observation. We find that, on an average,
certain kinds of conduct increase and others diminish happi-
ness. We have to act upon this probability, and thus we
attain the moral law. " This action is wrong," means that.
356 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
on an average, this action causes a balance of misery. Further,
the motive to morality must be the motive, whatever it may
be, which makes us desire to promote the general happi-
ness. Here utilitarians divide, according as they do or do not
admit the reality of unselfish impulses. The egoistic utili-
tarian holds that we desire to promote the happiness of others
because we shall in some way promote our own happiness;
the altruistic holds that the desire of happiness to others may
be an ultimate motive.
4. Although this doctrine is, as I shall presently argue,
unsatisfactory as a complete account of morality, it contains,
as I think, a core of inexpugnable truth. A great deal is
said about the vagueness of the word " happiness " and the
impossibility of devising a calculus for determining the effect
of conduct upon happiness. The criticism would be con-
clusive if utilitarianism required any such calculus. If I
attempted to lay down rules for the whole conduct of life,
and to say whether in any given case this or that course will
give a maximum of pleasure, I should be hopelessly at a loss.
On the one side the vast complexity of consequences, on the
other the vast variety of tastes, would make it impossible to
give trustworthy rules. There is no hope that we shall ever
construct a pocket calculating machine which will tell us by
a short and easy method what is the path to happiness. But,
then, this very uncertainty is an essential part of the utili-
tarian contention. It is just because the calculation is so
hopelessly intricate that we are forced to trust to rules formed
from an average, and that we can obtain so very few of such
rules. The moral law can only give us a few very simple in-
dications, because our powers of calculating happiness are so
limited. In order, therefore, to make the objection valid, it
must be shown that our uncertainty is so great as to extend
to the consequences of moral behaviour. We must show
that there is such a thing as a law, admitted to be moral, and
yet of doubtful effects upon happiness. If there be such a
thing, we shall hardly hear of it from the other schools of
morality, for they are at least as anxious as their opponents
UTILITARIANISM. 357
to show that morality produces happiness. Nobody, indeed,
will seriously profess any doubt that cruelty, lying, sensuality,
and so forth, do diminish the stock of happiness. Many
people deny that the mischief is the ground or the sole ground
of our condemnation, but they do not denv, or rather they
solemnly assert, the reality of the mischief. If, then, they admit
the fact that wickedness causes misery and virtue happiness,
thev cannot attack the utilitarian for holdino; that the fact is as-
certainable. If we can know for certain that morality produces
happiness, the utilitarian who makes it consist in producing
happiness cannot be accused of placing morality upon an un-
certain base. The truth upon which he rests is admitted by
his antagonist, and they cannot consistently argue that it is
a truth which cannot be known. Yet more, if it can be
ascertained that any class of conduct increases or diminishes
the general sum of happiness, all moralists admit that it is
so far right. If it were proved that certain conduct did no
harm to anybody, that conduct could hardly be wrong. The
duty of benevolence orders us to increase happiness, and happi-
ness is per se a good thing, though there may be contingent
objections upon other grounds to particular kinds of happiness.
The question, therefore, of the tendency of actions to pro-
duce happiness cannot be irrelevant to its morality, nor can
we deny that moral conduct has that tendency, or that con-
duct proved to possess it thereby becomes moral. So far as
this is the substance of a good many attacks upon the utili-
tarian, I think that he is perfectly capable of holding his
own, and has a good solid basis of fact from which it would
be rash to attempt to dislodge him. Crime is mischievous;
it causes bodily and mental agony; it is the great source of
all human suffering, and it is bad for that plain and undeni-
able reason. If you could get rid of the reason you would
find it very hard to substitute any other of equal cogency.
And, indeed, the utilitarian argument appears from a certain
point of view to be so cogent, that one is half disposed to
regard all the argumentation about morality as grotesque.
Can it be necessary to go into such elaborate reasoning to
358 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
account for the fact that men have generally agreed to con-
demn the practice of cutting each other's throats ? Why-
should not they ?
5. Yet, when we try to answer more explicitly the various
criticisms that have been so frequently and forcibly expressed,
we become sensible that the utilitarian position requires at
least re-statement or reconstruction. The system has been
attacked as giving an inadequate account of all the most
essential characteristics of the moral law. It is said, in the
first place, that since morality depends upon the calculus of
happiness, since men's conceptions of happiness vary within
almost indefinite limits, and since the tendency of actions
to produce particular kinds of happiness is only to be dis-
covered by examining a vast variety of complex phenomena
which elude all scientifie inquiry, the rules which result must
necessarily be arbitrary or indefinitely fluctuating. If at a
given moment they take one shape, there is no assignable
reason why they should not take another at any other time
or place. Since, again, we start from individual conceptions
of happiness, and we have no more reason for assigning
special importance to the judgment of one man than to that
of any other, or of preferring the estimate of the saint to the
estimate of the sinner, the standard which results from the
average judgment must be an inferior or debasing standard.
Further, since on this hypothesis the morality of conduct is
essentially dependent upon its consequences, that is, upon
something different from the action itself, we must always be
led to an external moral code. Evil cannot be objectionable
as evil or good desirable as good, but we must always con-
sider morality as a means to some ulterior end; and thus the
very essence of virtue is destroyed ; a conscience becomes
superfluous; and hence, finally, the moral law of the utili-
tarian can never get beyond expediency. There is always
some other condition by reference to which we must decide
upon any particular line of conduct, and therefore the moral
rule, though it may serve as a useful indication of what is to
be done in average cases, cannot be a supreme and absolute
THE EVOLUTIONIST CRITERION. 359
rule, deciding what is to be done in all cases. Hence all
the specific characteristics of which we took account in
framing our theory of morality are more or less destroyed ;
for though the utilitarian can provide a kind of substitute for
the various qualities described, he can only make an outward
show of morality, and run up an edifice which looks like the
everlasting structure, but falls to pieces at the first touch.
He may call his code moral, but in fact it is a code which
has neither permanence nor supremacy, nor uniformity nor
unconditional validity.
H. The Evolutionist Criterion.
6. I have already given by anticipation my answers to
these charges, if applied to the moral system which I am
defending. The svstem, however, according to many thinkers,
is simply the old dog in a new doublet. I propose, therefore,
to consider more precisely how far the evolutionist morality
can meet the theories which have some cogency as against the
older utilitarianism. Utilitarianism, let us note in the first
place, springs from the mode of speculation which renounces
as much as possible every a priori method, and rejects all
"intuitions^' or supposed logical necessities of thought, in
order to base morality upon pure experience. The tendency
of the utilitarian is therefore to consider knowledge in general
as conforming to the type of that purely empirical know-
ledge in which the experience of a former coincidence of two
distinct phenomena is the sole basis for our expectation of a
future coincidence. Carrying out this principle as far as
possible, reasoning is essentially a process of associating ideas,
and the association, though practically indissoluble in some
cases, is regarded as always potentially dissoluble. The logical
result is atomism, or the reduction of every kind of organised
system, whether of " ideas," regarded as existing in the
mind, or of the objects external to the mind and represented
by the ideas, to an aggregate of independent luiits, capable
of indefinite analysis in the mind, or of being taken to pieces
36o THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
and reconstructed in reality. All a priori truths, therefore,
disappear; and as so-called a priori truths may be unverified
and erroneous assumptions, the application of a thoroughgoing
analysis is at least useful provisionally, even if the scepticism
to which it leads should not be ultimately justifiable. Further,
as it is the tendency of thinkers of this class to account for
all differences between two organisms as in some sense due
to " circumstance," they are forced by a logical necessity to
assume the existence of uniform atoms upon which the
circumstances operate. The difference, for example, between
two men being due to the various associations, and not to
those innate tendencies of character which are suspected of an
affinity to " innate ideas," we must suppose that there is a
uniform man — a colourless sheet of paper or primitive atom
— upon whom all qualities are imposed by the circumstances
under which he is placed. This assumption, in fact, plays a
considerable part in some utilitarian theories.
7. The existence of assumptions more or less explicitly
accepted explains the general tendency of the school, as it
may help to render intelligible some of their shortcomings.
Society, according to that doctrine, is an aggregate built
up of the uniform atoms called men. The only primitive
property which can be attributed to man is the desire for
happiness ; and we must conceive of happiness as a kind of
emotional currency, capable of being calculated and distri-
buted in " lots," which have a certain definite value indepen-
dent of any special taste of the individual. Conduct, then, is
moral or immoral according as it tends to swell or diminish
the volume of this hypothetical currency. Pains and pleasures
can be handed about like pieces of money, and we have simply
to calculate how to gain a maximum of pleasure and a mini-
mum of pain. I have certainly no desire to fix down the
utilitarian to any extreme form of his theory, or to pursue
some grotesque consequences to which it is occasionally
applied. The criticisms which I shall consider are those
which seem to me to be applicable to the essence of the
doctrine.
THE EVOLUTIONIST CRITERION. 361
8. The criterion thus suggested is, in fact, Hable to one
criticism which appears to me to be decisive so far as it
appHes, and to show the real Hmitations of the method; I
mean that it fails to take into account an essential condition
of any tenable theory, and that precisely because it refuses
to take into account the true nature of the social organism,
and considers it a simple combination of independent atoms.
The utilitarian argument would be perfectly relevant if we
could take each action by itself, sum up its consequences, and
then generalise as to the actions of the class. So, for example,
I find that eating green fruit is always followed by a painful
sensation. I resolve to abstain; and if all other men made
the same remark, they would, if wise, follow my resolution ;
assuming, of course, that the subsequent pain was clearly
greater than the immediate pleasure, and that no counter-
balancing advantages were observable. VVe may argue in
the same way about murder, stealing, lying, drunkenness,
and so forth. They do infinite mischief, and mischief which
clearly overbalances the pleasure. We judge that thev
diminish the sum of happiness, and I have no doubt that our
judgment of utility is so implicated in the moral judgment
that one could not change without a corresponding change in
the other. But it is also true that our judgment as to the
effects of immoral conduct are very inadequately represented
by this simple and direct process. The primary evil of murder
thus estimated is the pain suffered by the victim, against
which, if we take happiness as good per se, we must set off
the pleasure of the murderer. If morality is to be defined by
happiness, we must of course allow all kinds of happiness to
count, and to count equally so far as they are actually equal.
We must reckon the pleasures of malevolence as well as those
of benevolence. Allowing that the balance inclines, even
upon this showing, against the practice, the calculation seems
insufScient to justify the strength of the general prejudice.
We amend our argument, therefore, by taking into account
the secondary or ulterior consequences, and especially the
shock to the general sense of security. We may possibly
^62 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
object, again, to allowing the murderer's pleasure to count,
because a motive which implies pleasure in the infliction of
pain is a mischievous motive, and therefore whatever pleasure
it may produce is bought at a ])rice to society at large. But it
is now evident that we must take into account a consideration
hitherto neglected, namely, the existence of a certain social
order, and of a corresponding character in the individual
constituents; for as the shock to the sense of security is
undoubtedly an important item in the account, the shock is
proportioned to the existence of a certain standard of mutual
confidence. Murder means, speaking brieflv, killing by
private persons. The executioner and the soldier may kill
under certain circumstances; and though war may be de-
nounced by hasty theorists as wholesale murder, the distinction
is important, for war does not in the same way imply a disin-
tegration of a social order, but is, on the contrary, an essential
part of the process by which that order has been built up.
It is easy to propose the summary abolition of war, and we
all hope that it may be abolished ; but all men, except a few
enthusiasts, can see that to propose its abolition is to propose
a complete social and moral reconstruction. It is not an
excrescence which can be simply dropped, but the result of
processes essential to the growth of society in certain stages.
What is true of war is equally true of murder. At an early
period the distinction between public and private killing is
unintelligible, and for want of an organisation fitted to
suppress individual conflicts, men must be allowed to fight
out their own quarrels, and to act in the way which we should
afterwards (that is, when a law has been developed) describe
as " taking the law into their own hands." Again, it is quite
true that the murderer in the present day is a malevolent and
therefore mischievous individual, whose gratification is not
desirable because it inflicts more evils than are compensated
by his pleasure. But this, again, is virtually to assert that a
social development has been evoked in which the pugnacious
instincts are so mischievous that they can be placed under
certain restraints. At an earlier period, when there was not
THE EVOLUTIONIST CRITERION. 363
a residentiary police, the calculus of happiness would be
materially different. The murderer would not be injuring
a sense of security which did not in fact exist — perhaps
would even be dischartrino; a necessary function : nor,
again, would the pain of the sufferer be the same, nor the
pleasure derived from the killing be indicative of so mis-
chievous a character.
9. It follows, then, that the direct application of the
calculus omits a most essential element in the calculation.
Let us note — for the point is one of vital importance — what
are the tacit assumptions involved. The utilitarian or indi-
vidualist considers society to be formed of an aggregate of
similar human beings. The character of each molecule is
regarded as constant. The only difference which he considers
to be relevant in a moral sense consists in a more or less
exhaustive and accurate calculation of the consequences of
actions. That society, therefore, will enjoy the greatest
happiness which has the clearest perception of these conse-
quences,'and consequently enforces the corresponding rule;
for we at present assume that a perception of the evil leads
to its suppression. Now at any given moment, as character
varies slowly and the social relations may be taken as approxi-
mately fixed, this gives an approximately accurate test; that
is to say, the consequences of immoral conduct generally
involve misery, and the further we trace them the more
evident is the fact. But when we try to frame something
like a scientific criterion from such considerations, w^e become
sensible of the inadequacy of the statement. For the conse-
quences can only be traced when we recognise the nature of
the social structure, which again implies the existence of a
certain stage of individual development, and neither of these
is deducible from the properties of the assumed unit. Human
nature is not a constant, but, on the contrary, a variable, and
the aim of the moralist is precisely to modify it. The problem
changes in our hands as we consider it. If, in f^ict, we ask
what are to be considered as the consequences, it is plain at
once that we cannot make an arbitrary selection of the most
364 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
obvious and prominent. What are the consequences of a
murder? Evervthing which isimphed in the murder not hap-
pening, including the consequences to the victim, to societv
at larsie, and all that follows from the implied change in
the character of the murderer. What are the consequences
of a certain frequency of murder? All that is implied in the
difference between a society where murder is frequent and
one in which it is not frequent. This, again, implies a com-
plete structural change, the consequences of which reach inde-
finitely beyond this particular mischief. To suppress murder
is to civilise a societv ; and unless we take into account the
laws of social growth, it is impossible to say what is included
in civilisation.
10. The utilitarian criterion, again, is frequently presented
in the form of a maximum. Morality is conduct tendinc; to
produce the greatest happiness of the greatest number. But
a maximum is meaningless unless we assume certain fixed
conditions. Here we must mean the greatest happiness
possible, and therefore possible on a certain assumption. But
on what assumption? The assumption of the fixity ofhuman
nature. But that alone is insufficient. It would lead to
such conclusions as this: that the society was happiest in
which there were fewest murders, whatever the cause of their
rarity. But this is at least a doubtful truth, since violence
may be diminished as well by diminution of energy as by an
increase of peaceful ness, and the bare elimination of particular
practices gives a totally inadequate measure of social welfare.
Doubtless a diminution of certain evils will be a symptom of
social progress after a certain stage, but it is not a measure
of the whole complex process. If, then, we suppose that a
given stage has in fact been reached, and that on comparing
two societies at that stage, that will be the happiest in which
there are the fewest murders, we are making a tenable pro-
position, and one which is undoubtedly of vast importance.
But it has an appearance of being arbitrary, because we take
for granted the existence of certain instincts as an ultimate
fact; and therefore, though excluding intuitions, we are vir-
THE EVOLUTIONIST CRITERION. 365
tuallv assuming the existence of a certain disposition, whilst
we make no attempt to justify our assumption. We prove
that, under given circumstances, murder is on the average
objectionable, but we do not attempt to state what is the
cause of its badness, or to state the general principle upon
which we are proceeding. It may always be argued that we
are biassed by certain prejudices which are more or less arbi-
trary, or which, in other words, might be changed without
injury to the general happiness. We object to murder be-
cause in the existing state of society it does more harm than
good. But suppose we get rid of some of the feelings con-
cerned, might we not be the happier on the whole ? To
answer this we are thrown back upon the previous case, and
have to compare the amount of happiness in two societies
agreeing only in the circumstance that both are composed of
men, which seems to render the whole problem too intricate
and indeterminate for practical application.
II. Consider for a moment what is perhaps something
more than an analogous case. So far as our physical con-
stitution is concerned, the only conceivable motive is the
attainment of pleasure. We may say, therefore, that a man
acts most wisely — considered simply as an animal — who acts
so as to obtain the maximum of pleasure. But if we should
seek to frame a rule of life directly from this consideration,
we should fall into infinite perplexity. We must obviously
say, in fact, that he must act with reference to his constitu-
tion. Pleasure is not a separate thing independently of his
special organisation. The bare rule, " Get as much pleasure as
you can," is unintelligible unless we proceed further and point
out some of the conditions which must be observed. Each
instinct, for example, must have its turn, and their respective
provinces must be determined by the general organic balance.
We can undoubtedly point out that certain modes of con-
duct produce pain and others pleasure, and this is a primd
facie reason, at least, for avoiding one and accepting the
other. But, again, some pains imply a remedial process,
whilst others imply disease; and the conduct which increases
366 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
them may therefore be either wise or foolish in the highest de-
gree. For the simple rule, therefore, " Get the most pleasure,"
we must substitute the general rule, " Preserve health." The
two rules plainly coincide very closely. The healthiest man
is generally the happiest, and therefore the best and only
general rule for securing physical pleasure is, "Be healthy."
No doubt some kind of rule might be constructed by aimino-
at happiness. We may recommend temperance, for ex-
ample, because we observed as a truth that intemperance is
generally followed by a headache, and the practice of intem-
perance by all the pains of various diseases. But we are then
tacitly referring to the organic conditions which are summed
up by saying that intemperance is inconsistent with health.
This, therefore, whether explicitly or implicitly stated, is a
necessary element in our statement, and gives the only o-eneral
criterion. We wish for health, it may be, only as a condition
of pleasure, but the only general rule for obtaining pleasure
is to secure this general condition. If we tried directlv to sum
up the various kinds of pleasure, to compare the value, to
discover how far they were compatible, and to decide how
much we should take of each, we should embark upon a
hopelessly complicated undertaking, which is made needless
by the single consideration that the process is in all cases
conditioned by the maintenance of the organic condition
called health. The organism has solved the problem for us
approximately. It has come to be so constituted that what
is pleasant is approximately wholesome. We start with that
assumption, and correct the errors by the inverse conclusion
that what is wholesome is in the long run also productive of
most pleasure.
13. This, as it seems to me, represents the real difference
between the utilitarian and the evolutionist criterion. The one
lays down as a criterion the happiness, the other the health of
the society. The two are not really divergent; on the con-
trary, they necessarily tend to coincide; but the latter satisfies
the conditions of a scientific criterion in a sense in which
the former fails. I desire happiness. I discover by experience
THE EVOLUTIONIST CRITERION. 367
that this or that particular set of conditions makes me happy,
and by degrees I learn how to divide myself amongst different
impulses, and so to obtain certain general rules of happiness.
But to obtain any germ of a scientific theory I must turn
from without to within ; the law of happiness will appear as
simple only when it is regarded as a law in terms of the state
of the single individual who goes through all these v^arious
experiences. The external conditions of happiness are multi-
tudinous and incapable of summation, but they must all agree
in this, that they stimulate me in a manner consistent with
the laws of my being, in the unity of which they are com-
bined and correlated. Therefore the general rule must be a
rule relative to my state, and briefly the law of my health.
What is true of the individual is true in proportion of the
much valuer and less coherent social oro;anism. We obtain
unity of principle when we consider, not the various external
relations, but the internal condition of the organism. The
conditions might conceivably be laid down either by saying
that the various social functions are discharged and the rela-
tion between the social organs maintained in a certain equili-
brium, or by trying to sum up all the various modes of conduct
which produce happiness to its various members ; but we only
get a tenable and simple law when we start from the structure,
which is itself a unit.
13. Hence, again, we obtain a rule which is fixed and
elastic in the right place. An organism may be healthy or
diseased at any period of its growth, and the laws of health
or disease will be continuous, although varying within limits
as the organism itself varies. But if we take the direct
utilitarian criterion, it seems to be rigid and yet indefinitely
variable in different directions. For as human nature is taken
as a constant, we should always have the same rule of
conduct; and yet as men's thoughts and feelings are sup-
posed to be indefinitely variable in obedience to accidental
association, we seem to have no guarantee for the permanence
of any moral criterion. In fact, utilitarian moralists have
dwelt upon the variations of the moral standard in order to
368 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
prove the necessity of resting morality upon experience and
to get rid of a priori intuitions. They have dwelt upon the
same facts in order to justify a belief in human perfectibility.
Yet surely if human nature is in this sense so modifiable,
we have no guarantee for expecting amelioration rather than
deterioration. And if, as I have said, human nature is re-
garded as in some sense a constant, the science of morality,
which should be rigidly deducible from its properties, can
hardly be realised when the human material is capable of
being worked up into indefinitely varying forms. It is in
substituting for these contradictory examples the conception
of a slowly developing social organism that the evolution
philosophy has rendered the greatest service to ethics, as the
variations become themselves reducible under a fixed rule, and
the necessity of recognising the social organism as something
not formed by simple mechanical combination restores the
due authority to social instincts without elevating them into
transcendental intuitions.
14. Briefly, then, I . regard utilitarianism as giving what
may be called instantaneous morality. It corresponds to the
way in which men actually reason and are justified in reasoning
provisionally as to moral questions. We see that a certain
social arrangement or regulation produces bad and good
effects. We try roughly to sum them up, and to regulate or
repeal accordingly. Our moral judgments are in all cases de-
termined by these observations, or must be in conformity with
them. Any class of conduct which clearly produces a balance
of misery is so far bad, and that which produces a balance of
happiness is so far good. A constant and steady attempt to
get rid of the misery-causing, and to encourage the happiness-
causing activities is the condition of all moral progress. In
order to modify any moral law or any social arrangement, we
try to show that it actually causes some misery, and that its
modification would produce more happiness. I do not see
that any other mode of argument has ever any real efficiency.
The actual progress in morality is always determined at every
point by utilitarian considerations. But when we try to
THE EVOLUTIONIST CRITERION. 369
generalise from this, and to sav that the form of morality or
the criterion of moral conduct is the tendency to produce
happiness, we get into difficulties. The reason is that already
civen. We are generalising in such a wav as to omit an
essential condition of an accurate statement. We are taking
constants for variables and variables for constants. If v^'e
compare anv two organisms, we assume a certain organic
identity. Both of them, we suppose, have a certain fixed core
of instincts, and corresponding habits which define their
essential character. It is also capable of varying in a sub-
ordinate degree compatibly with the uniformity of these
fundamental organic relations. Now we may say that any
conduct which produces pain is so far bad. So far as the
being is capable of intelligent observation, it may classify the
various kinds of conduct as they lead to painful or pleasurable
conditions, and its action will be determined accordingly. On
the other side, pain implies a certain condition of the organ-
ism itself which we may call morbid as depending upon a
deviation from the normal equilibrium. The being itself
must be so constituted that the conditions of pleasure coin-
cide closely with the conditions of health. So far, therefore,
that is, whilst we assume an identity of organic relations,
the two rules will coincide ; those which cause pain are bad,
and those which cause morbid action are bad. The internal
and the external law approximately coincide. The external
rule assumes indeed the existence of a certain internal con-
stitution, but as that is fixed it does not require to be ex-
pressly stated. But now we suppose a new instinct to be
required ; we perceive that certain conduct produces pain
on an average, and we therefore propose to eliminate it. It
cannot be simply left out, because we are dealing with an
organism, and every such change involves an action upon the
whole constitution. The organic relations, therefore, are
themselves changed, and we substitute virtually a new organ-
ism for the old. The new, we may assume, is on the whole
more efficient than its predecessor, and represents a more
complete solution of the general problem of life. As it
2 A
370 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
has new sensibilities, it no longer estimates happiness in the
same way as the old. If we compare the two, we must not
suppose that we have an identical being placed in different
circumstances and making different estimates of happiness,
but two different beings, with different measures of happiness.
The difference is not represented by a more complete attain-
ment of the same ends, but by a change in the end itself, and
a greater total efficiency of the whole new system. The
common rule is that each oro-anism is better as it obeys the
conditions of health, but we cannot found any common rule
upon the happiness, the standard of which changes as the
organism itself changes.
15. In this sense the growth of the social organism is
precisely analogous to that of the individual. The devel-
opment of the animal implies the slow acquisition of new
instincts, which in time become part of its organic constitu-
tion. Whilst they are not fully organised they determine its
conduct more or less by the pain and pleasure with which
they are associated, and they tend to become fixed as they
imply on the whole a superior or more efficient form of
organisation. The moral instincts of the society correspond
in the same way to the social development, and express at
every instant the judgment formed of the happiness and
misery caused by corresponding modes of conduct. As they
become organised the whole society becomes more efficiently
constituted, and its standard of happiness is also modified.
We may therefore say that at any period the vitilitariau
judgment must be satisfied. Given a certain stage of social
development, the society will be in a healthier state and the
general happiness greater in proportion as it is moral. But
since the happiness itself changes as the society develops, we
cannot compare the two societies at different stages as if they
were more or less efficient machines for obtaining an identical
product.
16. The importance of the distinction is illustrated in
almost every important social discussion. We notice certain
bad results from a particular economical or social arrange-
VARIABILITY OF MORALITY. 371
ment. The indissolubility of marriage inflicts hardship
upon many individuals ; let it be dissoluble in those cases.
The importation of foreign products ruins certain manu-
facturers ; let it be prohibited. We remedy the immediate
evil by suppressing more obvious symptoms ; but we often
forget that we are dealing with a complex organism, and
that the real problem involves innumerable and far-reaching
actions and motives due to its constitution. We may be
remedying the grievances of individual husbands and wives
l)y lowering the general sanctity of family relations, and
helping a particular class at the expense of the general
efficiency of the nation. I need not say how constantly
such omissions vitiate plausible arguments and involve the
accomplishment of the chimerical hopes of reformers. A
similar practical conclusion may be drawn from this part of
the argument, namely, that to prove that a rule of conduct
involves pain in many cases is not a sufficient reason for
abolishing it, though it is a presumption for modifying it.
We are also bound to show that all the consequences involved
in the change, including the changes in the individual
character and in the social structure, will produce a more
efficient social organism. It is true that, as a rule, we have
to work out such changes by actual experiment ; but it is well
to note beforehand the need of conforming our expectations
to the complexity of the problem.
III. Variahillty of Morality.
17. The evolution theory necessarily assumes a variation
of morality, but not an indefinite or arbitrary variability.
And this may lead us to a further question. We must
admit, of course, that the calculus of happiness will give
different results at different periods. Qualities will be re-
garded as virtuous amongst savages which cease to be virtu-
ous amongst civilised men. Revenge is sometimes regarded
as a duty, and in a rude social state we may say that it
may conceivably cause more happiness than misery. As,
372 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
according to Bacon, revenge is a kind of wild justice, it may
to a certain extent discharge the functions of justice before
a settled system of law has been developed. To weaken
the motive without corresponding development of the
virtues of order, would be to remove a penalty upon wrong-
doing, and might imply rather a deficiency in energy of
feeling than a defect of sympathy. Of two societies at the
corresponding stage of development, the one which had it
least might be in a morbid condition, and therefore in one
less favourable to the average happiness than the other in
which the sentiment was vigorous. This inconclusiveness of
the utilitarian standard if no reference be made to the social
state follows from the previous argument, and it presents
another difficulty which frequently occurs. The variability
of different estimates of happiness is pointed out as one
of the main difficulties of the utilitarian creed. One man
prefers sensual, another intellectual pleasures. Which is
right, and why ? The question is one of importance in
regard to the sanction of morality — that is, in assigning the
general motive to which moralists may appeal — and I shall
return to it in the next chapter. Meanwhile let us ask
how far it affects the criterion of morality. If the moral
criterion resulted from taking an average of different esti-
mates of happiness, there would be, doubtless, a difficulty.
But then I deny that this gives in any case the true theory
of morality. The moral sense is, indeed, according to me,
a product of the social factor. It is the sum of certain
instincts which have come to be imperfectly organised in
the race, and which are vigorous in proportion as the society
is healthy and vigorous. Undoubtedly, again, they fall in
with the general belief as to the effects upon happiness of
certain modes of conduct. This, again, is equally true
whether we suppose that the society has thriven because it
had useful instincts — that is, because its judgments of happi-
ness were in fact such as to make it thrive — or whether
we suppose that the instinct has been consequent upon an
observation of certain bad consequences. In the earlier stages
Variability of morality. 373
of development the first method will presumably be the
dominant, and in later stages the second, whieh implies
a certain power of distinct reasoning. But in any case, there
can be no doubt that the judgment that conduct is im-
moral will coincide with the judgment that it diminishes
happiness ; and therefore a race which has low concep-
tions of happiness will have a low view of morality. If the
sensual pleasures play a great part in the general estimate of
happiness, it is probable that the virtue of temperance will
not be hi2;hlv estimated.
18. This, I imagine, can hardly be disputed; but, on the
other hand, it is not true that the moral judgment preva-
lent in a race amounts implicitly or explicitly to the asser-
tion that the average standard of happiness is that which a
moral agent will desire, or which it is desirable to secure for
society at large. In fact, as I have argued, the general pro-
cess in any progressive state of society implies something
materially different. The moral law first appears, as I have
said, in the external form. People come to recognise, that
is, that certain lines of conduct do harm irrespectively of
the motives of the agent. They observe, more or less clearly,
that certain breaches of the law of temperance produce inju-
ries to men in various relations; that the attempt to enforce
particular beliefs causes war, misery, endless discord, and
the suppression of intellectual activity. When this opinion
has been established we have what may be called a purely
utilitarian law of morals. There is a general conviction
that a certain class of conduct causes suffering, but it is not
yet clearly realised that such conduct is in itself wicked.
It may be adopted by good men or from good motives — if
goodness is measured by conformity to the existing standard.
But if society improves, the external law must become an
internal law; the conduct which produces the bad effects
must be intrinsically repugnant, and there is therefore a
demand for the true virtues of temperance and toleration,
with all the necessary implications as to the whole char-
acter. The purely utilitarian rule proposes a problem
374 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
which Is solved by generating a type of character so con-
stituted that the evils perceived are intrinsically hateful to it.
19. It is, in fact, plain that the moral judgment does not
correspond exactly to the individual estimate of happiness.
A man, for example, may be sensual: w^hen a gross pleasure
is within his grasp, he may prefer it to a refined pleasure;
but in his judgment of his neighbours he sees that the sensual
person incurs diseases and inflicts injuries upon his neighbour.
Even the most sensual of mankind wishes his daughters to
grow up chaste, and would try to prevent his sons from be-
coming drunkards. A man may be intolerant in the sense of
desiring to impose his own opinions by downright force, or by
other modes than pure reason, but he may recognise the fact
that the general admission of this principle leads to innume-
rable evils. It is a common observation that persecution has
been attacked by men who had a full share of the persecuting
spirit. They objected to being persecuted themselves, not to
persecution in general ; but in order to secure themselves they
were forced to appeal to principles common to all, and there-
fore to insist upon the bad consequences of persecution in
general, and to become, in spite of themselves, advocates of
the genuine virtue of toleration. This process is the typical
one. In attacking particular evils we become sensible to the
general underlying principle, and by pointing out the mischie-
vous results of certain kinds of conduct we are virtually prepar-
ing a higher type of character, to which not only that kind
of conduct is repugnant, but all such conduct as springs from
similar qualities of character. We object to the sensual con-
duct, not primarily as sensual, but as mischievous in some
other way; we come to object to the sensuality itself when
we recoi^nise it as the source of these and of other evils. The
process is possible because at every instant we start from an
approximate solution of the problem, and with instincts so
far balanced and correlated as to be consistent with the con-
ditions of existence : the process is slow because the redress
of any evil involves a readjustment of the whole character;
and it is endless, because from each point we have reached we
VARIABILITY OF MORALITY. 375
develop new faculties, and have to attack new and wider
problems. The whole process corresponds, not to the sum-
mary solution of a problem from fixed data, but to an inces-
sant series of approximations, in which we start from one
organisation which works tolerablv to another which will on
the whole work better.
20. In this sense it is true, as I should say, that the actual
character of men, and therefore their estimate of happiness,
must always provide the basis for every further improvement.
The new rule of morality can only be introduced by making
them sensible to evils appreciable at the lower stage. But at
any given point of the process the moral law implicitly com-
mands conduct for the realisation of which an improvement of
the whole order, and therefore an elevation of the moral sense
itself, is commanded. The lower natures can only be reached
by motives suitable to their application ; but in commanding
conduct upon the lower ground the moralist is already favour-
ing the introduction of the higher motive, and the actual
moral sense is thus, in a progressive society, always in advance
of the actual standard of the average individual. He can
see, even from his own point of view, the advantages of a
better morality, though it has not yet become a principle of
his own character.
21. The general condemnation of utilitarian morality as
degrading springs partly from another cause. I mean that
the utilitarian is naturally the man who is beyond all things
anxious to have his feet on solid earth, and to assign definite
and tangible grounds for every conclusion. He is a realist
as opposed to an idealist, prosaic rather than poetical, or
belongs to the school which has more affinity for the mater-
ialist than the idealist conclusions. This is, of course, unde-
niable, and utilitarian codes of morality are spun of coarser
if more enduring materials than those of the antagonistic
systems. But this follows from the temperament rather
than from the principles of the moralist. The same disposi-
tion which makes him a utilitarian leads him to assign com-
paratively little importance to the kinds of happiness which
376 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
imply a poetic imagination or a delight in the ideal world.
But though he is liable to this error^ it is an error upon his
own principles. In whatever degree the poetic faculties give
real pleasure^ he must admit that pleasure into his calculus ;
in whatever degree they are really conducive to the eleva-
tion or development of the race, he must admit that they
are as "useful" as the humbler instincts. The facts must
decide, and there is no a priori reason for assuming that
they will give a humiliating decision, though it is easy enough
to see why the intellectual temperament, favourable, as specu-
lation has hitherto been conducted, to the less idealist view,
should also incline a man to put what we may simply call a
lower interpretation upon the facts. But this is parenthetical.
IV. Extrinsic Morality.
32. The argument thus brings us to another set of criti-
cisms upon utilitarian theories. The utilitarian takes what
I have called the external view of morality; he judges
from consequences conclusively, and says that conduct is
good or bad conclusively as it produces a balance of happi-
ness or misery, and this irrespectively of the motives of the
agent. The motive, therefore, to moral conduct is always
extrinsic. It is not in itself bad, but bad as producing some
other effect. This doctrine takes various shapes with differ-
ent utilitarian moralists, and if it were my purpose to criti-
cise their doctrine exhaustively, I should have to consider
precisely the meaning of some of the terms employed — as,
for example, of the distinction between an act and its con-
sequences— for the meaning seems to fluctuate considerably.
I have, however, virtually given my answer in defending mv
own view, and I will therefore be content with indicating
the general nature of the divergence. I have said, in the
first place, that a law becomes truly moral when it can be
stated in the internal form. Morality is the conduct of the
truly moral man, and immorality the conduct which is
intrinsically repugnant to him. But here is the ambiguity
EXTRINSIC MORALITY. 377
which I have already tried to explain. The utilitarian
asserts that there is no such thing as a love of virtue "for
its own sake." In one sense of the words I entirely agree
with him ; in another, I should say that there is no real
virtue at all unless it imply a love of virtue for its own sake.
I agree with the utilitarian in so far as I deny that con-
science is a separate facultv, instead of a mode of reaction of
the whole character. If, therefore, there is any class of con-
duct which has no relation whatever to happiness of any
other kind, which does not gratify or repel other instincts
than the conscience, it can have no interest for the con-
science either. Virtuous actions are not a separate class of
actions, and actions which have no effect upon happiness
are for that reason morally indifferent. On the other hand,
it is equally true that a man is virtuous only if the bare fact
tnat an action is right is to him a motive for acting in that
way, and he is virtuous in proportion as it is always a suffi-
cient motive. This, again, is possible because the virtuous
man means simply the man who corresponds to the best
social type, and will therefore act on all occasions in con-
formity with the character so defined. It is not because all
virtuous actions have one definite end, which end is itself
something different from virtue, but because all virtuous
action implies action in conformity with certain instincts
which have become organic in the virtuous man. To say,
then, to such a man, " This is right," is the same thing as to
say, "This satisfies your instincts;" or, in other words, it
states a sufficient inducement to the corresponding action.
23. The utilitarian statement represents this by defining
moral conduct as that which has for its end the production
of happiness, irrespectively of its quality. To love virtue
for its own sake would be to love the means irrespectively
of the end, which would be clearly irrational, though not
impossible. But upon the view of the egoistic utilitarian,
it seems that all truly virtuous conduct must be placed in
this predicament. He explains the origin of the benevolent
impulses through association in such a way as to destroy
378 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
their reality. The typical example is that of the miser, who,
from loving money as a means for promoting pleasure, comes
to love it as an end, and even when possession implies a
sacrifice of pleasure. Similarly, it is suggested, we associate
pleasant sensations with certain persons, and we love them
as the cause of those sensations. If, however, love thus
explained should prompt us to act in such a way as to
sacrifice our pleasure for the good of others, we should be
unreasonable in the same sense as the miser. We should be
applying a rule in a case where it was plainly inapplicable,
and using means for an end in a case where we knew that
they would not produce that end. Association in this sense
implies illusion ; and the more reasonable we become, the
more we should deliver ourselves from the bondage of such
errors.
24. This view seems to include an imperfect statement of
one side of the truth. I cannot admit its accuracy, indeed,
even in regard to our old friend the miser. As a rule, it
seems to me, the man who really desires money as a means
to enjoyment is more likely to become a spendthrift than a
miser. He will be so eager for present enjoyment as to
neglect provisions for future enjoyment. The miser, as I
should say, is in the normal case a man who desires money
in order to guard against the misery of poverty and depend-
ence. His motive is not the positive desire for pleasure, but
its negative side, the dread of actual suffering. When his
desire for money becomes excessive, he is still guarding
against the same evil, though he is taking exaggerated pre-
cautions. He resembles a man who is afraid of falling over a
cliff', and who therefore will not go within a hundred yards,
though in fact he would be equally safe within a yard of the
edge. He reasons badly, therefore, in so far as his terrors are
extravagant. But the motive is not necessarily changed in
character. There is always a danger of loss and poverty, though
the danger may be so small that a wise man would not consider
it. The motives of the miser may be changed in other direc-
tions. He loses all relish for pleasures which he has never
EXTRINSIC MORALITY. 379
allowed himself to ciijoy,and many tastes havetbus been stifled
in the germ. And, on the other side, the various activities
necessary for the acquisition and preservation of money
have become pleasant to him, as any mode of activity v^hich
gives room for skill, forethought, and a discharge of energy
may be really pleasant. There is, for example, a pleasure in
skilful speculation, as there is a pleasure in the game of chess,
abstractedly from any consideration whatever of an ^^end."
It is only when we assume that all activity is conditioned by
the prospect of the pleasure attainable at the end that we
are forced into the supposition of a confusion between means
and ends. Every kind of activity has its own pleasure, as
affording a means for the discharge of energy or escape from
ennui. The miser who finds pleasure in the act of money-
making need not be unreasonable even if he proposes to
make no use of the money. The money-making is in itself
pleasant, and pleasant because it is a regulated mode of
activity which gives occupation to a variety of faculties.
35. Now if we compare this case with that of benevolent
action, we may see what is really implied. It is doubtless
true that we may learn to love our neighbours because they
have contributed to our pleasures. The child, in whom sympa-
thy and intelligence is still dormant, may thus regard its mother
as the source of a2:reeable sensations. More ffenerallv, as I
have argued, moral progress may proceed in an analogous way.
We mav become interested in the welfare of our neio-hbours
O
because our interests are identical ; and this observation mav
convince us that the identity extends to cases in which the
direct sympathy would not dictate benevolent action. When
this community of action has once been established in any
degree, there is room for the play of sympathy. The happi-
ness of others, so soon as we can appreciate it, becomes an
end in itself; but this sympathy is enabled to expand because,
previously to its existence, the rule of conduct which it pre-
scribes has already been adopted from different motives. The
external rule then passes into the internal, and genuine and
intrinsic moral motives become possible. Hence the associa-
38o THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
tion theory has a certain truth within its province, but it
does not by any means account for the whole phenomenon,
and it fails just at the point where true morality begins: it
may explain, that is, why we first take a pleasure in the
welfare of others; it may in some cases even explain why,
though still selfish, we act unselfishly, and so far, in this case,
unreasonably. It is possible, too, that, as in the case of avarice,
the various kinds of activity called forth by conduct which
does good to others becomes in itself pleasant. A man, for
example, may learn to take pleasure in surgical operations,
though without any genuine sympathy for his patients; he
may even be externally unselfish to the point of heroism, and
sacrifice his life to his pursuit, as another man might sacrifice
his in the pursuit of some purely selfish and even degradino;
pleasure. The conditions of life, which force every member
of a society to conform in some degree to the interests
of others, and which therefore involve a considerable con-
formity between the egoistic and altruistic sentiments, may
for that reason generate a kind of fictitious benevolence, a
pleasure in conduct which has in fact good results to others,
even though the contemplation of those results affords no
pleasure. Upon this view, however, sympathy is so far
unreasonable. Directly it prompts to self-sacrifice we are the
slaves of sophistry or a misleading association. Upon my
theory, on the contrary, sympathy is a real motive implied in
all true morality, though it can only operate as some germ of
reason becomes developed, and begins to operate within the
line already laid down by the non-sympathetic customs.
V. Expedienaj.
26. The utilitarian, therefore, who is also an egoist, docs, as
I hold, deprive morality of its essential meaning, and the as-
sumption that the principle of association explains all modes of
thought and feeling lends itself to that mode of regardino; the
facts. The utilitarian, however, is more naturally a genuine
believer in altruism : that belief fulls in with the theory that
EXPEDIENCY. 381
the criterion of morality is the tendency of conduct to promote
happiness, for this tendency then corresponds to a genuine
motive. We have, however, still to inquire whether the
morality thus constructed has sufficient stability, or whether
it may not be rijihtlv condemned as encourao"ina: mere "ex-
pediency." This is perhaps the most frequent line of attack
upon utilitarian systems. Tiie force, indeed, of the criticism
depends to a great extent upon the assumption that expe-
diency is another name for selfishness. When a man breaks
a particular moral rule — that of truthfulness, for examj)le —
because he thinks that a lie will do more good than harm, we
accuse him of acting upon principles of expediency. But
there is certainly a wide moral difference between the cases
in which the lie is prompted simply by the consideration that
a lie will be useful to the agent, or that in which it is
prompted by the genuine belief that it will increase the
general happiness. We are apt to confound the two cases,
and to saddle the man who breaks the rule upon any con-
sideration with all the blame due to the selfish consideration.
The inference may be frequently correct in fact; expediency
may, in point of fact, be generally used as a cloak for selfish-
ness; or, which is probably nearer the truth, a man who
allows himself to break rules for the good of others may be
strongly tempted to break them for his own private good at
the expense of others. Still, a man who should really act
upon the altruistic version of the utilitarian criterion might
be shifty and unreliable in his conduct, but could not pro-
perly be called selfish. His conduct would generally be
moral, thou<rh he mioht diverge in certain cases from the
moral law.
27. What, then, is implied by the supremacy of the
moral law, or autonomy of the conscience? If there is any
rule of conduct which can be laid down as absolute, it must
at once decide the morality of the conduct affected in every
conceivable case. If we admit of any criterion outside of
morality, it must limit the sway of the moral law. If the
true test be the utilitarian, then we nmst either admit that
382 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
lying, for example, is right when it increases happiness, or we
must prove that lying never increases happiness. The utili-
tarian admits that any such proof is impossible. There
may be cases in which a lie will do more good than harm ;
therefore " Lie not" cannot be an absolute law. He says,
indeed^ that we are forced to act for the most part upon
probabilities, and that experience shows probability to be
enormously in favour of truth-telling. But the question occurs,
Why should we act upon this general probability without
reference to the particular circumstances ? The general rule
is not properly " supreme" over the particular, and it is hard to
see how it can be said to override it. Take any ordinary case
of prudence. I know that, as a rule, it is imprudent, sav, to
trust monev to a stranger. That is a sufficient guide for me
if the only thing that I know about a man is the bare fact
that he is a stranger. It holds, ao-ain, so lonf as I know
nothing to take him out of the class as an exceptional person.
But directly I do know something which takes him out of
that class, I must, if I am reasonable, modify my judgment
accordingly. The only rule that can be given is to act upon
the whole probabilities of the case. This, of course, includes
a reference to the general probability which arises from the
fact that the man is a stranger, but it does not give any
absolute predominance to the rule. I must take it into
council, but not obey it as a master. My ground of action in
any particular case must be my judgment of the probability,
which will be guided partly by reference to the general rule
that strangers are not to be trusted, but also by reference
to any other rule which may tend to show that this particular
strano-er is trustworthy. I have then said evervthino; when
I have said, "Act upon the probabilities," for that of course
includes a reference to every applicable principle of judgment.
Why should I not say the same in moral questions ? Should
not the rule be, " Act in that way which will probably pro-
duce the greatest happiness," where the " probably " of course
includes a reference to general induction from similar cases
already observed, but regards it only as an induction, not
EXPEDIENCY. 383
as an infalible test? And if this be so, how can the moral law-
be regarded as absolute and supreme? It is nothing but a
useful collection of precedents tending to guide our judgment
in particular cases.
28. This, it is felt, is a dangerous principle. 7"he utilitarian,
however, diminishes the importance of his attack upon the
supremacy of the moral rule by obvious considerations; that
is to say, he insists upon the extent of our ignorance as to the
consequences, and upon the danger of trusting ourselves.
The pleas must be admitted to have considerable force ; but
they seem to leave the difficulty in some undefined degree.
For, in the first place, however great the importance of trust-
ing to the general rule, it cannot be denied that we are able to
make some estimate of the consequences, or otherwise we
could not make the necessary induction ; and thus, again, it
must be admitted that, after making all allowance for our
ignorance, the question is still essentially one of probabilities,
and the presumption in favour of the beneficial consequences
of certain particular lies may be enormous. And, in the next
place, the danger of trusting ourselves is undoubtedly very
great; and yet it is a danger from which we cannot shrink.
The danger is, in fact, a danger of misinterpreting the prece-
dents which we have set. The general rule must be, not that
lies are immoral, but that mischievous lies are immoral. Why,
then, should it be supposed that we should be more in danger of
tellins; a mischievous lie because we have told a beneficial lie?
If we do so, we are fallina; into an error of reasoninc;. We
are holding fast to the accident and dropping the substance.
Why should not the fact that we have acted for the best in
one case determine us to act for the best in another, although
in one case the best action accidentally involved a lie, and in
the other accidentally involved truth-speaking? Generally, if
the promotion of the general happiness is the sole criterion,
why should not the desire for general happiness be the sole
motive for moral conduct? If so, can we properly consider
moral rules as anything more than formulae, useful in calcula-
ting the probable consequence of conduct to happiness, but
384 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
always liable — like any other empirical formulae — to be over-
ridden by special circumstances ?
29. I cannot, upon my own hypothesis, meet this by de-
claring the particular moral laws to be absolute and supreme.
The attempt to do so only leads to casuistry of the objection-
able kind. Make the rule against Iving absolute, and vou
find yourself obliged to bring the particular cases under a
different rule by some device analogous to a legal fiction, and
more demoralising than an open declaration that the moral
law is not to be always observed. Nor can I accept the
statement in the form that the contingent consequences of
an action must always be set aside. It seems to me that the
known consequences of an action must always be relevant to
its morality. If I were absolutely certain that a lie would do
goodj I should certainly hesitate before speaking the truth,
and the certainty might be of such a kind as to make me
think it a dutv to lie. It has been said bv moralists that a
good man would not commit the most venial sin, even though
the consequences of his virtuous action were the perishing of
all mankind in torture. The statement is either shockino- or
meanino-less. I can conceive of no action which would not
become an abominable crime by the simple fact of its entail-
ing such consequences, and of no crime which would not
become an imperative dutv if it evaded them. A man who
saved his dirty soul at such a price would deserve damnation
ten times over; and if he did not get it, I should not regard
his deity as a truly moral agent. If, on the other hand, the
act still remained virtuous, it could only be because we
assume, for some reason or other, that the moral action has
other good consequences — say the eternal happiness of the
agent — which overbalance the evil consequences. In that
case the utilitarian position is not really denied.
30. The assertion that the particular moral rules are not
absolute is a repetition of a principle already laid down. It
is impossible to secure more than an approximate coincidence
between the external and the internal law. However closclv
they may, and frequently do, coincide, it is always (or almost
EXPEDIENCY. 385
always) possible to suggest cases in which they diverge.
Wherever such a deviation occurs, the true moral rule must
be the internal rule. Morality is essentially a determination
of character, and hence wherever adherence to a fixed rule
implies a change of character, or, inversely, the persistency
of character implies a breach of the rule, the virtuous man
will break the rule. Hence, again, the attempt to secure an
absolute and immutable moral law in its external shape
must be illusory. The moral law can be stated uncondition-
ally when it is stated in the form "Be this," but not when
stated in the form "Do this." We may say without any
qualification whatever that the good man must be merciful,
just, truthful, temperate, courageous, and so forth ; but for
the very reason that the law is in this sense absolute, it can-
not be absolute as prescribing external modes of conduct.
Hence, again, whatever the difficulty of deciding in particular
cases what is the rio;ht sense of conduct, we have a definite
principle, and therefore a fixed rule, though not always an
easily discoverable rule. The truly virtuous man is the typical
man whose character conforms to the conditions of social
vitality. The question what is right is in all cases equivalent
to the question what the right-minded man would do, sup-
posing him of course to be fully informed, and to reason cor-
rectly from the facts. In nine hundred and ninety-nine cases
out of a thousand he will act in conformity with the ordinary
moral rule, say, of speaking the truth. We may say absolutely
that the moral man must be thoroughly trustworthy. Wher-
ever trustworthiness implies truth-telling, he will tell the truth ;
but if, in any particular case, the same character implies
lying, he will lie, and will lie like a man, that is, without
trying to conceal from himself by any shuffle of casuistry
the true nature of his conduct. If in this sense morality in-
cludes an element of expediency, not, that is, in the sense of
denying that there is a rule of conduct in this case as in all
others, but in the sense that the rule may fail in certain
cases definable in principle, but not precisely ascertainable
by any definite external indications. Normally, any deflec-
a B
386 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
tion from the rule implies a deficiency in some good quality.
In certain very rare cases it implies the presence of good
qualities. In the latter case the conduct is right, as in the
former it is wrong.
31. To apply this more specifically to the problems which
actually present themselves would be to write a treatise upon
casuistry ; but one or two remarks may clear the general
principle. It must be observed, in the first place, that many
so-called problems of casuistry are not properly moral pro-
blems at all. In many cases we must admit that the mor-
ality of a given course of conduct depends upon its tendency
to produce happiness. Ceteris paribus, I must do that which
will give most pleasure to others. But, again, to decide
what will give most pleasure to others is often a very diffi-
cult quci^tion, which admits of being decided only by tact
or instinct. We must judge in most practical cases of any
difficulty by probability, or, in other words, by guessing.
When we really believe that we shall do most good by a
certain course of conduct, that conduct is so far right ; and
here the moral rule is plain, however difficult the application.
Again, many casuistical problems turn upon such questions
as the nature of some implied contract. It is a question of
law what rights I have created by marrying, or accepting
an office, or making some commercial bargain. Morality in
such cases may simply order me to keep my contract, what-
ever it may be, and the " whatever " is to be decided by the
lawyers. And this, again, leads to another distinction often,
as I have said, overlooked. The problem is frequently stated
ambiguously, and may either be, " Does the actually existing
standard of morality forbid a certain action? " or it maybe, "Is
it desirable that the action should be forbidden by morality? "
The moralist, like the lawyer, is apt to conceal the fact that
he is reallv making new laws under the pretext of enlarging
the old. In reality, he is trying to frame a more precise rule
than the one which has hitherto been accepted. It would
be better frankly to admit the clear nature of the case, be-
cause it would then be easier to argue upon the principles to
EXPEDIENCY. 387
be applied. Upon my theory, the method is dcfmcd by the
doctrine already laid down. A certain kind of conduct, we
suppose, has hitherto been regarded as indifferent. There is
no established rule for assuming whether a good man would
or would not act in that way. To decide, then, whether the
conduct is right or wrong is virtually to add a new moral
precept; and that is implicitly to inquire whether the adop-
tion of the new principle would, on the utilitarian showing,
do more good or harm ; or, more accurately, according to me,
to ask whether the incorporation of this rule in the moral
system would imply a closer approximation to the solution
of the great problem of social utility. Of course, the ques-
tion of the affinity of this proposed rule to previously accepted
principles will throw light upon the whole problem; but we
need not conceal the fact that we are really trvin"- to extend
and amend these principles, and not sim pi v judging new cases
by the old principle. Here, therefore, the ultimate difficulty
is still a question of fact — whether, namely, social develop-
ment implies the adoption of the new rule sugcrested ?
32. We may now come to the proper casuistical questions
where there is a real difficulty in interpreting the law. If it
is ever right to tell a lie, when is it right? What are the
principles by which we must judge? The utilitarian prin-
ciple seems to suggest the answer, Whenever the probabilities
are in favour of a lie doing more good than harm. The
morality of this answer depends partly upon the question,
What are the "consequences" to be admitted as relevant?
May I take into account in my calculation the pain which
the bare telling of a lie gives to a man accustomed to speak
the truth ? Or shall we say that as this pain depends upon
a fallacy of association, we ought to accustom ourselves to lie,
and so to find lying painless, whenever we see a balance of
good consequences in its favour? There can be no doubt
that such a principle strikes most people as immoral. The
actual standard of morality, whatever its justification, con-
demns lying in almost all cases, and only admits of doubtful
exceptions w^here the balance is seen to be overpoweringly in
388 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
favour of a lie, such as the famous case of giving informa-
tion to a murderer. It seems, then, that in this case the
average moral judgment does not conform precisely to the
utilitarian standard. It condemns useful lies, though we
may admit that there is a distinction between the cases of a
lie which is useful to the ao-ent and that which is useful to
O
the world at large. The former kind of lie would, of course,
be condemned by the utilitarians, in cases at least where the
good to the agent is counterbalanced by evil to others;
whilst, in regard to the latter, the moral standard would seem
to be rather unsettled, and people are generally inclined to
evade a solution by denying that the case ever occurs, or by
saying that it occurs so rarely as not to be worth ' consi-
deration. There is a strons; feeling that it is dancrerous to
consider such facts closely, as an admission of a possibility
of exceptions tends to increase the freedom of making
exceptions,
^^. Now I certainly think that the utilitarian principle
does not explain the whole case. The moral rule is formed
in a great degree, as I have argued, by a utilitarian method;
that is, by observing the bad and good consequences of certain
kinds of conduct. But morality includes more than this, as
the moral sense is the product of the whole social development,
and therefore of the development of social instincts by other
processes than that of direct calculation. The whole system
of instincts must be such as are implied in a healthful social
growth, but the sentiment may justify itself by being actually
useful instead of being generated from a perception of utility.
Hence, as I think, the true analogv must be found elsewhere.
A kind of moral sentiment, as I have said, grows up in every
social organisation. The patriotic spirit of a citizen or the
military spirit of the soldier is closely related to the moral
sentiments which discharge a similar function in tlie " social
tissue." Let us take, for example, the striking case of the
soldier's devotion to his regiment or army. The essential
condition of military excellence is the spirit of subordination.
The ideal soldier — the man who realises most fully the condi-
EXPEDIENCY. 389
tions of military life — is one who obeys orders implicitly. The
code of mllltarv duty includes, therefore, as Its first principle,
the great rule, "Do as you are bid." In almost every case,
disobedience to orders proceeds from laziness, cowardice, want
of patriotic spirit, or some quality which so far makes a man
a worse soldier. And hence, again, the rule is put forth
absolutely; and no commander would endeavour to Impress
upon the mind of a subordinate the importance of sometimes
disobeying orders. And yet it is plain that questions may
arise in this capacity which are precisely analogous to the
ordinary problems of casuistry. No one will deny that the
importance of implicit obedience is founded upon the directly
utilitarian consideration that obedient soldiers make a better
armv ; but cases occur in which the implicit obedience
produces a bad effect. When, for example, the Roman
soldier stood at his post at Pompeii to be overwhelmed by
the eruption, his heroic devotion was so far a source of weak-
ness to the armv. Had he been less devoted, the army would
have had one brave soldier (though not quite so brave a
soldier) the more. Or if we call him stupid, we must then
admit that superior Intelligence would lead him In this instance
to break a law unconditionally laid down. Take, again, the
opposite case. Nelson won several victories by direct insub-
ordination, and is therefore a rather awkward precedent for
the people who like to tell us that to learn to command
we should first learn to obey. Nelson clearly failed in his
dut)'-, and had he failed in his venture would probably have
been punished. Was he right or wrong? If wrong, it is
plain that he would in fiict have been a less efficient com-
mander for having a stronger sense of duty; and if right,
we must admit that a man may be right sometimes to take
the law into his own hands. The most reasonable view
is probably that Nelson, being really a man of genius and
conscious of his genius, was justified in acting as he did. He
was "justified," that is, in this sense, that his action proved
him to be a more efficient commander on the whole, although
his case cannot be made into a precedent, because we cannot
390 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
say what constitutes a man of genius or suggest any satis-
factory test of the presence of genius.
34. Such cases may of course be multiphed indefinitely,
and they pass imperceptibly into moral problems. The prin-
ciple upon which they rest is apparently simple. It is essen-
tial, that is, to the welfare of the army, that a certain spirit
of discipline should be generated. The stronger it is, within
certain limits, the more efficient is the army. An army
usually composed of such men as the Pompeian sentinel
would be invincible by any ordinary foe. In certain special
cases the sentiment thus stimulated produces the very result
against which it is a safeguard in the normal case. A good
soldier sticks to his post or his colours when the post is useless
and the colours represent nothing but so much rag. Still,
as a rule, the danger is entirely on the other side, and we
strengthen the motives to obedience as much as possible,
leaving it to the occasional man of genius to break rules on
his own responsibility. We tacitly admit that a breach of
rules mav be right in certain very rare cases, but they are
cases which it is impossible to define by any sufficient criterion.
They must spring from zeal, not from the absence of zeal,
but they are only justifiable by self-conscious genius, w^hich
unfortunately has a strong outward resemblance to self-
deceiving folly. Finally, if we can reckon upon more intel-
ligence In the man, we may allow a greater latitude. We
recoo-nlse the danger of maklmr the soldier too much of a
machine, and we try to allow for a greater latitude of indi-
vidual action. This, indeed, does not alter the general prin-
ciple of obedience, but only makes the particular rules less
precise; still, as stimulating the tendency of independent
judgment, it probably lowers the absolute character of the
disciplinary rules; the obedience is no longer blind, but
includes a more or less explicit reference to the end for which
it was imposed.
^^. It seems to me that the same principle really governs
the moral case. The absoluteness of the moral law does in
fact rest upon the principle alleged by the utilitarian, namely,
EXPEDIENCY. 391
that men cannot be trusted, and should not trust themselves.
They could trust themselves, perhaps, if thev always reasoned
rightly; but then people do not reason rightly, and still less,
if we may use the phrase, do our emotions reason rightly.
The fact may be regretted, but it is a fact which it is idle to
neglect in morality, which is meant to bind men as they are,
not for men of some ideal but hitherto unapproachable state.
The utilitarian principle of acting in every case from a judg-
ment of the probable consequences might answer at a time
when we could also allow every soldier in our army to act
upon his own judgment as to running away and fighting,
because we could trust each man to see when the good of
the army required him to run, and to run only when required
by the good of the army. Till that time arrives we cannot
grant a liberty which is liable to abuse. There are moral
precepts which clearly await such a process. Why, for
example, do we not allow life to be taken when life means
continued agony? We cannot allow it because we cannot
trust the persons who would have to apply it. The physician
makes it an absolute rule to preserve life as much as he can,
because, if he once admitted any other consideration, he would
open the door to innumerable abuses. That is a plain, and,
as I think, an amply sufficient reason for maintaining the
rule, and so far deviating from the utilitarian method, whicli
would prescribe calculation of the probabilities for each par-
ticular case. We cannot, in fact, keep up the value of
human life without fostering what is in some sense a super-
stitious regard for life — a tenderness for life when the desira-
bility of life has disappeared, and so far a kind of conduct
which may be called unreasonable. I do not inquire whether,
as a matter of fact, this sentiment is not encouraged to excess
at the present day; but the justification depends upon this
principle, and, so far as I can see, upon this principle alone,
unless we resort to arbitrary hypotheses to cover an unrea-
soned prejudice.
;^6. If, now, we suppose that a man, knowing that life
meant for him nothing but agony, and that moreover his life
392 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
could not serve others, and was only giving useless pain to
his attendants^ and perhaps involved the sacrifice of health to
his wife and children, should commit suicide, what ought we
to think of him ? He would, no doubt, be breaking the
accepted moral code; but why should he not break it?
Because he is setting a bad example? Undoubtedly that
must be allowed to have some weight. If his conduct tended
to depress the general estimate of the value of life below the
point which is necessary to social welfare, he is so far setting
a bad precedent — bad, that is, in so far as it is likely to be
abused. In conforming to the law he is making himself a
martyr to the general welfare, and deserves the praise of
unselfishness. But if, again, he knew that his conduct
could not have this effect, as in a case where he might
be quite certain that his action would remain unknown,
what harm would he be doing? May we not say that he is
acting on a superior moral principle, and that because he is
clearly diminishing the sum of human misery? It is impos-
sible to settle the case in concrete instances, because there is
no fixed external test. The conduct may spring either from
cowardice or from a loftier motive than the ordinary, and the
merit of the action is therefore not determinable ; but, assu-
ming the loftier motive, I can see no ground for disapproving
the action which flows from it.
37. Briefly, then, if conduct be such as to increase the
actual sum of happiness, if it does not imply a defect of
altruism in the agent, and if it be such as not to set a bad
precedent either to ourselves or to others, I do not see in
what sense it is morally blameworthy. To adhere to the
rule, when the rule clearly does not apply, is not to be moral,
but to be a moral pedant. The truth is simply that the race
must form its moral code in the same way as we have to
stimulate the sense of discipline in an army; that is, we have
to deal with human beings who cannot be trusted ; we have
to encourage modes of feeling which, though generally of the
highest value, do not point infallibly to that kind of conduct
which is most productive of happiness; we have to take
EXPEDIENCY. 393
human nature in the rough, and to give external rules which
do not formally and at all points correspond to the judgment
which would be passed by the most intelligent and sensitive
of the species. So far as the utilitarian mode of reasoning
tends to obscure this essential fact, it may be rightly con-
demned because liable to abuse; but it is possible to interpret
the utilitarian principle differently, and I regard it as in any
case an approximation to the truth, though tending perhaps
to a certain laxity in practice, in so far as it assumes an im-
practicable nicety in the application of the criterion.
38. In what sense, however, can the theory here stated be
properly stigmatised as a doctrine of expediency ? To act
rightly, I say, is to act as the truly moral man would act;
the truly moral man being defined by his fulfilment of the
conditions of social welfare. He has, therefore, certain
qualities which may be called absolutely good ; that is, that
they are good on the sole assumption of a certain social and
individual organisation. They imply, again, obedience to
the established moral standard in almost every case. The
thoroughly trustworthy man will speak the truth all but in-
variably. But in certain rare cases, the internal and external
laws cease to coincide absolutelv. Now in such cases the
ideal or thoroughly moral man will break the external law,
and break it in obedience to his instinct. He must trust his
instincts, for he has nothing else to which he can trust. If,
in fact, the exceptions to the law admitted of being definitelv
formulated, we should have the case of a new moral law. The
rule would no longer be, " Speak the truth," but " Speak the
truth under such and such circumstances." We miirht then
have some difficult questions as to the rightness of obeying
the recognised law, or obeying the law which is still strug-
gling for recognition. On our hypothesis, the difficulty is
that the problem has to be solved without any fixed test to
go by. Still the difficulty is essentially the same. The man
has to act upon his instinctive perception that in this case
the moral law is defective. But to say that he must trust
his instinct is not to say that whatever his instinct tells
394 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
him will be right. It is simply that in certain cases the
refined and well-informed instinct outruns the definite and
assignable formula. He is the final court of appeal, but not,
therefore, above the law. The ear of the musician may-
judge of discords and harmonies too fine to be measured by
mathematical instruments. He will accept the general rules,
but will apply them with greater severity than any mechani-
cal contrivance can sufficiently test. In the same way, the
man of fine moral taste has to solve problems too delicate
for the coarser rules which serve for everyday life ; not be-
cause he despises those rules, but because he has a keener
sense of their true value. Some of the noblest actions re-
corded have generally been where a man has broken with
the accepted code of steadygoing respectable moralists ; but
the Tightness or wrongness of his conduct is still amenable
to a test, which, though only implicit, is as valid and fixed
as any other. The exception to the law must always itself
imply a law. It must embody some general principle, though
the principle cannot be absolutely laid down in particular
cases j for the general principle, briefly stated, must be this,
namely, that the conduct in question would be commanded
by a higher code of morality, and by '' higher" I mean such
a code as would be obtained by a general increase of social
efficiency, and a closer approximation to an adequate solu-
tion of the great problem of life. The problem, therefore,
just noted must always occur, namely, whether I ought to
act upon a code which is not yet recognised by the accepted
morality, and which cannot be recognised on account of
human stupidity and insensibility. That question, again,
can only be answered by taking into account the total
effect, and asking whether I am doing more good by my
action or more harm by setting a precedent capable of
misinterpretation.
39. There is, then, only one test for such problems. Does
a given deviation from the law imply an advance or a decline
in the stage of moral development? Does it mean that the
qualities which imply conformity to the moral law have not
EXPEDIENCY. 395
been sufficiently organised in the individual, or that they
have become a part of his nature so thoroughly that a still
finer instinct has been generated which transcends him ?
That is a question of fact, which it is generally pretty easy
to answer. Most conduct which offends the average standard
proceeds from some vicious motive. But we cannot deny
that there are examples to the contrary; and we must admit
this freely in spite of any taunts as to expediency, which
really confound the two cases or overlook the undoubted
importance of the great fact upon which the importance of
every kind of general rule of conduct really rests, namely,
that men are in fact too stupid, too wilful, and too skilful
in self-deception to be trusted to act from more refined
considerations.
40. The answer suggests one other difficulty. Let us
grant that the moral man will sometimes break a law
which it is vitally important to impress upon the ordinary
man. Is not this to make two rules, one for the good and
one for the bad ? Rather it is to assert that the ordinary man
cannot perform the same action as the good. If the same
internally, it is not really the same because it does not imply
the same motive. But to make a general rule of conduct is to
make a law which can be brought to bear upon everybodv.
A moral law, as here stated, seems to be simply a description
of the way in which certain people will act, and therefore
to have no meaning for others. This introduces, therefore,
the problem which we now have to consider. What is the
relation between morality and happiness? What, in the
utilitarian language, is the general sanction of morality ? A
man may say, "That is doubtless 'right,' or, in other words, it
is what a virtuous man would do ; but I happen not to be a
virtuous man; why should I do it? " How are we to answer
him ?
( 396 )
CHAPTER X.
MORALITY AND HAPPINESS.
I. The Sanction.
I. I HAVE thus considered the problem, What is the cri-
terion which, upon the evolutionist theory, must be substi-
tuted for the greatest-happiness criterion of the utilitarian ?
And this leads naturally to the problem how, upon the same
theory, must the utilitarian sanction be modified? Why
should a man be virtuous? The answer depends upon the
answer to the previous question, What is it to be virtuous?
If, for example, virtue means all such conduct as promotes
happiness, the motives to virtuous conduct must be all such
motives as impel a man to aim at increasing the sum of
happiness. These motives constitute the sanction, and the
sanction may be defined either as an intrinsic or an extrinsic
sanction; it may, that is, be argued either that virtuous conduct
invariably leads to consequencee which are desirable to every
man, whether he be or be not virtuous ; or, on the other
hand, that virtuous conduct as such, and irrespectively of any
future consequences, makes the agent happier. Some mo-
ralists say that a good man will go to heaven and a bad man
to hell. Others, that virtue is itself heaven and vice hell.
Now, I have already said that an answer which assigns a
really extrinsic motive is, to my mind, a virtual evasion of
the question. Yet the line between extrinsic and intrinsic
motives is perhaps not clearly drawn, and there are diffi-
culties in the assignment of a purely intrinsic motive which
require explicit consideration. The criterion which I have
accepted is, briefly, that a man is virtuous or the reverse so
THE SANCTION. 397
far as he does or does not conform to the type defined by the
healthy condition of the social organism. We have, there-
fore, to consider what advantages are implied in the possession
or the acquirement of such a character, or the observance of
the corresponding rules of action.
2. The problem is thus to find a scientific basis for the art
of conduct. The "sanction" must supply the motive power
by which individuals are to be made virtuous. It is for the
practical moralist the culminating point of all ethical theory.
Now, according to my argument, the primary and direct incid-
ence, if I may say so, of moral sanctions is upon the social
organism, whilst the individual is only indirectly and second-
arily affected. There is (as I hold) a necessary and immediate
relation between social vitality and morality. We may say
unconditionally that healthy development implies an efficient
moral code, and that social degeneration implies the reverse.
But it does not follow that there is the same intimate con-
nection in the individual case. As, indeed, the society has
no existence apart from the individual by which it is con-
stituted, there must be a close connection ; but it must be
subject to various limitations, in so far as the conditions of
health and happiness of any particular person are not ex-
haustively defined by those of the society to which he
belongs. We cannot transfer to each member of the society
what we can say of the society regarded as a whole. It is
at least conceivable that the sacrifice of some of its members
may be essential to the welfare of the society itself. The
virtuous men may be the very salt of the earth, and yet the
discharge of a function socially necessary may involve their
own misery. A great moral and religious teacher has often
been a martyr, and we are certainly not entitled to assume
either that he was a fool for his pains, or, on the other hand,
that the highest conceivable degree of virtue can make
martyrdom agreeable.
3. Here, in short, we come to one of the multiform and
profound problems which has tortured men in all ages.
Virtue — no one denies it — does good to somebody, but how
398 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
often to the agent? A belief in justice as regulating the
universe has been held to imply (I do not ask whether
rightly held) that happiness should somehow go along with
virtue. To give up the belief in such a supreme regulation
seemed, again^ to be an admission that virtue was folly.
Yet how can this doctrine be reconciled to the plainest facts
of experience ? The lightning strikes the good and the bad ;
the hero dies in the ruin of his cause ; the highest self-denial
is repaid by the blackest ingratitude ; the keenest sympathy
with our fellows implies the greatest liability to suffering;
the cold, the sensual, and the systematically selfish often
seem to have the pleasantest lots in life. Great men in
despair have pronounced virtue to be but a name ; philoso-
phers have evaded the difficulty by a verbal denial of the
plainest truths ; theologians have tried to console their
disciples by constructing ideal worlds which have served
for little more than a recognition of the unsatisfactory
state of the actual world. The problem, so often attacked,
will perhaps be solved when we know the origin of evil.
Meanwhile, we have only to consider in what way it is
related to ethical theories.
4. One preliminary remark may help to clear the way.
Any sound proposition whatever about happiness must in-
clude some reference, tacit or explicit, to the constitution of
the agent. Happiness, whatever else it may imply, implies
a state of some conscious being; it must be conditioned by,
or, in the mathematical phrase, be a function of, the organic
state. We may, of course, discover conditions of happiness
common to large classes of organised beings, or even to
organised beings in general. Such a condition, for example,
would be asserted in the proposition (true or false) that
happiness implies a state of heightened vitality. Other
more special conditions apply only to particular classes. The
intellectual pleasures imply a certain degree of mental culture;
the pleasure of music implies a certain specific sensibility.
Such pleasures imply a faculty which is not common to all
men, but to all intellectual or to all musical men. Unless
THE SANCTION. 399
therefore^ virtue cand happiness are related as merely different
modes of regarding the same quality, it is idle to attempt to
assign their relations by a simple inspection of the concepts
themselves. Whatever relation they may have must be
dependent upon the constitution of the agent. And though
it might conceivably turn out that the relation was such as
to be independent of any possible variations in the individual
constitution, we cannot make any such assumption at start-
ing. The presumption is in this, as in every other case, that
the relation of happiness and virtue will be dependent upon
the character of the agent. It may be true that the happi-
ness of a given class depends upon virtue, and that class may
be a very large one ; but we have no right to assume that
the class is identical with the whole human race; nor can
any such theory be established without an investigation suffi-
cient to rebut the natural presumption that some of the
class qualities are necessary for its existence. In fact, the
most obvious answer to the question, "^Does virtue coincide
with happiness ? " would probably be, "Yes, for the virtuous
man." As music gives pleasure only to men who have a
M musical ear, so it may be virtue gives pleasure to men with
. a conscience. If the answer is not generally given, it is not
because it is destitute of considerable plausibility, and, as I
think, of a great degree of accuracy ; but because it is calcu-
lated to shock many respectable people. But this is not a
philosophical consideration.
5. The remark is enough to exhibit the fallacy of a familiar
short cut to the desired conclusion. When attempting to
estimate the happiness of the virtuous, we may, it has been
said, confine ourselves to the judgment of the virtuous. The
intellectual man alone can judge of the value of intellectual
pleasures, whilst he can judge as well as the sensual of the
value of sensual pleasures ; he alone, therefore, can make a
comparison ; and as every one which can thus compare does
in fact (so it is asserted) prefer the intellectual, we are justi-
fied in accepting this authoritative decision. The argument,
like many other formally unsound arguments, has, I think,
400 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
some force in a shape to be presently noticed ; but in this
shape it appears to be hopelessly untenable. For, in the
first place, no judgment of pleasure proceeding by this
method of direct inspection alone can have much authority.
We are very bad judges even of our own pleasures, and we
have innumerable temptations to give a coloured judgment.
We may, therefore, always appeal from a man's avowed
sentiments to his practice ; and it can hardly be said that
men of the highest intellectual qualities always display a
relative indifference to the pleasures of the senses. Solomon
the preacher must be compared with Solomon the king.
Nor does it follow that if I can judge of my own pleasures
I can therefore judge of other men's pleasures. The fallacy
inherent in all such inferences is one of the most familiar
topics of experience. If I prefer Shakespeare to a mutton-chop,
I may say that I so far judge the pleasures of imagination
to be preferable for me to those of the senses. But how can
I leap from that proposition to the proposition that they are
preferable for others ? They are clearly not preferable for
the pig, or to the Patagonian, or even to those civilised men
who are in this matter of the pig's way of thinking. At
most, I may infer that certain cultivated minds find m.ore
pleasure in poetry than in eating, but still it does not
follow that the cultivated man finds more pleasure in poetry
than the sensual man finds in eating. The two men are
differently constituted throughout, and it may be that the
intellectual man has lost in one kind of sensibility what he
has gained in another. To assert positively that he gains on
the whole is to make an assumption often disputed, and of
which either side may be taken without self-contradiction, —
the assumption, namely, that an increased intellectual sensi-
bility necessarily carries with it increased power of enjoy-
ment on the whole; or, in other words, that it always answers
to cultivate your brain at the expense of your stomach.
6. There is yet another decisive objection. It is not even
true that any man absolutely prefers Shakespeare to a mutton-
chop. Rather, the phrase is nonsensical. Only an infant
THE SANCTION. 401
compares his lov^e for his cousin with his love for jam-tart.
Shakespeare himself would at the right moment have pre-
ferred a cup of sack to the sweetest music or the loftiest
poetry. A starving saint might choose to eat a crust of
bread rather than listen to the most edifying sermon. Briefly,
a pleasure is not a separate thing, which has a certain con-
stant value, but a state of feeling which varies both accord-
ing to the permanent constitution and the varying condition
of that constitution. Each desire has a certain force, de-
pending upon the circumstances and character of the agent,
and there are conditions under which any particular desire
may, for the moment at least, become predominant. We
can only obtain absurd propositions when we attempt, in
discussing pains and pleasures, to abstract from the agent
who feels them. Nor can we evade the force of this argu-
ment by making a distinction between the quantity and
quality of pleasure. It is doubtless possible to give some
meaning to such phrases. We may, for example, distinguish
between pleasures as they affect different sensibilities, and
call those pleasures highest which require activity of the
intellect or the sympathetic emotions, and those lower which
excite only the senses. Or, again, it may be true that some
pleasures are massive and others acute; that some imply a
state of the whole organism, and others only the excitement
of a particular organ. But though this and much more
may be true, and for some purposes important, it does not
affect our present argument ; it does not enable us to say,
that is, that one pleasure is absolutely preferable to another.
Pleasures may indeed be compared in respect of pleasantness;
that is, we may say that, under given conditions, the desire
for one will overpower the desire for another. But each will
be alternately strongest as the conditions vary, and therefore
the formula which expresses their relations must always take
those conditions into account, and can never yield the state-
ment that one is always preferable to the other. This is
equally true whether we mean by preferable that which is
actually preferred, or that which ought to be preferred ; for,
3 c
402 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
upon any moral theory worth discussing, every natural
desire has its turn not only of preference but of rightful
preference.
7. I return, then, to the problem, which cannot be solved
by any such summary method, What is the relation between
virtue and happiness ? and I have to admit that it may be
a relation dependent upon the character of the agent. And
here we have to notice at once that there is an apparent
difficulty in our assumptions which necessitates a re-statement
of the question. Given the character, I have said, the
conduct follows ; the virtuous man acts virtuously and
the vicious man viciously. If we suppose, then, that the
character remains constant, there is apparently no sense in
asking whether it would make the vicious man happier to
act virtuously, for by acting virtuously he would become
virtuous, and this, by the hypothesis, does not happen. So
long, therefore, as we assume character to be fixed, the
question resolves itself into this, whether the virtuous man
is happier than the vicious man ? Assuming the external
circumstances to be the same for both, we have to ask how
far virtue is under all or under what circumstances a guaran-
tee for happiness ? But, in the next place, the assumption
of the fixity of character is of course arbitrary. A man's
character is in all cases the product of all the influences to
which he has been subjected from his infancy acting upon
his previously existing character ; and though more variable
in early life than afterwards, it is in every case undergoing
a continuous process of development. We have therefore
to ask whether the acquisition of a virtuous character — of
those instincts and modes of conduct which are prescribed
by the moral law — be in all cases conducive to happiness^
or whether (as is conceivable) there are natures which are
made happier and others which arc not made happier by
such discipline ? We have, on the former hypothesis, to ask
whether a man with eyes is happier than a man without ;
and upon this, whether, supposing a man to have eyes, it is
always worth his while to cultivate the art of seeing. And,
THE SANCTION. 403
thirdly^ we have to observe that conduct is not fixed, even
when character and circumstances are givcn^ unless we in-
chide under "circumstances" the particular set of thoughts
and feelings which are present in the agent's mind. Hence
we have to consider the problem (which^ indeed, seems to
be the most frequently discussed) whether we can discover
any sanction for the observance of the moral law as such
which would be equally operative upon all men irrespectively
of their moral character. To exhibit to a selfish man the
pleasures of sympathy is to suggest to him a motive for be-
coming virtuous ; we are virtually telling him to cultivate a
taste which he has neglected ; and this falls under the pre-
vious case. But we may also try to persuade him that even
upon purely selfish or prudential grounds he ought to do
good to his neighbour. In short, we may try to prove that
obedience to the outward rule answers, whatever the internal
motive. We have thus to ask three questions : first, whether
the virtuous man as such is happier than the vicious ;
secondly, whether it is worth while on prudential grounds
for the vicious to acquire the virtuous character; thirdly,
whether it can be worth while in the same sense for the
vicious man to observe the external moral law ?
8. Before applying myself to the argument directly, I will
make one remark. I think it altogether superfluous to dilate
upon the old test that honesty is the best policy. The point
has been so much laboured, that, although there is abundant
room for rhetoric, there is little need of argument. Con-
sidering how closely we are dependent upon our neighbours
and upon their good opinion, and the enormous difficulty of
retaining that good opinion without deserving it, there can be
no serious doubt that, on the average, every man will find his
account in observing the accepted moral code and acquiring
the corresponding instincts. To be on good terms with vour
family, to avoid picking and stealing, to be decently sober, in-
dustrious, and good-natured, are rules of conduct so obviously
expedient upon all grounds, that I will not burn daylight by
insisting upon them. I assume a general coincident between
404 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the dictates of morality and of prudence, and refer readers in
need of further argument to the Hbraries of excellent treatises
extant upon this familiar topic, I will add that in the follow-
ing remarks I shall content myself, for the same reasons, with
pointing out what I take to be the true issues, without seeking
to estimate the weight of the appropriate evidence which may,
as a rule, be taken for granted.
II. Happiness and Virtue.
9. Assuming, then, that virtue and prudence approxi-
mately coincide, whilst, on the other hand, we cannot assume
that they are absolutely coincident, how much farther can
we go ? Can we fix with any greater precision the limits
of possible duration? Does the new form into which the
old aro;uments must be cast — for a change of form is all that
can be regarded as possible — help us to discuss the question
more effectively? Every writer is tempted to recommend
his own scheme by showing that it establishes a closer con-
nection between virtue and morality than the scheme of his
rivals, and there is therefore a very natural tendency to pass
too lightly over the less solid parts of ethical theory. We
feel that what is wanting in reason will be made up by the
goodwill of our audience. But if our aim is the discovery
of the truth, we must be more upon our guard against the
plausibilities of writers who wish to combine edification with
argument. It would be highly agreeable to find sound reasons
for holding virtue and prudence to be identical ; it would be
both wrong and foolish to make sham reasons where we have
not got real ones.
10. If any man outside of a pulpit were to ask himself
frankly what were the main conditions of human happiness,
the answer would certainly include one proposition. The
first, most essential, and most sufficient condition of happi-
ness is health — health, of course, inclusive of cerebral, and so
far of mental health ; or, in the opposite phrase, an absence
of every disease of mind or body. This, again, remains
HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE. 405
equally certain^ whatever the difficulty of giving a satisfactory
definition of health or disease. We can only say vaguely
that health corresponds to the maintenance, and disease to
the disturbance of a certain organic balance. But though
we may not know precisely what they are, we cannot doubt
their importance. A sound digestion, an active liver,
strong nerves — briefly, all the qualities that go to a perfect
physical machinery — form the best of all outfits for the
voyage of life, so far as "best" means most productive of
happiness.
II. The question then arises. Can we push this theory any
farther ? Can we use the w^ord "health" in such a way as to
include the right working of all the functions — including
the intellectual and the emotional, as well as the purely
animal — and then assert that health in this wide acceptation,
including the normal constitution of the "moral sense," is
the most general and essential condition of happiness ?
Common sense seems to sanction some such doctrine. The
viejis Sana in corpore sano is still the truest possible definition
of the general condition of happiness, and we have no hesita-
tion in applying the words "healthy" and "morbid" to purely
mental phenomena. But it may be urged that the phrase
implies a metaphor too vague to bear much argumentative
stress. We are making an awkward transition from ob-
jective to subjective considerations, from the comparatively
firm land of physiology to the treacherous morasses of
psychology. We may assume, in virtue of the general
principle, that health of brain is a condition of happiness
at least as much as health of stomach ; and more vaguely
we may assume that health of brain has some correlation
with health of mind. In extreme cases it is plain enough
that a diseased brain implies madness and misery ; but we
are certainly unable to say what state of brain is correlated
with those good and bad qualities which constitute the
virtuous or vicious character, but which may vary from one
pole to the other without exceeding the limits of perfect
sanity. It is possible that we may be justified in inferring
4o6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
that some correlation exists, but our inference, even if well
established, gives us next to no help. It asserts a relation
between two things, one of which, the state of the brain,
is hopelessly inaccessible, and can therefore afford no inde-
pendent information. If vice, like some physical diseases,
were due to the presence of a parasite in the tissues, the
fact might help us to define its effects upon the organic state
generally, and therefore upon the happiness of the agent.
But as the existence of any physical condition is a hypothesis
which cannot be confirmed by any direct test, and the con-
dition is not likely to be of this definite and assignable kind,
any such hypothesis would seem to be a mere curiosity.
And yet I think that the analogy has a real force, and may
be of use — not so much in suggesting new arguments as
in giving more coherence and fulness to the old familiar
argument. And this is as much as we can expect in ethical
inquiries.
12. That health implies happiness may be asserted on
purely empirical grounds. A simple induction may con-
vince us that all states which imply the disturbance of the
normal equilibrium are also states of misery. The convic-
tion of this truth may not be much intensified, but it seems
to be more or less " explained," — that is, shown to be not
merely a fact, but a necessary consequence of a wider prin-
ciple,— when we take into account the evolutionist doctrine,
which I have everywhere assumed. The whole process of
nature, upon that doctrine, implies, speaking briefly, a
correlation between the painful and the pernicious, and
thus (as I have argued at sufficient length) the elaboration
of types in which this problem is solved by an ever-increas-
ing efficiency and complexity of organisation. This holds
equally from the simplest up to the highest species. And
hence we may infer that the typical or ideal character at
any given stage of development, the organisation which, as
we may say, represents the true line of advance, corresponds
to a maximum of vitality ; to a maximum power of pre-
serving the equilibrium or resisting morbid conditions, and
HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE. 407
therefore of a maximum accuracy in the correlation between
painful and pernicious states. It seems, again, that this
typical form, as it is the healthiest, must represent not only
the strongest — that is, the most capable of resisting un-
favourable influences — but also the happiest ; for every de-
viation from it affords a strong presumption, not merely of
liability to the destructive processes which are distinctly
morbid, but also to a diminished efficiency under normal
conditions. The man who has the weakness which predis-
poses to disease may not suff'er so long as the disease is not
actuallv generated, but he has presumably less power of
enjovment under any circumstances, A defect in the
machinery will imply defective working, though actual decay
may not take place in the absence of a special strain. What
is true of the elaborate machinery of the physical organisa-
tion is also presumably true of the less accessible and definable
machinery of that which is called the spiritual organisation.
13. The argument, again, whatever its weight, is not
affected so far by the consideration that the phrase "per-
nicious " must be supposed to include conditions primarily
injurious to the society instead of the individual. So long
at least as we are speaking of the type, such an argument is
irrelevant. For, as I have said at sufficient length, the type
always and from the earliest period is moulded with an equally
essential, though not an equally permanent, reference to the
needs of the race. The typical or most effective form is the
most effective relatively to the whole conditions, and the so-
called social qualities are no less essential than those which
immediately refer to the fixed material conditions. The
reproductive and maternal functions of the animal are just as
much a part of its nature as the digestive or the respiratory,
and they must, therefore, have their proper place in the
oro-anisation. The same is equally true of the affections
which become prominent in the rational animal capable of
true social life. To the type, though not so fully to every
individual, capacity for society is just as essential as capacity
for breathing air. The whole organisation is moulded, we
4o8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
may say, with a view to this social function, and a defective
constitution in this respect carries with it an impHcation of
unfitness for the presumed conditions of hfe just as much as
defects in any other direction.
14. This may suggest the bare outline of an argument
w^iich might be carried out and illustrated in much greater
detail by those who have the necessary knowledge. How-
ever fully set forth, it would still, I suspect, remain exceed-
ingly vague, and probably would have some logical gaps. It
is scarcely to be regarded as an independent argument, but
as affording a presumption that some generally admitted
truths may be manifestations of a general scientific principle,
and thus necessary under the known conditions of life.
Whatever its vagueness, I have briefly stated it, because I
think that it will enable us to suggest the best method of
viewing the ordinary reasonings as to the relation between
virtue and happiness.
15. And, in the first place, it is to be noted that upon this
showing — as indeed upon any intelligible ground — the con-
nection of morality and virtue is conditional rather than
absolute. For the true statement is, so far as we have gone,
that the typical man is so far the happiest. But the typical
man, though he is, on my theory, the virtuous man, is also
much more than is generally understood by that name.
Happiness is the reward offered, not for virtue alone, but for
conformity to what I have called the law of nature ; that
law, namely, of which it is the great commandment, "Be
strong." If the problem at which the whole race is perpe-
tually, even when unconsciously, labouring, is the production
of the most vigorous type, and if pain and pleasure be the
great incentives to labour, then we must admit that the prizes
must be won by those who, on the whole, and considering
all their relations, are the most efficiently constituted. As
individual excellence assumes fitness for the social functions,
so the social excellence clearly assumes fitness for the non-
social functions ; and therefore we must expect to find that
happiness is correlated not only with the qualities which
HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE. 409
involve approval, but those also which excite admiration.
Beauty, strength, intellectual vigour, aesthetic sensibility,
prudence, industry, and so forth, are all implied in the best
type, and are so far conducive to happiness.
16. This remark, obvious enough, seems to be implicitly
disregarded in some of the attempts to prove that virtue
brings happiness. For if virtue be taken in its narrower
sense, and as implying chiefly the negative quality of habi-
tual abstinence from forbidden actions, there is no reason to
suppose that it coincides with happiness. It marks only a
partial, and perhaps a subordinate, conformity to the essential
conditions of life. Nature — if I may use that convenient
personification for things considered as part of a continuous
system — wants big, strong, hearty, eupeptic, shrewd, sensible
human beings ; and would be grossly inconsistent if she
bestowed her highest reward of happiness upon a billions,
scrofulous, knockkneed saint, merely because he had a strong
objection to adultery, drunkenness, murder, and robbery, or an
utter absence of malice, or even highly cultivated sympathies.
You can only raise a presumption that moral excellence
coincides closely with a happy nature if you extend "moral "
to include all admirable qualities, whether they are or are
not the specifically moral products of altruistic feeling. The
attempt to evade this conclusion is, of course, exceedingly
natural. The practical moralist holds that the non-social
qualities may be left to take care of themselves. The moral
progress is dependent upon the extension of the sympathies,
and, at any given period, the huge dead weight of selfishness
is the great obstructive force. This is reflected in the theory
of desert assumed by the ordinary morality of common sense.
No man acquires a claim upon his neighbours by attending
to his own wants. If, indeed, men were differently consti-
tuted— if, as is sometimes the case in individual cases, sym-
pathy meant a morbid state of mind, a neglect of a man's
own affairs, and a useless expenditure of emotion upon affairs
which he could not control; — if, in short, men erred in the
direction of being sentimental busybodics, it might become
4IO THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
necessary to preach the opposite doctrine. We should then
feel '^ obliged " to the man who strenuously minded his own
business and cultivated his own corner of the world, and
might even come to think him the most '^meritorious/'
For the present, there is no appreciable risk in this direction.
There is an inexhaustible supply of selfishness and a most
plentiful lack of public spirit; and therefore the aim of all
moralists — rather of all moral human beings — will be to
develop the side of human nature now most defective. Only
when this essentially relative conception of merit is made
absolute we get into all the perplexities which warn us that
we are flying in the face of facts. If from the doctrine that
virtue is meritorious we infer, not that the development of
certain qualities is a necessary element of social progress,
but that the ultimate end of the universe is to stimulate,
and therefore to reward virtue, we get into the region of
unrealities. If we can speak of an " end " at all in that
sense, it must, so long as we are in the scientific region, be
the end towards which we can perceive some progress,
namely, the development of a higher type — higher in respect
of the general efficiency of the whole organism, and certainly
not the production of virtuous beings simply ; especially if by
virtue we mean conformity to that narrower moral code which
is only a part of the " law of nature." To make any such
theory square with the facts, we must either overlook the
most palpable and undeniable phenomena of life, or we
must take refuge in a world of arbitrary fancies.
17. We have still, however, to consider the bearing of
this doctrine upon the relations between virtue and happi-
ness; for it is possible, consistently with the theory, to
regard that relation as approaching absolute coincidence.
If, in fact, we are justified in assuming that the typical man
is the happiest, and further that he is also the most virtuous,
we may say that the connection is of a very intimate kind.
It is true, indeed, that a limit is suggested, for it is only upon
condition of an alliance with the other useful qualities that
we suppose virtue to imply happiness. Now as most men
HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE. 41 1
are very far from possessing the other qualities in perfection,
it may be that their virtues should be diminished in propor-
tion in order to produce a maximum of happiness. This,
for example, is sometimes insinuated in the cynical maxim
which recommends us , to keep our hearts cold and our
stomachs warm, for this seems to be an epigrammatic asser-
tion of the theory that warm affections are apt to be injurious
to the digestion. Perhaps, indeed, its author meant to go
further; he meant, it may be, to assert that the affections
were, on the whole, sources of more misery than happiness,
and he was probably one of the people who consider that
your heart, like vour liver, must be out of order whenever
YOU become distinctly conscious of its existence. But omitting
this, which will be presently noticed, the doctrine may be
interpreted as an assertion that the pleasures of sympathy are
worth having, but only on condition of their not interfering
with sanitary considerations. And this, true or not, leaves
a vague but very wide sphere for their possibly agreeable
activity; and, in fact, it seems impossible to deny that a
man's capacity for emotional excitement may be too great
for his constitutional power ; that he carries too m.uch sail for
his prudential ballast, and that he has, in this sense, too much
virtue for happiness.
18. The same thing indeed may be stated in a less offensive
way. We may either say that the man has too much virtue
for his prudence, or that he has too little prudence for his
virtue. We mean in either case that he deviates from the
type by a relative excess of those qualities which are, on an
average of cases, defective. He is so far a less efficient being
on the whole, and therefore less calculated for happiness, as
his nature is ill balanced ; and the balance might be redressed
either by strengthening the weaker or weakening the stronger
side. But it is not true in an absolute sense that he is too
virtuous for happiness; for by our assumption the virtue is
the typical character considered under one aspect or in
certain definite relations. The typical man represents the
best kind of man who can be made out of given materials ;
412 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
and this Involves both the quahties which excite admiration
and those which excite moral approval. It is possible, indeed,
that the supposed man may represent an altogether higher
type than that implied in the actual moral standard ; and
we shall ask presently whether we have any right to suppose
that such a being is presumably happier. In the ordinary
case, the answer already given is sufficient. The assertion
that a man has too fine feelings means equaliv he has too
weak a fibre. He is deficient in one kind of excellence,
though not in the moral kind ; and any deficiency so far tells
against his happiness. This, in fact, seems to be true of many
of the men who have been made miserable by qualities which
w^e rightly call good, because they are implied in the highest
type, but which, taken by themselves, are an insufficient
guarantee for happiness. Virtue, in the sense of benevolence
or quick sympathies, will not supply the place of strong
nerves and high vitality. The whole man does not represent
the best type, for a race which developed its sympathies at
the expense of its vitality as a whole would be, for that reason,
an inferior race, and represent not progress but deterioration.
19. The general argument might be confirmed by going
again over the chief virtues, considered in their individual
instead of their social aspect, and showing how they implied
greater fitness for the normal conditions of life. To do so
would be to repeat much that I have said, and to insist upon
some of the familiar arguments, which I am content rather
to take for granted ; and it will be sufficient to indicate here
a few obvious points, w^ithout fuller elaboration. Thus, in
the first place, we might dwell upon the direct connection
between the prudential and the moral aspect of sanitary
rules. Excesses of sensuality may be forbidden for purely
prudential reasons ; a man may be temperate to avoid the
pains of delirium tremens. The higher character is certainly
not insensible to this motive, but he has the additional
motives that by injuring his health he is injuring his power
of discharging every social function, and that sensuality
implies the dulling of his intellect and the deadening of his
HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE, 413
emotions; and thus, as I have said, it matters not whether
some rules forbidding conduct which in its first incidence
is "self-regarding" be regarded as prudential or as moral.
They are properly both. The same rule, " Be temperate," is
applicable from the lowest to the highest stage ,of develop-
ment, though the details of the code would vary as the con-
stitution. The typical being at each stage would be tempe-
rate, whether from mere instinct, or from a reasoned obser-
vation of consequences, or from the wider considerations
operative upon the being capable of genuine morality. It is
not less important at the highest than at the lowest stages
that the bodily health should be preserved ; and a regard for
sanitary rules is therefore implied in the typical being, and
in the consistent code of rules expressing his mode of conduct,
and embodying both the moral and the prudential law. Of
course, there are special occasions on which the virtuous man
will have to sacrifice health to other considerations ; but the
whole law must be so constructed as to harmonise with the
sanitary code under normal conditions ; for qualities which
could only be acquired at the expense of health would not
be useful to the society, and would therefore not represent
the true line of moral advance. Saints, like poets, are subject
to certain morbid tendencies; but the saintliness which
necessarily promotes sickliness is the kind of saintliness
which diverges from sound morality.
20. From this one might proceed to show how the qualities
more specifically moral fall in with the same principle. So,
for example, the so-called intellectual virtues, the virtues of
which truth and justice are the specifically moral expression,
are also the product of what we naturally call a thoroughly
sound mind ; that is to say, a mind which works normally
undisturbed by prejudice and passion, which has that couraQ-e to
face disagreeable facts and to draw painful conclusions which
does not imply absence of the emotions, but a power of re-
straining that irregular action which distorts and colours the
intellectual vision. This would be followed, ao:ain, bv reckon-
ing up the vast internal advantages which result to the man
414 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
whose intellect is thus healthy ; for health implies a fitness for
the normal conditions of life. And here I might expatiate upon
the immense advantages to every man of imperturbable sound-
ness of sense, and the undeviating honesty, justice, and trust-
worthiness which are its natural fruit in a man's intercourse
with his neighbours. It would, again, be equally easy to
dilate upon the advantage of a healthy emotional nature, one
which is neither morbidly overwrought nor deficient in strength
and sensibility; for, in spite of the advantages attributed to
a cold heart, or, more moderately, to a calculated selfishness,
it must be admitted that some warmth of affection is neces-
sary to happiness. So it may be doubted whether any consider-
able intellectual development is possible without a correspond-
ing emotional development. Without it a man is a hog in
mind as well as in heart. Of all conditions of health, again,
one of the most obvious is steady and regulated exercise of
the various faculties. To weaken the affections is to weaken
all the motives to action which are capable of dominating and
giving continuous interest to life. These supply the springs
of all actions which can really satisfy a man's whole nature.
Nobody will doubt that domestic peace is the most important
of all conditions of happiness after bodily health; and next
to it we may place the possession of interests which give
motives for continuous though not exhausting labour. The
great bulk of mankind is absorbed in bodily or other labour,
which has little interest except as a means of support to
themselves and their families; and its pleasantness or other-
wise must depend chiefly upon its healthiness or the reverse.
The happiness of the whole life in such cases depends gene-
rally upon the domestic interests round which it centres; but
beyond this, a man's happiness may be said to depend chiefly
upon his power of associating agreeably with his fellow-men,
and of devoting himself to some of those pursuits which imply
public spirit, and therefore a capacity for sympathy in some
of its multitudinous forms.
21. This hint at a famiHar line of argument must suffice,
except that I must once more take brief notice of an opinion
HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE. 415
which has encountered us in various forms. Here it declares
that there is something of paradox in our fundamental
theory. That theory asserts that a man is the happiest who
does not aim at his own happiness. In order, then, to be
happy we must not aim at happiness. We have, as it were,
to keep a secret from ourselves, and to hit the mark by pre-
tending to look in the opposite direction. I deny, however
(not to go into other questions), that the argument is here
relevant. Sympathetic feelings are just as much feelings,
and, of course, feelings of the agent himself, as any other
feelings. They cause real pains and pleasures; and there
can be no a priori reason for supposing that a man endowed
with sensibility to such pains and pleasures may have,
on the whole, more happiness than the man without. If,
indeed, a man retaining precisely the same character could
act either selfishly or unselfishly, it might seem strange to
assert that he would get more happiness for himself when
pursuing the happiness of others. But this involves a con-
tradictory assumption. Unless a man be really altruistic
his actions are really selfish, even when they aim incidentally
at good to others. If he be altruistic, he is a different
man from the purely selfish. The comparison, therefore, is
not really between the happiness of the same man acting
from one or the other motive, but between the happiness of
two differently constituted people, one of whom has the
capacity for a whole set of pains and pleasures which are
denied to the other. Experience alone can tell us which
constitution is the best suited for happiness ; and I have
indicated the line of argument which, as I think, is
conclusive in favour of the sympathetic character. The
fact that the sympathetic man aims at the happiness of
others can only appear, at first sight, to be an argument
against him. For, in the first place, it makes him happv to
aim at the happiness of others; and if this happiness has the
awkward quality that it may lead to an actual sacrifice of his
own future happiness, that is not less true of the selfish forms
of enjoyment. Love of drink causes a good deal more "self-
4i6 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
sacrifice" in this sense than love of family. Gin is a more
potent source of imprudence,- even in the moderate sense,
than family affection. The happiness which results from
aiming at something different from our own future happiness
calls no doubt for conspicuous calls of self-abnegation, where-
as the purely selfish motives always promise payment in
kind to the agent himself. But the sympathetic motives
have on their side the far greater intrinsic advantage that they
promote ends more permanent, far richer in interest, and giving
a proper employment to all the faculties of our nature, besides
the intrinsic advantages which spring from friendly relations
with the society of which we form a part. Nobody can doubt
but a man would on an average, that is, if he has the necessary
faculties, have an incomparably greater guarantee for happiness
who was a devoted member, say of some political or religious
body, than if he were exclusively bent upon satisfying one of
the sensual appetites.
32. The arguments upon which I have touched, when
duly expanded and enforced by appropriate evidence, may
convince us of the truth of the proposition laid down.
There is, namely, a necessary connection between virtue and
happiness, inasmuch as there is a necessary connection be-
tween virtue and total efficiency (to put it briefly), and as
virtue forms a necessary part of efficiency. Therefore in so
far as a man is not virtuous he deflects from the type, and
is less calculated for happiness. And this is quite consistent
with the admission that he may deflect from the type in
other ways, which do not entitle us to call him vicious, but
which are equally fatal to happiness. But there is an obvious
gap in the argument, for at every step of the argument it is
clear that we virtually assume a certain state of social deve-
lopment; for the " typical " man is, roughly speaking, the
best that can be made out of existing materials, and by the
" best," again, we have meant the best raw material for the
formation of a vigorous society. But, again, it is plain that
the type gradually changes, and though the change is for the
most part slow, it becomes considerable by accumulation.
HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE. 417
Now if we suppose a man to be distinctly in advance of his
age, we must say that he is more moral, or represents a
superior type; but for that reason he is out of harmony
with his social medium, and loses, therefore, all that part of
the advantages of virtue which depends upon such harmony.
In fact, it seems that the argument tends to show the advan-
tage of the '^type," considered as representing the best
instantaneous development. Happiness will be the reward
of fitness for the actual conditions, and therefore of an em-
bodiment of the code of virtues actually recognised and
possessing authority. Admitting that it is worth while, say,
to be respectable, we may doubt whether it answers to be a
moral hero. Or, again, we may say that as the advantages
depend upon a certain agreement amongst men, I have com-
paratively small inducement to respect the agreement until
other people can be brought to respect it also. In fact, it is
plain that in many ways this is a very important consideration.
A fine ear for music is said to be a source of torture to a man
condemned to live amongst organ-grinders; delicate tastes un-
fit us for living amongst the coarse ; even intellectual activity
exposes a man to much discomfort if he has to live amongst
the stupid. We may say summarily that, though the intrinsic
advantages of the higher organisation are not changed, the
extrinsic disadvantages due to life in an uncongenial medium
go far to neutralise them.
33. It seems impossible to deny that this holds good of the
moral qualities. Temperance is no doubt directly useful in
so far as it is sanitary, and this will be equally true wherever
man lives; but in a gross society, where the temperate man
is an object of ridicule, and necessarily cut off from participa-
tion in the ordinary pleasures of life, he may find his moral
squeamishness conducive to misery. The just and honour-
able man is made miserable in a corrupt society where the
social combinations are simply bands of thieves and his high
spirit only awakens hatred ; and the benevolent is tortured
in proportion to the strength of his sympathies in a society
where they meet with no return, and where he has to witness
a D
41 8 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
cruelty triumphant and mercy ridiculed as weakness. The
domestic affections are the greatest sources of happiness, but
if a man's wife be faithless and his children " unnatural/'
they are so many possibilities of exquisite torture ; and similar
truths hold of the wider social circles. All this tends to show,
not only that a civilised man among savages, a gentleman
amongst rogues, and so forth, is exposed to misery by reason
of his superiority, but even that, every reformer who breaks
with the world, though for the world's good, must naturally
expect much pain, and must be often tempted to think that
peace and harmony is worth buying even at the price of
condoning evil. '' Be good if you would be happy," seems to
be the verdict even of worldly prudence ; but it adds in an
emphatic aside, ^^Be not too good."
III. Moral Discipline.
24. If we admit (as I think that we must admit) this limi-
tation upon the general principle, we virtually admit that an
excessive virtue cannot be recommended to the selfish person
upon grounds intelligible to him. And there is another, and,
for most purposes, more important exception. Saints are
rare, and will probably be little affected by prudential argu-
ments. But there are plenty of selfish and sensual people
to whom we may be unwilling to admit that they will not
find it worth their while to be virtuous; and yet, may they
not uree very forcibly that a hio;her strain of virtue is a
questionable advantage to the lofty nature, and even an aver-
age degree of virtue may be a doubtful gain for lower natures ?
Granting, they may say, for the sake of argument, that the
virtuous are generally the happier for their virtue, is that
equally true for people with small aptitudes in that direction ?
Why should they undergo the necessary discipline ? You
would not advise a man to try to learn music unless he had
a rudimentary perception of the difference between harmony
and discord ; and if a man's appetite be gross and sensual
MORAL DISCIPLINE. 419
and his sympathies slow, can you suggest to him any adequate
motives for cultivating his moral sense ?
25. This brings us to the second of the problems which
I proposed to consider ; and the general remark may be
made, that the argument of a coincidence between happiness
and virtue (so far as it exists) docs not depend upon the
mode in which a man becomes virtuous. I have assumed
that- moral progress (speaking roughly) does not imply an
advance in the innate qualities, but a development through
the social factor. Children, no doubt, start with infinitely
varying aptitudes for moral culture, as they start with
stomachs of varying strength of digestion ; but in every
case the action of the social medium is an essential factor
in the result; and therefore the bare fact that the qualities
have to be developed is not more peculiar to one individual
than another, and can afford no presumption as to their
connection with his happiness. If a man has the normal
constitution, he will presumably be the happier for a moral
development, as, if he has the normal intellect, he will
derive the normal benefits from education, or, if he has a
normal stomach, he will derive the normal benefits from
observance of sanitary rules. The foregoing reasons are
therefore equally applicable, though in particular cases moral
culture may be thrown away upon uncongenial natures.
Briefly^ so far as a man is the happier for being virtuous, he
is presumably the happier for a virtuous training. Still some-
thing too must presumably depend upon his aptitude for receiv-
ing it ; and we may therefore ask the question, What are the
inducements to a cultivation of virtue which exist indepen-
dently of and antecedently to the virtue itself? What pur-
chase have we in the list of the character for stimulating a
man to the development of his latent good qualities ? To
answer that would be to say whether it is worth while for
the man — reckoning the ''worth while ^' in terms already
intelligible to him — to become a new man.
26. We may still rely to some extent upon the old prin-
ciple. The process of moralisation is part of a complex pro-
420 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
cess ; and whether we consider the race^ or the individual
who repeats the race-experience^ it depends upon the total
intellectual^ emotional, and physical growth. It follows
that, although the undeveloped man may be blind to some
of the advantages of the moral character, he may have an
eye for the advantages of development in general, or of some
particular kind of development with which the moral is
necessarily bound up. He is accessible to all the ordinary
prudential arguments as to the superior fitness for society
of the moral character, even if he has himself a very slight
appreciation of the more intellectual pleasures. And here
comes in the true bearing of an argument which we have
had to reject in a different shape. I see no use in asking
whether Shakespeare or a pig is the best judge of the relative
merits of pigwash and poetry, but it may be worth the pig's
W'hile to aim at making some approach to Shakespeare. The
stupidest lad may see some of the advantages of sharpening
his faculties ; he will not see — for it is not true — that poetry
is absolutely pleasanter than dinner, but he may easily see
that he would be the happier if he had such an education
as would make intellectual pleasure determine a much
greater share of his total activities. He may see that
stupidity is in a thousand ways a disadvantage ; that it
makes him inferior to competitors, despised by his equals,
incapable of many enjoyments, and so forth. Even a prize-
fighter or a foxhunter finds a good brain useful up to a
certain point, and has sometimes capacity enough to infer
that a more vigorous brain would be still more useful. And
putting the same remark generally, we may say that there
is something like a general (though clearly not a universal)
consent as to the advantage of a full development of our
faculties. It is, I think, hopeless to produce a balance-sheet
of pains and pleasures which would prove that the virtuous
man gets a greater sum of pleasant emotions or a sum of
emotions superior in (juality ; but it may be proved that a
man gains by growing as much as it is in him to grow, and
that this necessarily involves moral growth.
MORAL DISCIPLINE. 421
37. The argument thus sug:2;cstccl dilTcrs from the ancient
and famihar arguments of all practical moralists only by
laying rather more stress than they generally do upon the
intrinsic as distinguished from the extrinsic considerations.
The ordinary arguments, "Be industrious, and you may come
to be Lord Mayor ; " "^Ee sober and steady, and your master
may allow you to marry his daughter," are very good argu-
ments, so far as they go ; and the practical moralist who
scorned to make use of them would, I think, be very ill
advised. I am only pointing out that such a statement
does not exhaust the purely prudential argument. It is
equally possible to prove to a man upon purely prudential
grounds the advantage of cultivating such germs of good
feeling as he may possess, and make him see that besides the
direct pleasure derivable from their exercise and the inci-
dental advantages derivable from the respect of his fellows,
such culture is a necessary element in the full development
of his nature, and therefore in his excellence in other facul-
ties. The general statement has already been sufficiently
indicated to show the advantages of a moralised nature.
I have had to speak of this essential connection between the
qualities embodied in the type, and what I am now saying is
merely an application of the same principle. A one-sided deve-
lopment is always a disadvantage, as a defect in one faculty
has some reaction upon those which form part of the same
nature. We may undoubtedly find cases enougli of an
apparent divergence between different excellences. There
are men of vast intellect who have been thoroughly selfish
and unscrupulous ; or, again, men of fine sensibilities and
rich emotional natures who have become prophets of the
baser elements in our nature; and, in such cases, it may
seem as if eminence were the reward, not simply of indifl:er-
ence to, but of downright contempt for, moral considerations.
Yet a fair examination would rather prove, I think, that
this is an erroneous view. The statesman who is wanting
in genuine moral feeling or sympathy for his kind is under
one of the greatest disadvantages possible ; and a great
422 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
man, even though the moraUst may feel bound to condemn
him, is generally in a kind of tacit alliance with morality,
simply because the intellect which makes him perceive the
realities of life reveals to him the advantage of being on the
side of the strongest forces, and therefore, even in his own
despite, of progress. But he is more powerful if he is impelled
by more spontaneous sympathies. So, on the other side, we
may be inclined to say that the highly emotional nature
is at once a source of power over the sympathies of others
and of many moral weaknesses ; but it is as true to say
that a development of the counterbalancing faculties will
improve his morality without weakening his power over
others. Incontinence of feeling is a source of weakness,
though it may at times cause a superficial appearance of
vigour. In proportion to the development of a man's intellect
is not only his power but his need of sympathy. As he is
able to identify himself with a larger part of the social
organism, an identity between his own interests and the
deepest interests of his fellows becomes more essential to
his life.
28. This, again, falls in with the doctrine, which may be
presented in various lights, of the unity of virtue, or of the
statement that virtue has a positive, and vice only a negative
meaning. This, in fact, is one way of putting the truth that
virtue is one aspect of the development of a single type,
whereas vice means any tendency towards disintegration.
Consistency and harmony of conduct is therefore one
characteristic of the virtuous, whilst vice is by its nature
heterogeneous and leads to discord. If, for example, a man
has a lofty intellect, and has yet overpowering sensual
impulses, his nature is, as we say, at war with itself. For as,
on the one hand, he is fitted for the pursuit of abstract truth
and capable of wide sympathies and lofty ideals, he is, on
the other hand, attracted by the lower kind of pleasure
which can only be attained at the expense of the higher.
He is a great scholar or statesman by fits, and at other
times the slave of the bottle or of women. This kind of
MORAL DISCIPLINE. 423
inconsistency or irrationality is in fact the expression of an
ill-balanced character^ and by " ill-balanced " wc mean that
which deflects from the type actually worked out by con-
formity to the condition of maximum efficiency.
29. And here we come upon a fresh form of the old diffi-
culty ; for we see that the discord of which we are speak-
ing is the mark, as it were, of a hybrid nature — of a man
who belongs in some respects to the higher, and in others to
a lower type. And thus we have still to ask whether a man
may not be also harmonious with himself if he belongs to a
lower type, by some innate defect which unfits him for
receiving the normal development, and whether in that case
we can suppose that he will be the happier for moral dis-
cipline? Are there not, in fact, men whose sympathies are
so dull and whose intellects are so torpid that a pursuit of
sensual pleasure will always be more congenial to them, and
that they will only derive misery for themselves, if not for
others, by being forced into conformity with moral rules?
Are there not idiots, and beings at every point of the scale
between absolute idiocy and the loftiest genius ? and if so, is it
possible to say that all of them will be the happier for accept-
ing the same law ? A man with a capacity for sympathy may
be the happier for having it fully developed. But suppose
that he has none ? If by any process you can persuade him
to act like a benevolent man, will this fictitious benevolence
repay him for abstinence from gin ?
30. I can certainly see no reason to doubt the existence of
human brutes — of men who not only do nOt possess, but can-
not be made to possess, the instincts characteristic of the
higher type. There are, I fully believe, men capable of intense
pleasure from purely sensual gratification, and incapable of
really enjoying any of the pleasures which imply public
spirit or private affection or vivid imagination. It is true,
generally, that each man has certain capacities for moral as
for every other kind of development, and capacities which
vary from the top to the bottom of the scale. No process
of education or discipline whatever would convert a Judas
424 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
Iscariot into a Paul or a John. And therefore, too, as a
plain matter, we must admit that the ends which men pursue
vary indefinitely, and that some men, possibly the mass of
men, are fitted for those positions in the social organism
which do not demand any great activity of the higher
faculties, or make any strain upon a man's devotion to the
race or to truth. So far, again, as a man cannot be made
moral, there is very little use in asking whether he would be
the happier for being made moral. That is really to ask,
as before, whether a different kind of man is happier. And
thus, when we speak of the morality of the lower type, we
must mean that the habit of obedience to the moral law may
be impressed upon it, although the normal instincts which
make such obedience the spontaneous fruit of his charac-
ter may be very imperfectly developed, and therefore, as a
general rule, that to some extent other instincts, such as the
fear of punishment or of the contempt of his fellows, have
been called into play, so as to make, as it were, a substitute
for genuine morality. Is such a process likely to make him
happier ?
31. To this we must reply, that the external and prudential
sanctions must generally remain in force for all men inde-
pendently of their character. The evils of drunkenness, so
far as they consist in disease or poverty, are applicable to
and appreciable by the most sensual man, though he is not
equally sensitive to the injury to his intellect. The objec-
tions to a want of honesty which depend upon the action
of the policeman or the victims of fraud are applicable to
every one in a civilised country. And generally the human
hog as well as the genuine man will find his account in
being on tolerable terms with the society in which he lives.
But it certainly does not appear that this is equally true
of the intrinsic sanctions. The sensualist who has enough
prudence to avoid disease or general disgrace may get a
quantity of pleasure from immoral practices. If by any
device, by persuading him that he will go to hell for such
indulgence, or by so strictly drilling him till abstinence has
MORAL DISCIPLINE. 425
become a custom, and the sensuality has thus lost some of
its power without making room for the development of the
nobler feelings, it is hard to say why such restraints should
make a man happier any more than physical restraints. The
drunkard in a jail who cannot get his bottle is probably less
happy than when he is at large ; and if his jail be made of
prejudices forced upon his nature, and justifiable by motives
which he cannot understand, it does not seem to make much
difference. So, again, when a man has no real benevolence,
but is forced into the outward practice of benevolence by
custom and dread of public opinion, he is probably less at
ease than if he were systematically cold-blooded. So the
man who goes to church because he has always been taught
to do so, without possessing the instincts which are gratified
by religious worship, is probably more uncomfortable, even
though he may not be a conscious hypocrite, than if he were
frankly a " worldling." And thus, though it is very hard
to sum up such considerations, our argument would seem to
point to the conclusion, that, as a very general rule at least,
obedience to the external moral law is a matter of prudence
for everybody ; that it can be proved to almost any man
that it is safer for him not to be at war with his fellows or
indulge his appetites to excess; but that, on the other hand,
it cannot be said with any confidence that if we were to
consult the happiness of the agent exclusively, we should
always try to infuse into him habits of virtue which tran-
scend this rather moderate limit. It is possible to make a
man less fitted for enjoyment under normal circumstances
by trying to put too high a polish upon his moral nature, as
it is possible to achieve the same result by cultivating tastes
for art or intellectual study in those who have no natural
aptitude.
32. It may be necessary to add, that this is no sufficient
reason for not trying to do it. Happily, as I have already
said, the moral standard of society does not depend upon
each man's estimate of what will be most for his own happi-
ness, but much more upon the general conviction of every
426 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
man that it is his interest to Hve in a moral world. We
may, indeed, desire to see this conviction a great deal
stronger than it is. Yet even the sensualist, who, for his
own part, expects to get the greatest amount of enjoyment
out of life by indulging his appetites, is generally anxious
that the world at large should be guided by different prin-
ciples. Doubtless the estimate which every man forms of
the general conditions of happiness is greatly biassed by his
character, and the Utopia of the drunkard is very different
from that of the philosopher. Still the moral standard is
not formed by a simple generalisation of each man from his
own experience, and a desire for the greatest possible divi-
dend of such pleasure as he can appreciate, but is worked
out by the general social process, which virtually decides the
observance of certain rules to be essential to the general
welfare, which, again, may imply conduct and character very
different from the private standard of the man who honestly
accepts the general estimate. And, finally, whatever doubts
we may have as to the possibility of making any given person
moral, and of contributing to his private happiness by doing
so, we can have no scruples in making him as moral as we
can. For we cannot know till we have tried what capa-
bilities of development there may be in him, and the general
principle that moral development involves good to him and
still more to the society, is sufficiently demonstrated to com-
pel us to do what we can. The danger of failing on the
other side is the only one worth notice in any given case.
IV. Self- Sacrifice.
33. This brings us to the last question proposed, which
has indeed been more or less answered by anticipation.
Have we any right to say, not merely that the good are
happier than the bad, or that moral development is calcu-
lated to make a man happy, but that in every particular case
a man, whether good or bad, will be the happier for acting
rightly ? After the conditional answer which we have been
SELF-SACRIFICE. 4^7
forced to give even to the more general questions, it is
impossible that we should expect to answer this more con-
fidentlv. I am, for my part, convinced that there are
occasions upon which we have to choose between two
masters. This way is the path of duty; that is the path of
happiness. We shall at times have to choose, and to
choose wuth our eyes open. Let us take as illustration any
of the famous cases of moralists. Regulus preferred death
by torture to dishonour. Was he acting for his own happi-
ness ? To make the question intelligible, w^e must suppose
that Regulus could have acted differently ; and this may be
taken to mean either that he could have declined martyr-
dom if his character had been different, or that he could
have declined it, his character remaining unaltered. On
the first hypothesis I must first remark, that the greater the
virtue the less the sacrifice in acting virtuously — a doctrine
which has a paradoxical sound only if we understand the
''self" in self-sacrifice to be the man without his virtue,
and his virtue to be something external. The stronger the
virtuous impulse, the greater the force of other motives
which it can override, and so far the greater the "sacrifice"
which it can impose. But the less, for the same reason, is
the sacrifice of the whole nature implied in a given act, for
the gratification of that impulse counts for more in the
whole nature. Now, we may suppose a man so constituted
that death by torture would imply less misery than life in
disgrace ; and still more easily, so constituted that a certainty
of speedy death would imply a less prospect of evil than the
certainty, not of life, for life is always precarious, but of an
escape from death with disgrace for the indefinite remainder
of life. Would, then, a man in the position of Regulus have
greater chance of happiness for possessing such a sense of
honour as would determine him to martyrdom ? I think that
it is impossible to answer in the affirmative. Many men live
" infamous and contented " after saving life at the expense of
honour. Even if we suppose Regulus to have had so strong
a sense of honour as to make his martyrdom a " bed of roses,"
428 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
T do not see my way to deny that a man of less virtue might
have easily complied^ and have passed a very agreeable old
age at Capua as a retired general officer, deriving an amount
of pleasure out of life greater than any which fell to Regulus.
In this sense, Regulus's virtue was, under the given circum-
stances, a disadvantage to him personally. A less virtuous
man would have been in that sense better adapted to the
position. But the question generally has a different sense.
We assume in asking it that Regulus might have acted in
either way consistently with his character. His state of
health, the excitement of seeing his home or his family, the
presence of some symbol associated with patriotic sentiment
or vividly recalling the pangs of torture — briefly, that intri-
cate play of varying and conflicting emotions which gives
rise to the illusion of '^ free-will " — mi2;ht cause him to act in
either way. Again, I do not see my way to any definite
answer. The answer would really depend upon qualities of
character not assigned in our assumed data. A lapse from
a high standard may embitter the whole life of an honour-
able man. It may embitter it so keenly as to make such a
life worse than death ; and in that case, a choice of death
would be a choice of happiness. But the opposite hypothesis
is certainly conceivable. I see nothing contrary to the recog-
nised laws of human nature in supposing that Regulus
might commit himself to martyrdom in a moment of en-
thusiasm, and be afterwards overcome by a weakness which
would double the pangs of death ; whilst, on the other hand,
had he given way, he might have made the discovery — not a
very rare one — that remorse is amongst the passions most
easily lived down. Briefly, then, I admit in both senses that
Regulus may have acted in defiance of a calculation of happi-
ness ; and I may add that upon my principles the fullest
recognition of the fact might be quite compatible with such
action. It may be true both that a less honourable man
would have had a happier life, and that a temporary fall
below the hitrhest strain of heroism would have secured for
him a greater chance of happiness.
SELF-SACRIFICE. 429
34. All this, again, may be applied to much more ordinary
cases. It is true, so far as I can see, that not merely heroic
virtue, but even virtue of the ordinary kind, demands real
sacrifices on some occasions. When we say to a man, " This
is right," we cannot also say invariably and unhesitatingly,
" This will be for your happiness. " The cold-hearted and
grovelling nature has an argument which, from its own
point of view, is not only victorious in practice, but logically
unanswerable. Not only is it impossible to persuade people
to do right always — a matter of fact as to which there is not
likely to be much dispute— but there is no argument in exis-
tence which, if exhibited to them, would always appear to
be conclusive. A thoroughly selfish man prefers to spend
money on gratifying his own senses which might save some
family from misery and starvation. He prefers to do so, let
us sav, even at the cost of breaking some recognised obli-
gation— of telling a lie or stealing. How can we argue with
him ? By pointing out the misery which he causes ? If to
point it out were the same thing as to make him feel it, the
method might be successful, and we may hold that there is
no reasonable being who has not at least the germs of sym-
pathetic feeling, and therefore no one who is absolutely
inaccessible to such appeals. But neither can we deny, with-
out flying in the face of all experience, that in a vast number
of cases the sympathies are so feeble and intermittent as to
supply no motive capable of encountering the tremendous
force of downright selfishness in a torpid nature. Shall we
then appeal to some extrinsic motive, to the danger of being
found out, despised, and punished ? Undoubtedly that will
be effective as far as it goes. But if, for any reason, the
man is beyond the reach of such dangers ; if he is certain of
escaping detection, or so certain that the chance of punish-
ment does not outweigh the chance of impunity, he may
despise our arguments, and we have no more to offer. He
may say — and, as it appears to me, may say with truth — '' I
shall personally get more pleasure from doing wrong than
from doing rioht, and I care for nothing but my personal
430 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
pleasure." The first statement may be — it often is — un-
deniably true. Of the second he is the only judge, and
though we may prove that he ought to be differently con-
stituted, or that a virtuous man would be differently con-
stituted, we do not thereby alter his nature, or even prove
by any arguments accessible to him that it is worth his
while to alter it. Against some people, in short, the only
effective arguments are the gallows or the prison. Unluckily
they are arguments which cannot be brought to bear with all
the readiness desirable, and therefore I think it highly pro-
bable that there will be bad men for a long time to come.
^;;^. I see no use in shutting or trying to shut our eyes to
so plain a truth. As regards the world with which alone
scientific reasoning can have any concern, it is a simple
statement of undeniable facts, or of facts which can only be
denied in some potential sense, that is to say, not really
denied at all. The theologian and the philosopher are, in-
deed, willing to admit it so far as the world of experience
goes, and sometimes inclined to insist upon it as affording a
presumption in favour of a better constituted world beyond
or underlying; and I have here nothing to say to their solu-
tions. But the attempt to evade the truth as regards the
existing state of things is often made, and leads, as I fancy,
to a weary waste of sophistry. The attempt to establish an
absolute coincidence between virtue and happiness is in
ethics what the attempting to square the circle or to dis-
cover perpetual motion are in geometry and mechanics. I
think it better frankly to abandon the hopeless endeavour.
Indeed, this admission, true or false, would seem to be but
the inverse side of a doctrine which most moralists have
laboured, and, as I think, successfully laboured to establish.
When we listen to the careful demonstrations of the reality
of benevolence, when we are told aijain and aeain that a
man may, and in fact does, sacrifice his own happiness to
the good of his fellows, we are edified and convinced. But
we receive something of a shock when the edifying moralist
suddenly turns round and tells us that the sacrifice is only
SELF-SACRIFICE. 431
temporary, that is to say, that it is after all unreal. It is still
more surprising when this is presented, and precisely by the
moralists who profess to take the loftiest theory, not merely as
expressing the fact, but as an a priori truth deducible from the
very nature of things. For what can this be but to fall back
upon the purely egoistic doctrine ? Self-sacrifice, says the
egoist, is impossible. Yes, agrees his opponent, it is impos-
sible. The only distinction is that the egoist denies that a
man can ever take anything but his own happiness for an
ultimate reason. The lofty moralist denies that anything
but his own happiness can ever be the ultimate result. He
thus comesto recommend a game of self-deceit like that already
noticed — selfishness, not abolished, but banished to the uncon-
scious motives. " You are to act," he says, " at every given
moment from a genuine desire for the good of others, but
vou are also to be intimatelv convinced that whatever is for
their good is also for your own happiness. When acting,
you are to ignore this esoteric doctrine; when philosophising,
vou are to hold to it as a necessarv truth." Nothino- can
exhibit the plausibility of the egoistic theory more forcibly
than this process, by which its professed antagonists manage
quickly to sidle round into adopting its fundamental tenet.
^6. For my part, I accept the altruist theory, and I accept
what I hold to be its legitimate and inseparable conclusion —
the conclusion, namely, that the path of duty does not
coincide with the path of happiness. I should meet the
objection (so far as it can be met at all) that this is an
immoral doctrine, not by trying to prove that in some way
the immediate loss will be repaid, but by reasserting the
doctrine of altruism. By acting rightly, I admit, even the
virtuous man will sometimes be making a sacrifice; and I
do not denv it to be a real sacrifice ; I onlv denv that such
a statement will be conclusive for the virtuous man. His
own happiness is not his sole ultimate aim, and the clearest
proof that a given action v ill not contribute to it will there-
fore not deter him from the action. To a great extent this
is true of everv man who has the normal faculties. There
432 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
is scarcely any man, I believe, at all capable of sympatby or
reason, who would not in many cases unhesitatingly sacrifice
his own happiness for a sufficient advantage to others. Almost
every mother would die or expose herself to sufferings which
can never be repaid for the good of her infant ; and though
maternal love affords the most perfect example of devotion
to others, and is of course much stronger than most other
benevolent feelings, I think that the same principle is illus-
trated even in those commonplace acts of good nature of
which almost every man is capable.
37. I do not wish to exaggerate any more than to extenuate
the extent of this fundamental discord, I believe it to
exist, but I do not believe that it materially modifies the
ordinary statement. I take for granted that as a rule it is
prudent to be moral, and still more unequivocally that it is
prudent to encourage the morality of our neighbours. But
I also admit that this argument in favour of morality cannot
be rightly put in the form. Morality is always and necessarily
coincident with prudence. In exhorting a man to be virtuous,
we really exhort him to develop his nature upon the lines
which the experience of the race has conclusively proved to
coincide with the general conditions both of social and indi-
vidual welfare. This is to exhort him to acquire a quality
of character which, under normal conditions, and in the vast
majority of particular cases, will make him the happier be-
cause better fitted for the world in which he lives, capable of
wider and more enduring aims, and susceptible to motives
which will call out the fullest and most harmonious play of
all the faculties of his nature ; but it is also to exhort him
to acquire a quality which will in many cases make him less
fit than the less moral man for getting the greatest amount
of happiness from a given combination of circumstances. I
advise a man to acquire habits of temperance on a simple
calculation of pleasure, from wider prudential considerations,
and upon purely moral grounds. In each case the argument
is conclusive, but in each case it admits of certain exceptions.
Temperance will, as a rule, procure him most pleasure,
SELF-SA CRIFICE. 433
because it will make him healthy ; but if he were certain to
die to-morrow, he might get most pleasure by being drunk
to-night. It will make him fitter for work, and therefore,
as a rule, secure him a more comfortable position ; but, in
particular cases, it might lose him the favour of some immoral
person who could do him a service. It will, again, make
him more virtuous, and so far a better husband and father ;
but it is still as before easy to imagine particular cases
in which the very strength of the feelings which form the
best guarantee for happiness may cause the most exquisite
pain, and make him miserable in proportion to their strength.
If, indeed, life were — as seems to be implied in the theories
of some moralists — a series of detached acts, in each of which
a man could calculate the sum of happiness or misery attain-
able by different courses, and calculate them without reference
to his character, the whole argument would be different.
But this is precisely what it is not. Every man starts with
an inborn set of qualities which are gradually moulded,
developed, or suppressed by the circumstances in which he
is placed, and by the inherent processes of growth and decay.
The happiness or misery due to any set of external condi-
tions depends essentially upon the disposition upon which
they operate. Therefore it may be, or rather it plainly is,
necessary for a man to acquire certain instincts, amongst
them the altruistic instincts, which fit him for the general
conditions of life, though in particular cases they may cause
him to be more miserable than if he w-ere without them.
And thus, again, the acquisition of altruistic feeling may
be recommended on purely prudential grounds, although
these grounds can never supply an exhaustive statement of
the motives ; and some power of altruistic feeling is pre-
supposed in the very capacity to become moral. But it does
not follow that on special occasions prudence and virtue
will coincide ; and, as a matter of fact, I think that they
often emphatically differ.
a E
( 434 )
CHAPTER XI.
CONCLUSION.
1. I HAVE reached a conclusion which suggests further
controversy. What is it that I have done, supposing my
arguments to be satisfactory ; and what is it that, even upon
that hypothesis, still remains to be done ? These are questions
to which, for reasons to be immediately assigned, I cannot
give a full answer. Yet some answer is required, so far at
least as an indication of my own view of the case can be
regarded as an answer.
2. I concluded my statement by expressly admitting that
one great difficulty must remain unsolved. Rather, I assert
that it is intrinsically insoluble. There is no absolute coin-
cidence between virtue and happiness. I cannot prove that
it is always prudent to act rightly or that it is always happiest
to be virtuous. My inability to prove those propositions
arises, as I hold, from the fact that they are not true. This
admission does nothing to diminish our belief in the sur-
passing importance of morality and of its essential connec-
tion with social welfare ; and further, it does not diminish
the intrinsic motives to virtue, inasmuch as those motives
are not really based upon prudence. But I cannot go further.
I do not think that any one has really gone further except
in words ; nor do I see any reason to expect that any one
will go further. The problem is bound up in the old one of
the origin of evil. Given the existence of misery or vice,
you may conceivably ^^ explain" them by showing what are
the general conditions under which they exist ; but you
cannot, without contradiction, explain them away. Yet^
CONCLUSION. 435
until you have explained them away^ your explanation is
pronounced to be insufficient. If so, all explanation will be
insufficient, so long as vice and misery exist, or rather so
long as it can be truly said that they ever have existed. The
problem of the association between misery and virtue is
really part of this ancient puzzle ; and when one enigma is
solved, perhaps the other may be clear. This, however, will
appear more clearly as we proceed ; for we may still ask
whether we cannot attempt some solution or modifica-
tion of our difficulties by going beyond the limits hitherto
accepted.
3. One distinction must be made at starting. Whatever
more may be said, it is perfectly clear that there is a great
deal more to be done. To expound the nature of any evil
is not the same thing as to cure it. A physiologist has ful-
filled his duty when he has stated what are the actual pro-
cesses of life, and therefore what are the conditions of
healthy or diseased life. The physician applies these laws
when he cures diseases, and the sanitary reformer when he
secures the observation of healthful modes of life. It would
be manifestly absurd to condemn the physiologist because
he does not make disease impossible or induce men to live
healthily. He has done all that is proper to him in his
scientific capacity when he has said, for example, "Such and
such are the processes implied by drunkenness, and such
and such are the necessary and probable consequences." He
shows what are the appetites gratified by drunkenness as
well as the evils which it causes. So long as he is a man of
science, he has simply to observe facts and formulate laws;
he is successful in so far as his observations and generalisa-
tions correspond to the fact, and he has nothing to do with
consequences or applications. If, after hearing all that he
has to say, I prefer drink and delirium tremens, that is not
his concern in his scientific capacity. His aim is the dis-
covery of truth, and his success is proportionate to the truths
which he discovers. With the physician or reformer the
case is of course differentk One has to cure disease and the
436 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
Other to suppress bad customs. The end of each is to pro-
duce a given result^ and his success is measured by the attain-
ment. And therefore, though one chief aim of physiology
is to furnish means for suppressing disease, yet the theory is
" right " as it most exactly reflects the truth, as the conduct
is "right" which most accurately attains the end. The
theory would be useless unless it led to conduct, and the
conduct could not succeed unless it were guided by the
theory; but we do not expect the theory to cure diseases by
itself, and therefore the correctness of his theories does not
excuse the physician who fails to effect a cure.
4. The same, as I take it, is the relation between the scien-
tific and the practical moralist. The scientific moralist has
fulfilled his task when he has explained what virtue and vice
actually are, what are their normal consequences to society
and the individual, and what are the conditions under which
they are generated. He has done all that he can do if he
has laid down true propositions upon such matters. He
tries to discover what is the " form " of morality, what is its
intrinsic or essential character, how good or bad men act,
what are their motives, and what the normal consequences
of their actions. The physiologist, as I have said, may ask
similar questions in regard to health and disease. But the
effect of a belief in conclusions attained, whether in ethics
or in physiology, wdll depend upon the character of the
believer. " This is wrong, and I choose to act wrongly ; "
" This is unwholesome, and I choose to risk my health,"
represent states of mind not only possible but common. It
is part of the ethical problem to determine what character is
implied in them. We should contradict the commonest ex-
perience if we denied their possibility. The practical moralist
who tries to raise the standard of morals or to influence a
particular man must start from the science ; and his success
will be measured by the degree in which he affects conduct.
But it is an error to try the scientific moralist by the test
applicable to the practical moralist. His theory is sound,
like every other theory, so far as it explains the facts ; and
CONCLUSION. 437
it must explain, and therefore admit, the existence of vice as
well as virtue. And this seems to l^e overlooked when an
ethical theory is condemned because it does not of itself
constrain the will as well as convince the intellect. That is
to confound the art with the science, or practice with theory.
A theory is a systematic statement of belief, and the only
question about a belief is in any and every case whether it
is true or fiilse, not whether it does or does not produce any
assumed effect upon conduct. In this respect the analogy
is complete between the scientific and practical moralist and
the scientific and practical physiologist. It is as idle to
suppose that an ethical theory will show vice to be impossible
as to suppose that a physiological theory will show disease
to be impossible. If that were the case, we should happily
be able to dispense with theories altogether.
5. Philosophers have attempted to evade this diflficulty in
many ways. They have laboured indefatigably so to state
the ethical principle that disobedience may be " unreason-
able " in the same sense as refusal to believe in a mathe-
matical demonstration. Every such attempt is doomed to
failure in a world which is not made up of working syllogisms
and where the w^ill and the reason mean different things. But
the difHculty recurs so often, that I may attempt to explain
my opinion by some further considerations. It is some-
times said that the moralist has to treat of what ^"^ ought"
to be, not of what "is." To which I might reply that
there is no real disjunction, and that it would be just as
reasonable to say that the medical writer treats of the health-
ful and the morbid, and not of the actual. The moral in-
stincts are realities, and in treating of them, I treat of
morality. But the intention of the remark seems to be
different. The implied assertion (if I understand it rightly)
is to this effect : The man of science aims in all cases at the
discovery of " laws," where by " law " we mean nothing but
generalised statements of fact. But the moralist has to do
something different from this; he has to establish " laws" in
the juridical sense ; meaning, therefore, commands, or at
438 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
least formulce of some kind which have a "coercive" action
upon the will. Hence there is, it is said^ a real difference
between the cases. The physicist proves (say) that the
planets attract each other ; and the fact so summarised takes
place by a mechanical necessity, or independently of the
human rule. The sociologist again (if the possibility of such
a science be admitted) obtains, or would obtain, formulae of
the same kind ; that is to say, " All men do so and so,"
"Good men do this," "Bad men do that," and so forth.
This can never amount to more than a statement of facts.
The forces at play now include desires and volitions ; but the
man of science lays down social rules as the physicist lays
down his formulae, as statements of what will invariably or
" necessarily " happen. Assuming, therefore, that he can
obtain such formulae, they cannot be moral laws ; for the
moral law says, not, " This and this is true," but, " This and
this is to be done." It is a command or a law proper, not a
law in the derivative or scientific sense. But the moralist
has to discover laws proper, not laws metaphysical, and
therefore has to do with the " ought," not with the " is."
6. To this I must reply, so far as I dissent, by giving
my own view. The statement just given seems to me to
be accurate, but leads to an apparent difficulty only when
we confound the spheres of practice and theory, or confound
the meanino;s of " fact " and " truth." When dealing with
beliefs, we can only ask whether they are true or false.
When, on the contrary, we are dealing with commands, it
is nonsense to ask whether they are true or false ; we can
only ask whether they do or do not operate, that is, compel
obedience. So I do not properly "believe" or "disbelieve"
in a command : I simply obey or disobey it ; though I may,
of course, believe or disbelieve that the command has been
given or that certain consequences will follow disobedience.
But although it is not proper to use the words "fact" and
" truth " as though they were synonymous, every truth is,
of course, concerned with facts ; and there are truths and
beliefs which are concerned with commands as with facts of
CONCLUSION. 439
every kind. And further, a belief may be necessarily im-
plied in a command, and in such a way that a command
may be the necessary result of a belief, which, indeed, must
generally be the case where the belief is a belief about con-
duct. The " law," in the case of physical inquiries, may be
accepted without any effect upon the character. The accept-
ance of the law of universal gravitation has no bearing what-
ever upon the ends of the believer. It will sometimes affect
his means, as in the case of calculations founded upon the
assumption of its truth; it will not affect his principles.
But the case is different when conduct is the subject-
matter of the science. The belief, then, is inseparably
united with a feeling. The belief that all good men act in
a certain w^ay must have a reaction upon my character if I
have any feeling in regard to goodness and to good men.
The effect will depend upon my previous character, but in
really accepting it my character will also be modified.
7. Let us apply this more closely to the case. There is
a law, using the word in the strict sense of " positive law,"
against murder. From a scientific point of view this is
simply a statement of facts. The sociologist asserts the
existence of a certain social order with appropriate customs
and instincts, one result of which is that detected murderers
are liable to hanging. The psychologist recognises and tries
to explain the effect produced by this knowledge upon the
mind of an intending murderer. Their conclusions are
expressible as statements of general fact or scientific " laws ; "
murderers are hanged at certain stages of social develop-
ment ; all men of a certain character are deterred by the
fear of hanging, and so forth. The effect, again, which is
produced in a given case is a special instance of these laws.
When the scientific observer has laid them down, he has
done all that he can do. The man, again, who is about to
commit a murder knows the facts and has to choose. The
choice is determined not merely by the recognition of the
scientific truth but by the man's character. He hates his
enemy, and is aware that by gratifying his hatred he runs
440 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
a risk of the gallows. His action is the correlative of the
struggle between fear and hatred. His conduct is one of
the facts with which the man of science has to deal. But
in any case^ the bare intellectual recognition of the general
proposition, ^'Murderers are liable to hanging," is not
sufficient to determine them. The recognition will operate
differently according to his character. If it is a genuine
recognition, involving a realisation of all the facts implied, it
is but the logical aspect of an emotional process, which is
symbolised by the words. He must have a foretaste of the
various horrors connected with hanging; and the painful
foretaste of an appearance on the gallows will strug-gle with
the pleasurable foretaste of gratified revenge and determine
his conduct. For him, the terror, the hatred, are facts ;
actual forces which move him one way or the other, and
which are rendered possible by means of the intellectual
foresight, as it, again, is only possible through them; that
is, neither of them could exist separately.
8. We may say the same of the moral law. The socio-
logist and the psychologist have to describe the nature and
laws of action of the moral instincts, as in the other case of
the instincts which support the political order. And in the
same way, the agent who recognises the fact that murder is
wicked as well as criminal will act according to the resul-
tant of the various emotions set in play through his recog-
nition of that accepted principle. These emotions, again, it
must be repeated, may vary widely. The moral sense may,
perhaps generally does, correspond simply to an unreasoning
instinct, and the recognition that murder is wrong may
involve nothing but the action of this unexplained feeling.
It means that the hatred of the victim is checked by the
awakening of the acquired instinct which makes bloodshed
hateful. The thought, again, that murder is wrong may
call into play other emotions, according to the moral theories
accepted by the agent. It may bring to his mind the wrath
of his God, or the injury to society, or the hatred which
others would feel for him, or the prospect of lasting remorse,
CONCLUSION. 441
or various other associated emotions. In any case, it means
the perception of other modes of contemplating the pro-
posed action besides that which suggested the murderous
impulse, and the bringing into play of the various emotions
bound up with these perceptions. The command is only a
moral command so far as it appeals to the intrinsically moral
motives, whatever they may be. It represents a force in so
far as the recoirnition of its truth involves the action of the
strictly moral instincts.
9. We may now return to the difficulty. It is quite true
that the simple scientific statement does not, upon my show-
ing, necessarily carry with it a governing principle. That
is to say that a theory of motives is not itself a motive. The
admission that the moral laws are statements of essential
conditions of social welfare will not even tend to make me
moral, if I care nothing for society. If I am incapable of
sympathy, no proof of the adv^antages of good actions to
others will induce me to sacrifice myself. This, however, is
merely to say, with every moralist who ever wrote, that the
bare moral maxims will do nothing without a thorough
training of the emotional nature. We must not merely
learn that our actions affect the happiness of others, but
must acquire the habit of feeling for them. It may, indeed,
be said that a nominal acceptance of the formula can
scarcely be called a real belief in it, unless the meaning of
the symbols is realised ; and so far to teach me that my
conduct hurts others is to make me feel for others if I am
capable of the sympathy, whilst it has no proper meaning
for me unless I am capable of sympathy. And this is so far
true that a genuine assimilation of the moral precepts may
be assumed to imply a growth of moral sentiment. To learn
really to appreciate the general bearings of moral conduct
is to learn to be moral in the normally constituted man,
though we must always make the condition that a certain
aptitude of character exists. But in saying this I have only
recognised the fact that beyond the science of morality there
is the art which depends upon it.
442 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
lo. This, however, is regarded as an insufficient statement.
After all, it is said, the moral system remains insufficiently
clenched. All that it comes to is, " If I am wicked, I shall
commit murder; if I am not wicked, I shall not." The
agent, therefore, simply recognises his motives, but cannot
alter them or properly approve or condemn them. The
judge can say, " I will force you to refrain from crime." The
moralist can only say, " I will give you reasons for refraining
ifyovL are already good." Hence arises the desire of moral-
ists to prove that there is some reason binding every man
simply as reasonable. The search, if I am right, is hopeless ;
as all motives in every case involve another element. In any
and every case, the compulsion, legal and moral, must
depend upon the character. The legal sanction appeals to
feelings more universal than the moral, though the moral
has the advantage of covering actions which the legal can-
not touch; but even the legal sanction may cease to be
effective in conceivable cases. Its highest penalty depends
for efficacy upon the love of life ; and there are many cir-
cumstances under which a man may cease to care for life,
and so far be beyond the power of the legislator. The
moralist, undoubtedly, can only appeal to people who have
certain instincts ; for an appeal to extrinsic motives is merely
a cutting of the knot. Unless a man has certain sensibilities
the moralist has absolutely no leverage. This I take to be
a simple fact, undeniable in practice, and, so long at least
as we have to deal with science, a fact which must be recog-
nised like any other. But I must guard against one misinter-
pretation which seems to be implied in the above statement.
It is true (as I hold) that if a man is without any conscience
you cannot move him by speaking of right and wrong ;
but it seems to be inferred that this is in some way a justi-
fication of his acting wrongly. This is a sophistry. It is
capable of proof — scientific proof, if you will — that murder
is wrong — " wrong" as opposed to the rules actually accepted
and regarded with reverence in every civilised society, and
wrong, again, as being opposed to that underlying moral
CONCLUSION. 443
code to which actual morality is an approximation, and
which expresses the conditions of social welfare. I may,
therefore, prove to the murderer that he is acting wickedly.
But he says, '^ I have no conscience." If he adds, '^ There-
fore I shall commit murder," his reasoning is perfectly
sound. If he goes on, "Therefore I am right in committing
murder," he is contradicting himself. The true inference
is, therefore, " I am wrong by my own confession." Right
conduct is the conduct dictated by a conscience, or the
conduct (as I have put it) of the ideal man. To allege the
absence of good motive as a justification is nonsense, because
justification means the proof of good motives. It is, there-
fore, a simple "objective" fact that a man acts rightly or
wrongly in a given case, and a fact which may be proved
to him ; and, further, though the proof will be thrown away
if he is a moral idiot, that is, entirely without the capacities
upon which morality is founded, the proof is one which
must always affect his character, if we suppose the truth
to be assimilated, and not the verbal formula to be merely
learnt by rote.
II. Here we are approaching the inevitable free-will
puzzle. I am content to say once more that, so long as we
are in the region of science, it is idle to evade the plain
facts. Many men are wicked ; no man is perfect. No dex-
terous logic will make the wicked man good, nor, so long
as it appeals to motives which they cannot appreciate, will it
convince them that it is well to be good. The man of
science, indeed, sometimes tries to evade this painful con-
clusion. He points out that although men are now so
constituted that right conduct is often painful and virtue
itself not unconditionally desirable, this discord may be re-
solved in some better state. Progress means approximation
to some Utopia in which our natures will be so improved
that we shall always sympathise with each other, and society
be so happily constituted that the conduct which gives to
any man the greatest chance of happiness will give it an
equal advantage to his neighbours. Such speculations are
444 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
legitimate. They may be useful in defining an end towards
which all w^ell-wishers to their fellows may desire to act,
and they may serve also to bring out the fact that altruistic
emotion does not involve self-sacrifice in essence, but only by
accident. Yet it does not solve the difficulty for us. Specu-
lations about the future of society are rash ; and the know-
ledge— if we could attain the knowledge — that our descend-
ants would be better off than ourselves would not disprove
the existence of the present evil. Moreover, various doubts
suggest themselves. We cannot tell that progress will be
indefinite. It seems rather that science points to a time at
which all life upon the planet must become extinct ; and
the social organism may, according to the familiar analogy,
have its natural old age and death. In any case there is
one obvious difficulty. Progress means a stage of evolution.
Evolution from the earliest to the latest sta2;es means a con-
tinuous process of adjustment, which is always determined
by the fact that at any existing stage the adjustment is
imperfect. Complete equilibrium, or an elimination of
this discordant element, would therefore mean, ndt perhaps
stagnation, but a cessation of progress, an attainment of the
highest arc of the curve, after which we would only expect
descent.
12. Consider, in fact, what is meant by moral progress.
It is an essential part of a development in virtue of which
the society is more vigorous, the individual is bound by
further-reaching sympathies with his fellows, and thus a
more comprehensive code of conduct is recognised. The
member of the higher society is more fully conscious of the
nature and consequences of his actions than the member of
the lower society. In this sense, therefore, he is more moral.
The higher man is affected by sufferings to which the lower
man is indifferent. And thus, again, conduct which would
require abnormal excellence at the lower stage has become
normal as the corresponding instincts have become definitely
organised in the higher. But, in another sense, the moral
progress is less clear; that is to say, the savage deviates
CONCLUSION. 445
less frequently than the civilised man from the code recog-
nised in each case. The savage law is lower, but it is more
regularly observed. So, if we go back to the animals, in
whom morality proper does not exist, the obedience to instinct
is more regular still. Sin comes throuu;h the law, as it is only
when the agent is capable of laying down general rules that
be begins to be sensible of deviations from them. If we
measure both stages of development by the same law, we
may say that the higher is more moral than the lower. If
we measure each by its own law, the observance is more
uniform in the lower than the higher; as, in fact, a greater
mobility and flexibility of character seems to be necessarily
implied in the higher type. Moral progress involves a con-
stant laying down of new problems. Old evils are avoided,
old hostilities reconciled, the whole life is fuller and more
vigorous ; but the process implies at the same time that the
new capacities and sensibilities developed constantly bring
with them new evils or difficulties which again require to be
reconsidered. A nation acquires new mechanical powers,
but it has not yet the habits necessary to turn them to
account, and they are so many temptations to immoral in-
dulgence. Sympathy expands, but, as not guided by know-
ledge, leads to rash changes productive of evil as well as good.
To improve, whether for the race or the individual, whether
in knowledge or sympathy, is to be put in a position where a
new set of experiments has to be tried, and experience to
be bought at the price of pain. And as this seems to be
esssentially implied in all progress that we can imagine, I
see no reason to suppose that pain will be eliminated, or that
it will be so distributed that there shall never be a diver2;ence
between the painful and the pernicious either to man or
society. From the scientific point of view we may hold that
evolution implies progress — progress at any rate to a point
beyond our present achievements ; and, further, progress im-
plies a solution of many discords, and an extirpation of many
evils J but I can at least see no reason for supposing that it
446 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
implies the extirpation of evil in general or the definitive
substitution of harmony for discord.
13. We may, however, and, according to many thinkers,
we must, go beyond this point of view. We may find in
metaphysical speculation or in the transcendental world
which it reveals to us an answer to the doubt and a solution
of the discord. Here, indeed, I might stop; for I started at
the outset with a disavowal of any desire to go beyond the
scientific boundary. I should have to conclude by challenging
the metaphysician to dispute the truth of my conclusions,
and should urge that they would have to be recognised upon
any metaphysical theory, although different schools would
interpret them in different ways. And I might further
decline to follow the metaphysician into his own ground.
This, I might say, is the meaning to be attached to morality
so long as we remain in the world of experience ; and if, in
the transcendental world, you can find a deeper foundation
for morality, that does not concern me. I am content to
build upon the solid earth. You may, if you please, go down
to the elephant or the tortoise. I think it better, however,
to indicate my own view in the briefest way possible. For,
in the first place, many thinkers consider that it is necessary
to begin at the very beginning ; and to solve the whole
problem of the universe before they get down to morality.
A discussion which does not try to settle the issues between
materialism and idealism, and between theism, pantheism,
and atheism, and investigate the nature of the ego, is from their
point of view simply frivolous. It touches the barest outside
of the question. And, in the next place, T feel that I may
be accused of unfair reticence; unless I proceed further, my
antagonists will hold that my dismissal of certain problems
to the metaphysician is a juggle, and that my real meaning
is that the problems in question are barren logomachies,
which may be left to the manufacturers of intellectual cob-
webs for their amusement, but not for the instruction of
mankind. In which, indeed, there seems to me to be a great
CONCLUSION. 447
deal of truth ; only I do not wish to conceal my opinions, so
far as I have any settled opinions.
14. To ffive a satisfactory answer, I should have to write
a metaphysical treatise; for without such a discussion I could
not define accurately the boundaries between metaphysics
and science. And I must add, that one difficulty which I
feel is that mv own mind is not as clear as I could wish upon
these questions. I can, however — or so I hope — indicate
briefly certain crucial points. And first of all, I will say that I
utterly disbelieve in any so-called ontology. I regard it as a
barren region haunted by shadowy chimeras, mere spectres,
which have not life enough in them even to be wrong, non-
entities veiled under dexterously woven masses of verbiage.
I don't believe that any one can, by any device whatever,
spin out of his own mind a demonstration of the ultimate
nature of things in general; and that is what the ontologist
substantially tries to do. The direct arguments against such
systems are not more conclusive than the futility of the
supposed conclusions. The ontologist proves something with
infinite display of logic; and if you admit it to be proved,
you find that the admission leaves you exactly where you
were before. And if this has an arrogant sound, I can only
say that it is the only conclusion compatible with a due re-
spect for philosophers. For when 1 look at the vast systems set
forth and supported by arguments devised by the most famous
thinkers, and consider their instability, their helpless incapa-
city to withstand assaults or to solve real difficulties, I can
only infer either that their authors were fools — which would be
the height of arrogance — or that they were attempting pro-
blems beyond the reach of reason. The greatest athlete can-
not get off his own shadow.
15. The desired consummation of some approximation to
unity is, therefore, as I hold, to be sought by distinguishing
the metaphysical from the scientific problem. Ethical in-
vestio-ations, like others, will have some definite results
when we turn to what are called historical methods of
inquiry. This is true, I think, of the allied inquiries into
448 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
social, and political, and aesthetic inquiry. The tendency of
modern speculation to take that form, and to look into the
history of the past for an answer to problems which were
once attacked by looking simply into our own minds, im-
plies a recognition of this principle. And I believe that we
may look for some approximation to agreement as the
method is more generally adopted and more systematically
carried out. I need not dwell upon the nature of the
advantage thus gained. It is enough to say that when we
cease to ask '^What is the beautiful or the moral?" and ask
" What have men actually admired ? " we get rid of the many
illusions generated by mistaking our own special tastes for
universal tastes ; that we take into account that " social
factor," without a recognition of which no tenable theory
can be put together, and that we have an advantage com-
parable to that gained when we see a large arc of a curve
instead of the infinitesimal fraction perceptible at a given
moment. To this it is often replied that an account of how
things come to be is after all radically different from an
account of what they are. I do not quite admit the radical
difference, for I think that the true nature of a thing may
reveal itself only when we see it on a large scale. But I
admit that there is something more to be done, and that,
after all that can be said by the man of science, we must
still come upon the old metaphysical problems. In what
form, then, do they enter our investigation ?
1 6. When we have taken leave of ontology, is there any-
thing left for the metaphysician? Metaphysics has been
described as a theory of knowledge, a systematic account of
all that can be said about knowledge as knowledge. This
must not be understood as though we could explain what is
meant by knowledge in terms of something different from
knowledge. To attempt to give an answer of that kind
would be to attempt to get outside ourselves, and to fall into
the sham philosophy of the ontologists. We may still, it is
said, be able to understand the intimate nature of knowledge,
to regard it as a vast process in which every particular de-
CONCLUSION. 449
partment is organically connected with the rest, as the
special manifestation of some universal principles. To try to
define this vague suggestion would be to discuss the most
thorny metaphysical problems. It is enough in this place
if I endeavour to suggest certain conclusions. It is much
easier to say what metaphysics are not than to say what they
are. And I say, in the first place, that though it may be
conceivably possible to exhibit the most general forms of
knowledge and understand their relations, no such theory
would enable us to get from theory of knowledge to theory
of facts. We may twist and turn as long as we please, but
the theory of knowledge will not in the least help us to dis-
cover the actual constitution of the world. We cannot
make the slightest approach to explaining why human beings
should be constituted as they are, why they should have
such and such senses and faculties, and no more, or why
matter should be distributed in the actual combinations ; and
therefore, as it seems to me, wherever there is a question of
facts, we must find some ground of knowledge outside of
metaphysical inquiries. And if, in the next place, we ask
What can metaphysics do for us? I can only reply indirectly:
A man is a sound reasoner when his thoughts accurately
reflect the external world. And this, as we come to see,
implies not merely correct performance of logical opera-
tions, but the elimination of certain fundamental illusions
generated in earlier stages of thought. Sound metaphysics
consist, in Berkeley's phrase, in the laying of the dust which
we have ourselves raised, in the removal of certain scaffold-
ings which have been useful in the building up of the edifice,
and the perception that they are not essential parts of the
structure; briefly, in becoming distinctly conscious of our
own mental operations, and therefore destroying fallacies
which lie at the base of all logical procedure. If this be any-
thing like the accurate statement — and I can only speak in
the roughest way — we may say that metaphysical inquiry is
of the highest importance in this sense, that our reasoning
cannot be thoroughly sound unless we are sound metaphysi-
2 F
450 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
cians^ but that we must not expect from metaphysics any
system of definite statement of fact. And further^ we must
infer that legitimate metaphysical investigations affect know-
ledge in general, but have no special relation to any par-
ticular department of knowledge.
17. My view, therefore, is that the science of ethics deals
with realities ; that metaphvsical speculation does not help us
to ascertain the relevant facts; and, therefore, that it has no
more relation to ethical science than to any other branch of
knowledge. Our statement of the facts will be modified as
our metaphysical creed changes; the approximation to precise
and lasting truth will be made closer, and, so far, the science of
ethics will be improved by metaphysical progress. But ethical
principles are onlv affected as the principles of all other
sciences are affected. Though I cannot offer any proof of
this doctrine, I shall try briefly to show how it bears upon
certain cardinal points; and why, in my opinion, it is useless
to look for any further light from metaphysical inquiries.
This is virtually to challenge the metaphysician to show that
he is of anv use in the matter.
18. The first principle which I have sought to establish is,
briefly, that a moral rule is a statement of a condition o^
social welfare. Temperance, according to me, is proved to
be immoral by the same methods which prove it to be un-
wholesome. Scientific observation shows that it is productive
of diseased states either of the individual or of society. In great
part the arguments are identical, and though the moralist
has to go into questions not considered by the physioloo-ist,
he still uses the same methods. Moreover, it is by scientific
observation alone that the facts can be proved ; for by the
purely metaphysical method you cannot even approach the
relevant questions, or prove even the advantages of drinkinsr,
much less of moderate drinking. What is true in this case
is true, according to me, of all moral problems. They can
only be examined when we have some knowledge of the
organisation of man and of society which is unattainable by
any other than the scientific method. And I have further
CONCLUSION. 451
urged that moral systems have actually grown up through a
recognition, more or less explicit, of these truths. Morality
has been regarded as imposed by the will of a deity; but then
it is taken to be the will of a good deity; that is, of a deity who
wishes well to mankind. From the purely utilitarian point
of view, it is regarded as a statement of the conditions of
happiness; but the happiness is that of beings whose character
is already determined at all points by their being part of the
social organism, and the sentiment can only become part of
the social instinct when it is purified from any individual
aberration.
19. If this, which it has been my purpose to prove, be
admitted, what is the relation of the ethical to the meta-
physical theory? The metaphysician, as I take it, has a
locus standi only so far as he can throw light upon the general
conditions of belief, or, again, upon the nature of certain ulti-
mate distinctions, such as that of object and subject, taken
for granted in the scientific statement. The ontologist,
indeed, and the theologian claim to do more; for ontology,
as I believe, is but the spectre of theology, the caput mortuum
to which it is reduced when the attempt is made to purify it
from all sensuous and anthropomorphic elements. But what
more is required ? If you assert that morality does not coin-
cide with the conditions of social welfare, you have not only
to meet the direct aro;umentsalle2;ed in favour of the identitv,
but to give some other criterion of morality. If, for ex-
ample, the criterion be conformity to the will of a deitv
who commands men to transgress the conditions of social
welfare, we have to meet the reply that the deity is malevolent
and commands a false morality, or rather imposes an im-
moral rule. Even the most ascetic system, according to me,
carries with it a tacit reference to social welfare, and the
deviations are due to errors of judgment as to the facts. In
any case, if the criterion be rejected, morality is arbitrary
until some further criterion be suggested. The impossibility
of any such attempt is so clear, that it may be almost taken
for granted that the coincidence between morality and the
452 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
conditions of social welfare is admitted. But if so, the rule is
given by the conditions. If it be admitted tliat this coin-
cidence exists in fact ; if, again, it be admitted that the
social utility of certain kinds of conduct and character can
be proved, and that, if proved, they become for that reason
"right" and "virtuous," then it seems to follow that the
moral law is actuallv established in the way suggested, namelv,
by observation of the facts. You may perhaps prove that
the deity approves obedience to the law thus established ;
but for the mere fact of ascertaining the law, the observation
is the sole and sufficient method. Nor can vou know that
the deity approves otherwise than by knowing that he is good,
that is, desires the welfare of mankind.
20. The same arguments take a different form in the case
of metaphysical discussion. The ontologist insists that
morality cannot be established until "materialism" be con-
futed. To this I should answer, that for scientific purposes
the discussion is irrelevant, I can prove that unselfishness
and all the qualities which require intellectual development
are essential conditions of social welfare. If the materialist
can prove that the emotions and the intellect are in some
sense mere dances of atoms, I can only reply that in that
case atoms have more in them than I should have supposed,
but that the phenomena which I take into account remain
the same. And meanwhile, from the scientific point of
view, I can obtain a solution of the real problem, which the
ontologist cannot approach. For as the organism has both
physical appetites and intellectual emotions, and as the condi-
tions of social welfare require a certain balance between the
faculties, and not the abolition of either class of faculties,
the study of those conditions gives a measure of the degree
in which the intellect should be developed; so far, namely, as
is consistent with the health of the whole organism ; whereas
any absolute conclusion as to the merit of intellectual
and physical parts of our nature abstractedly from the
conditions of life, would be futile because absolute. The
metaphysician, however, more frequently takes a position
CONCLUSION. 453
corresponding to that of the theologian who allows the
coincidence between morality and social welfare, and only
disputes as to the mode of proof. The metaphysician dis-
tinguishes between the form and the contents of duty. He
does not deny that in any special case we must discover
what is right by observing the facts, and that the fact that
a given action will make men happier is so far a proof that
it is a right action ; but he argues that the conception of
" duty/' of " ought," or of " right and wrong," must be
independently obtainable. The question, which involves the
basis of a whole metaphysical system, cannot be adequately
argued here. But I may answer briefly, first, that even
upon this assumption, the science, if there be a science, of
the conditions of social welfare must be of essential impor-
tance to morality; for, if it leads to any conclusions, those
conclusions will immediately determine the morality of some
classes of conduct. If I can prove drunkenness to be socially
mischievous, I shall certainly prove it to be wicked. The blank
concept " right and wrong" will be of no use till I can pro-
vide it with contents upon which to operate ; and therefore
the science of ethics will still be of paramount importance
if it can be established. And, secondly, I answer that, upon
my showing, this is really a perversion of a plain principle.
In the metaphysical region you may come across ultimate
canons of truth, but by no conceivable ingenuity upon prin-
ciples of action. And, in fact, we find accordingly that
thinkers who accept this position have to make the most
desperate efforts to twist the " ought " out of the " is." The
ultimate principles which they propose are simply logical
principles in a thin disguise. So, for example, the famous
theorem that you are to act so that your rule of conduct may
be a rule for all men is a transfigured bit of logic. To think
so that my thoughts may be true for everybody, is perhaps a
description of thinking that is objectively true. But, as I
have already argued, the theorem as stated is strictly true of
all conduct whatever. I cannot help acting in the way in
which every one would act with my character and under
454 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
the same circumstances ; nor, upon my showing, has this
proposition more to do with moral conduct than with any
other kind of conduct ; nor has it more to do with the
narrowest and most prudential than with the most sym-
pathetic and self-sacrificing principles. And this is only
what we must expect, if, in fact, metaphysical inquiry has,
as I maintain, no special relation to ethics, and can only be
forced into relation with it by ingenious sophistry.
21. Let us pass to the next head under which I have con-
sidered morality. It is argued that without some transcen-
dental principle there is no adequate foundation for morality;
and this, not in the sense just considered, that the moral law
remains indeterminate, but in the sense of our having no
security for its permanence, I have already explained at
full length my own theory. Morality, I have said, is a.
product of the social factor; the individual is moralised
through his identification with the social organism ; the
conditions, therefore, of the security of morality are the
conditions of the persistence of society ; and if we ask from
the scientific point of view what these conditions are, we can
only reply by stating that the race is dependent upon the
environment; by tracing, so far as we are able, the conditions
under which it has been developed, and trying to foresee the
future from the past. We may, again, appeal to the meta-
physician if we want to examine into the validity and the
various implications of the ultimate principles involved in our
argument. Only from science, if from science, can we learn
anything, however trifling, as to the order of actual existence
in the present or the future. Our hopes and our fears must
be alike based upon our experience, and upon nothing else.
The theologian who pronounces this procedure to be in-
sufficient has to meet the dif^culty after his own fashion.
We can only feel confidence in the existence of that which
rests upon a transcendental basis. Morality has a pre-
carious position, therefore, unless we believe in a moral
governor of the universe. But here immediately arise the
whole array of insuperable difficulties over which theologians
CONCLUSION. 455
have vainly struggled since theology existed. It is enough
to hint at them. What is a moral governor? A governor
who makes his subjects moral ? No, for many men are
wicked. Could he prevent their being wicked ? If he could
and did not, we have no security for his willing them to be
moral. If he did not because he could not, his willing them to
be moral will not secure the existence of morality. He can,
however, secure the punishment of the wicked; and therefore,
if moral government does not mean the immediate morality
of the universe, it means the ultimate rule of justice. What,
then, is justice? It means, in brief, that punishment should
be impartial, and should be proportioned to the offence.
Now, if the wicked are to be punished impartially, they must
be punished in proportion to their wickedness; that is, for
the wickedness due to their own character, not to the acci-
dental circumstances. But their own character means their
innate qualities, that is, the qualities with which they
were created ; or, in other words, the Creator as governor
punishes them exactly for being what he made them. Again,
the punishment is " proportioned " to the offence. How is
the proportion to be determined? Surely the perfection of
human justice is measured by its efficiency. That system is
best which most diminishes crime. But if we apply this rule
to divine justice we get into hopeless difficulties. We must
suppose that the Creator wishes to diminish wickedness as
much as possible, for otherwise he would inflict useless suf-
fering. Yet we have to suppose that he inflicts punishments
— infinite and eternal, according to the most logical theo-
logians— in such a wav that the reforming influence is a
minimum and the sufferino- a maximum. If a human ruler
admitted that the punishments inflicted by his laws had very
little deterrent effi^ct, but argued as a set-off that he kept the
greatest part of his subjects in perpetual confinement and
incessant torture, we should certainly say that, whether
by his misfortune or fault, he had a very ill-regulated king-
dom. Yet, when we try to reconcile ourselves to the exist-
ing evils by assuming the existence of this supernatural
456 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
balance, we necessarily present the universe after this
fashion. Whether it is an edifying theory or not I can-
not say. I do not see how it helps to strengthen our
belief in the safeguards of morality. The explanation is
simple enough. The world is what we see it, abounding in
misery and wickedness. If you believe in a moral governor,
you are bound to put extraordinary limitations upon his
power to vindicate his benevolence, or to limit his benevo-
lence in order to vindicate his power; and, in either case,
you take away with one hand that safeguard to morality
which you give with the other. Meanwhile^ in any case,
you have to stop all logical gaps by talking about mystery.
It is simpler to admit that the whole is a mystery, and to
cease the effort to play ourselves with words.
23. The ontolon;ist sees the weakness of the theolocrical arsxu-
ment and tries to remedy it. The puzzle is that virtue may be
painful and vice pleasant. You cannot really get rid of this
difficulty by adding extrinsic considerations, by assuming that
virtue will always meet with a reward either from man or
God, and so the initial error be made up by a subsequent
compensation. The hypothesis cannot be made to work, and
makes a fresh breach with every attempted repair. The
ontologist therefore cuts at the very root of the difficulty,
not by saying that the balance will be redressed, or by admit-
ting the mystery — for to him there is no mystery — but by boldly
asserting that evil is merely a negative term, a privation, not
a positive existence, or, in short, that in some way or other it
does not exist at all. If it is any satisfaction to anybody to
repeat such phrases, it would be a pity to deprive them of it,
23. I come to the final question about morality, and the
most difficult. Must we not go to transcendental considera-
tions in order to find a sufficient motive for moral conduct ?
This brings us back to the previous argument. To say what
morality is — I repeat the statement once more — is by no
means the same thing as to enforce morality. It is not
when one is approaching the last page of an ethical essay
that one can have any illusions upon that point. Un-
CONCLUSION. 457
doubtedly a man may have very clear conceptions about
the nature of morahty, and yet may receive from that
cireumstance a very sHght impulse towards being himself
moral. Beyond the science, I have said, lies the art ; when
we have admitted the truth, it has still to become an operative
influence in moulding our characters. The abstract formula
may be admitted without producing any vivid representa-
tion of concrete facts ; the imagination has to be stimu-
lated as well as the intellect to be convinced ; and there is
still much to be done before the character is moulded, so that
the actual impulse shall in each case represent the general
principle. A man may be forced to comply with external
morality by some appeal to extrinsic motives ; but to make
him really moral we must stimulate the intrinsic motives;
and this must be in all cases the product of the pressure put
upon him in gradually imbibing the principles developed by
the social factor. This is recognised in the statement that a
religion is always more than a morality. It is not a mere
statement that certain rules of conduct are desirable, but it
is such an embodiment of some theory of the universe as
may impress the imagination and govern the emotions.
24. Here, in fact, arises a vast problem or series of pro-
blems at which only the briefest glance is possible. The rela-
tion between morality and religion suggests at once whole
libraries of controversy and lifetimes of investigation. A
religion implies a theory of the universe. It rests upon some
doctrine as to the ultimate facts ascertainable about human
life and the world in which we live ; and therefore, of
course, every moral theory is based upon, or at least closely
implicated in, the religious doctrines of the persons who hold
it. Whatever is meant by " best," we can only say what is
best for man as man by considering him as part of the
general system. But many relations are equally possible.
The theory, for example, that the universe is governed by
some inscrutable and invisible power may be worked out
with little reference to morality j the gods may be conceived
438 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
as indifferent to moral considerations, and when a moral
system is evolved they may take up very different attitudes
in regard to it ; whilst, again, in some systems the supreme
power may be regarded as essentially moral, and perhaps as
revealed to us through the conscience. In any case, where
there is a philosophical religion the ethical doctrine will
doubtless be vitally connected with the religious, and will
be stated partly in religious language ; and therefore every
srreat relio-ious crisis has a moral reaction. Sometimes it is
due to a moral revolt: the gods are opposed to the interests
of morality, and are punished by being abolished. In other
cases, they may be on the side of morality, and a disbelief in
their existence, due to some other cause, may weaken the
respect entertained for the moral rule. To examine into the
complex processes of thought and feeling thus set up must
always be a task of immense difficulty. I only hint at such
questions to draw one conclusion. A religion, so far as it
is moral (for, of course, many religions have a very question-
able relation to morality), must act by stimulating the intrin-
sic motives to morality. Further, it can act only through
the genuine belief which it embodies ; and thus when we
wish to estimate the effect of a religion upon morality, we
come at once to a further problem.
25. In what sense, we have to ask, is a belief the ultimate
condition of conduct? We may, as it is easy to see, fall
into great diff culties, unless we can say also what governs
the belief. So long, indeed, as a man has a certain belief,
we may say that it does not matter what was the origin of
the belief, nor whether it were true or false. A man will
refrain from conduct if he fears to be punished, whether the
punishment dreaded is to come from a real or an imaginary
being. The fear of hell, so long as people believe in hell,
may be a genuine restraint just as much as the fear of the
o-allows. But there is an obvious difference between the
cases. The fear of a real enemy may be due to actual ex-
perience. We explain the belief sufficiently by supposing
CONCLUSION. 459
the enemy to exist and to be perceived. But when wc
have to deal with the imae:inarv enemy, we have alwavs a
possible explanation of a different kind. There must have
been some cause for the imagination ; and that cause may
be something which is not removed, and which is still opera-
tive when the existence of the imaginary enemy is disproved.
If the fear of the enemy be the sole cause of abstinence from
the conduct, the conduct will cease to be disagreeable when
the enemy is no longer feared. But the case may be entirely
diflferent. Perhaps the conduct was found to produce dis-
agreeable consequences ; they were erroneously explained as
due to the hostility of an imaginary being; and though the
being is proved not to exist, the same consequences will
result, and will, as soon as recognised, still dictate abstinence
from the conduct.
26. This, of course, applies to the case of so-called religious
sanctions. Is the dread of hell the cause of abstinence from
vice ? It may no doubt be the immediate cause for the in-
dividual. If a man believe that drunkards will be damned,
that is for him a sufficient cause for abstainino- • and if vou
prove to him that hell is a fiction, he may become a drunkard.
But this is an obviously inadequate account of the whole
phenomenon. If this belief in hell were the result of scientific
inquiry, if the tendency of drunkenness to produce damna-
tion were proved like its tendency to produce delirium
tremens, the explanation would be sufficient. We should
say simply that the existence of a known place of torment
was one of the causes which limited drunkenness. But if
hell be an imaginary place we must necessarily go further.
People are afraid of being damned for drunkenness, and
therefore they do not drink. But why do they anticipate
damnation as a consequence of drunkenness? Obviously
they must think it hateful for some independent reason.
They think that drunkards will be damned because they
think drunkenness hateful ; or at any rate, the belief in the
damnation of drunkards has arisen from a perception of its
46o THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
other evil consequences. The supposed ultimate ground,
therefore, of the dislike is itself a corollary from the dis-
like. We must distinguish between the social and the
individual creed. A given person may be influenced solely
by the belief which he has accepted from his neighbours,
whether it be true or false. But the belief has been developed
in the society from a perception of the evil, and is a product
of that perception, not the determining cause.
27. Thus the true statement of the case will be, upon my
theory, that the limiting and determining cause of the moral .
objection to vice is in all cases measured by the percept i^ui
of the social evils which it causes. Whilst the society is
permeated by a belief in the supernatural, this perception
has to express itself in terms of the supernatural sanction ;
and to a man who is a member of such a society, who really
explains the phenomena in general as significant of the action
of a supernatural being, it is the same thing to say that
conduct is harmless, and to say that it is not punished super-
naturally. But as the belief in such interference decays,
the perception of the pernicious consequences which expressed
itself in terms of hell may use a difterent language without
being therefore less efficacious. The motive alleged in the
old dialect was nominally indeed of infinite weight, but the
effect upon conduct was entirely disproportionate, because,
in the first place, it did not correspond to a genuine belief,
and, in the second place, the imaginary penalty would always
be supposed capable of evasion by imaginary remedies. The
difference upon this showing is not in the strength of the
motive, but in the dialect which has to be used to accommodate
it to the prevailing system of belief. The ethical sentiment
becomes, however, stable and demonstrable when that which
is the real cause of its development is recognised as being
also its sufficient reason, and when people find in the various
motives which command a conformity to the social interest
a sufficient ground of conduct.
28. I cannot expand this further at present. I conclude by
CONCLUSION. 461
one remark which it suggests, and which seems to require
explicit statement. It is sometimes said that science cannot
provide a new basis of morality j and this is urged as though
it were an objection. I at least must thoroughly accept the
statement. What science proves, according to me, is pre-
cisely that the only basis of morality is the old basis ; it
shows that one and the same principle has always determined
the development of morality, although it has been stated in
different phraseology. And, moreover, this principle is not
the suggestion of any end distinct from all others. The
great forces which govern human conduct are the same that
they always have been and always will be. The dread of
hunger, thirst, and cold ; the desire to gratify the passions ;
the love of wife and child or friend ; sympathy with the
sufferings of our neighbours; resentment of injury inflicted
upon ourselves — these and such as these are the great forces
which govern mankind. When a moralist tries to assign
anything else as an ultimate motive, he is getting beyond
the world of realities. If a theologian tells me to love my
mother because God commands me to love her, he is invert-
ing the true order of thought. My love of those who are
nearest to my sympathies must be the ultimate ground of
any love that I can have for anybody else. My desire for
the welfare of my race grows out of my desire for the wel-
fare of my own intimates; and that exists independently
of any ethical theory whatever. A theoloirical basis of
morality is conceivable so far as the supreme being is repre-
sented as knowable and lovable; but to order morality in
the name of logical consistency is reasonable only when
I can stir men's blood by assuming that two and two make
four. On my theory, then, the moralist assigns no new
motives ; he accepts human nature as it is, and he tries to
show how it may maintain and improve the adv^antages
already acquired. His influence is little enough ; but,
such as it is, it depends upon the fact that a certain har-
mony has already come into existence ; and that men are
462 THE SCIENCE OF ETHICS.
therefore so constituted that they desire a more thorougli
solution of existing discords. A sound moral system is
desirable in order to give greater definiteness to the aims
and methods ; and it is doubtless important to obtain one
in a period of rapid decay of old systems. But it is happy
for the world that moral progress has not to wait till an
unimpeachable system of ethics has been elaborated.
THE END.
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