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A UTHOR: 
 
 REES, DANIEL 
 
 TITLE: 
 
 CONTEMPORARY 
 
 ETHICS 
 
 PLACE: 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 DATE: 
 
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 Rees, Daniel 1866- 
 
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 Leipzig 1892 
 
 Contemporary English ethics 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
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Contents 
 
 Rees» Daniel 
 1892 
 
 Contemporary English ethics 
 
 /IK 2» Readt M«S» English evolutionary ethios 
 
 1895 
 
 3. Winter f Ernst Henry Sidgwioks moralphilosophie 
 1904 
 
 4« MoskowitZf Henry Das moralisohe beurteilungs- 
 
 vermogen in der englisohen ethik von Hobbes bis 
 John Stuart 1906 
 
 5. Siegmeyer, Karl Uber die grundlagen der ethik in 
 der neueren englisohen philosophie 1908 
 
 6* Lovellf H«T. Der utilitarismus in der 
 erziehung 1909 
 
/ 
 
 L/\ . 
 
 ^j 
 
 1/ 
 
 -hi. I 
 
 CONTEMPORARY 
 
 ENGLISH ETHICS. 
 
 A DISSERTATION 
 
 PRESENTED TO THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF LEIPZIG 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY 
 
 BY 
 
 DANIEL REES. 
 
 LEIPZIG, 
 PRINTED BY G. KREYSING. 
 
 1892. 
 
1 ABLE OF CONTENTS AND BOOKS OF REFERENCE. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. MUl: Utilitarianism (1864). 
 
 Contrast with Kant. Pleasure the end. Quantity and quality of 
 pleasures. Passage to disinterestedness : psychologically through asso- 
 ciation: ethically. 
 
 CHAPTER II. Darwin: Origin of Species 6<> ed. 1882: Descent of Man 
 2® ed. 1877. 
 Organism and environment. Variation. Natural Selection. Habit 
 Instinct — natural and domestic. Growth of moral sense. End of 
 conduct 
 
 CHAPTER III. Spencer : Data of Ethics; Stephen : Science of Ethics (1882). 
 S I. Spencer. A. Descriptive — from physical, biological, psycho- 
 logical and sociological standpoint. B. Normative: ultimate end 
 happiness ; immediate end distribution of means to happiness. Egoism. 
 Altruism. 
 
 S 2. Stephen. Conduct determined by feeling and reason. The 
 individual and the race. Society an organism. The family the social 
 
 7^ unit. Contents of the Moral Law. Sympathy. Sanction of Morality. 
 ^-.5CHAPTER IV. Sidgwlck: Methods of Ethics f ed. 1884; Sorley: 
 Ethics of Naturalism (1885); Alexander: Moral Order and Progress 
 (1889); Muirhead: Elements of Ethics [i^gi). Pleasure. Desire. 
 Is desire always interested? Sidgwick's account of the end, criticised. 
 Desiderata in the evolution theory. 
 
 CHAPTER V. Martineau: Types of Ethical Theory 2« ed. 1886. 
 
 Perception and Conscience. Objects of Moral Judgment. Springs of 
 action— psychological and moral order. Duty to God, to man, to self. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. Green: Prolegomena to Ethics 2^ ed. 1884. 
 
 Theory of knowledge. Want impulse, desire. Desire and Intellect 
 Desire and Will. Intellect and Will. The Moral Ideal: its personal 
 and formal character; its origin and developnjent Its application to 
 Conduct 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 UTILITARIANISM. 
 
 "Kant, in the Metaphysics of Ethics, lays down an uni- 
 versal first principle as the origin and ground of moral obli- 
 gation; it is this:— 'So act, that the rule on which thou 
 actest would admit of being adopted as a law by all rational 
 beings'. But when he begins to deduce from this precept 
 any of the actual duties of morality, he fails, almost gro- 
 tesquely, to show that there would be any contradiction, any 
 logical (not to say physical) impossibility, in the adoption by 
 all rational beings of the most outrageously immoral rules of 
 conduct. All he shows is that the consequences of their uni- 
 versal adoption would be such as no one would choose to 
 
 mcur. 
 
 So run the opening sentences of Mill's treatise on Uiili' 
 iartanism. They point to an implied contrast in the views of 
 the two writers, to a totally different standpoint. When deal- 
 ing with the Practical Reason Kant alights upon a "factum" 
 of consciousness: the moral law he regards as an indisputable 
 fact of reason in its practical application. And just as the 
 slightest admixture of the empirical, as a condition in a 
 mathematical demonstration, would lower the value of the 
 proof and do away with its universal cogency, so the slightest 
 consideration of the pleasure or pain that might result as the 
 consequence of any particular action would mar the worth of 
 moral judgment, would, in fact, appeal not to the reason 
 which is universal in man but to the sensibility of the indi- 
 vidual, to what is ever changing in him, varying with every 
 
6 — 
 
 variation in the conditions of his existence, external and in- 
 ternal. Mill maintains that the result of Kant's procedure 
 ends in something only short of the grotesque. Ethics can 
 not be thus formulated without regard to the conditions of 
 organic life and the thousand considerations which arise in 
 consequence of differences in the conditions which hem in 
 the individual or assist him in his growth. Rather than proceed 
 then from the consciousness of the individual regarded as free 
 from the limitations of space and time— with unbounded 
 indifference to the conditions of earthly existence — , Mill 
 prefers to give the problem a complete turn, to take as his 
 basis the firm ground of experience. 'Give me a nov <nfa\ 
 said the ancient Greek philosopher, contemplating the possi- 
 bilities of the lever, *and I will move the worid*. Here at 
 length we have a solid basis to work upon — the experience of 
 past generations as represented in the institutions of to-day, 
 and a never-failing power to work our machinery — the ever- 
 present desire of the individual for pleasure and his aversion 
 to pain. Not that we have here anything particularly new: 
 we simply have forces old as the life of man, and carefully 
 observed in their working ever since the ancient Greeks came 
 to look at nature intelligently. We proceed to show, briefly, 
 how Mill dealt with the materials at hand. 
 
 "The creed which accepts as the foundation of morals, 
 Utility, or the Greatest Happiness Principle, holds that actions 
 are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, 
 wrong as they tend to produce the reverse of happiness. By 
 happiness is intended pleasure, and the absence of pain; by 
 unhappiness, pain, and the privation of pleasure." i) We are 
 to regard man, for ethical purposes, as a creature of impulses 
 and desires. As an individual he is not self-sufficient, but 
 related to the external worid; it is there his impulses for the 
 most part find their playground; it is thence his desires gain 
 satisfaction. Desire is always for pleasure. Desiring a thing 
 and finding it pleasant, aversion to it and thinking of it as 
 
 *) Utiliiarianismf p. 9. 
 
 — 7 
 
 painful , are phenomena entirely inseparable : to desire any- 
 thing, except in proportion as the idea of it is pleasant, is 
 a physical and metaphysical impossibility. Accordingly desires 
 would seem to allow of being arranged according to a gra- 
 duated scale, or rather two scales — that of intensity and 
 that of worth. "Utilitarian writers in general have placed the 
 superiority of mental overjbodily pleasures chiefly in the greater 
 permanency, safety, uncostliness, &c., of the former — that is, 
 in their circumstantial advantages rather than in their intrinsic 
 nature. And on all these points Utilitarians have fully proved 
 their case; but they might have taken the other, and, as it 
 may be called, higher ground, with entire consistency. It is 
 quite compatible with the principle of utility to recognise the 
 fact that some kinds of pleasure are more desirable and more 
 valuable than others/'^) This distinction of quality among 
 pleasures is essential — though perhaps suicidal — to Mill's 
 system ; it attracts in cases where simple quantitative happiness 
 would be out of question; it surrounds pleasure with a certain 
 halo of moral worth. It is this consideration that attests the 
 reasonableness of employing the higher faculties: but its intro- 
 duction only tends greatly to increase the difficulties of the 
 hedonistic calculus. With these difficulties in the way of he- 
 donism Mill does not busy himself: it is enough for him thatv 
 the case is so. "The only proof capable of being given that 
 an object is visible, is that people actually see it. The only 
 proof that a sound is audible, is that people hear it: and so 
 of the other sources of our experience. In like manner, I 
 apprehend, the sole evidence it is possible to produce that 
 anything is desirable is that people do actually desire it. Each 
 person, so far as he believes it to be attainable, desires his 
 own happiness. This being a fact we have not only all the 
 proof which the case admits of, but all which it is possible 
 to require that happiness is a good. Happiness has made 
 out its title as one of the ends of conduct. But it has not, 
 by this alone, proved itself to be the sole criterion."*) 
 
 *) Ibid. p. 12. ^ p. 52. 
 
— 8 — 
 
 So far we have kept well within the lines of egoism. 
 How are we to make the passage to disinterestedness ? Instead 
 of following Hobbes' method and invoking the aid of the state 
 for the maintenance of public morality, Mill prefers to make 
 use of the psychological law elaborated by Hartley— the law 
 of the *' association of ideas''. "Life would be a poor thing, 
 very ill provided with sources of happiness, if there were not 
 ttiis provision of nature by which things originally indifferent, 
 but conducive to, or otherwise associated with, the satisfaction 
 of our primitive desires, become in themselves sources of 
 pleasure more valuable than the primitive pleasures, both in 
 permanency, in the space of human existence they are capable 
 of covering, and even in intensity." This principle explains 
 the miser's love of money : this is the spring whence flows the 
 love of power or of fame. "Virtue, according to the utilitarian 
 conception, is a good of this description. There was no ori- 
 ginal desire of it , or motive to it , save its conduciveness to 
 pleasure, and especially to protection from pain. But through 
 the association thus formed, it may be felt a good in itself, 
 and desired as such with as great intensity as any other good ; 
 and with this difference between it and the love of money, 
 of power, or of fame, that all of these may, and often do, 
 render the individual noxious to the other members of the 
 society to which he belongs, whereas there is nothing which 
 makes him so much a blessing to them as the cultivation of 
 the disinterested love of virtue. And, consequently, the utili- 
 tarian standard, while it tolerates and approves those other 
 acquired desires, up to the point beyond which they would 
 be more injurious to the general happiness than promotive of 
 it, enjoins and requires the cultivation of the love of virtue 
 up to the greatest strength possible, as being above all things 
 important to the general happiness." i) 
 
 From the psychological point of view, then, the barrier that 
 separates self-interest from altruistic affection does not appear 
 insurmountable: from the nature of the case I pursue my own 
 
 *) p. 57. 
 
 — 9 — 
 
 happiness, and owing to the acknowledged working of the 
 laws of association, my conduct may be such as to bring 
 about the happiness of others ; but when we are enjoined and 
 required to cultivate this disinterested love of virtue, in other 
 words, to adopt the utilitarian standard, we are justified in 
 asking why ought we to pursue the happiness of others rather 
 than our own. What ethical justification is there for the ex- 
 clusive adoption of one out of two possible and perfectly 
 
 "natural" courses? Different answers may be given: 
 
 " " (a.) An attempt may be made to show that in the long 
 run a person most devoted to the "greatest happiness" prin- 
 ciple might somehow or other obtain the greatest happiness 
 for himself. Mill does not make the attempt. Rather, "the 
 utilitarian morality does recognise in human beings the power 
 of sacrificing their own greatest good for the good of others. 
 It only refuses to admit that the sacrifice is itself a good. A 
 sacrifice which does not increase or tend to increase, the sum 
 total of happiness, it considers as wasted. The only self- 
 renunciation which it applauds is devotion to the happiness, 
 or to some of the means of happiness of others; either of 
 mankind collectively, or of individuals within the limits im- 
 posed by the collective interests of mankind." ») 
 
 (b.) "No reason can be given why the general happiness 
 is desirable, except that each person desires his own happi- 
 ness. This, however, being a fact, we have not only all the 
 proof which the case admits of, but all which it is possible 
 to require, that happiness is a good ; that each person's happi- 
 ness is a good to that person, and the general happiness, 
 therefore, a good to the aggregate of persons." 2) This is a 
 surprising syllogism from Mill : it contains the fallacy of qua- 
 iernio terminorum, and credits "the aggregate of persons" with 
 a power of collective willing which , to say the least of it , is 
 extraordinary. 
 
 (c.) Another method would be to empty the individual of 
 all characteristic content, to ignore the disturbing element in 
 
 ') p. 24. 2) p. ^2^ 
 
— lO 
 
 — II — 
 
 the problem, and from easier data to arrive at the desired 
 conclusion. Adopting Bentham's position that "everybody is 
 to count for one. nobody for more than one", Mill maintains 
 that as between his own happiness and that of others , utili- 
 tarianism requires the agent to be as strictly impartial as a 
 disinterested and benevolent spectator. But when it is laid 
 down that the only desirable end is happiness, the meaning 
 surely is, that nothing is desirable for A but the happiness of 
 A; and when it is said that A's happiness is no more desir- 
 able than B*s, the meaning is, that A's is no more desirable 
 for A than B's is for B ; from which it is fair to conclude 
 that B has the same warrant for pursuing his own happiness 
 that A has ; but not that to either of them the happiness of 
 the other is, or ought to be, as desirable as his own. 
 
 (d.) Mill adopts the only remaining method. It consists 
 in a cutting of the knot, in claiming that altruism is as natural 
 as egoism, and far more important in its issues. "There is 
 a natural basis of sentiment for utilitarian morality. This firm 
 foundation is that of the social feelings of mankind— the 
 desire to be in unity with our fellow-creatures. The social 
 state is at once so natural, so necessary, and so habitual to 
 man, that, except in some unusual circumstances or by an 
 effort of voluntary abstraction, he never conceives himself other- 
 wise than as a member of a body; and this association is 
 riveted more and more, as mankind are further removed from 
 the state of savage independence. So long as people are 
 cooperating, their ends are identified with those of others; 
 there is at least a temporary feeling that the interests of others 
 are their own interests. Thus a person comes, as though 
 instinctively, to be conscious of himself as a being who of 
 course pays regard to others. The smallest germs of this feeling 
 are laid hold of and nourished by the contagion of sympathy 
 and the influence of education ; and a complete web of corro- 
 borative association is woven round it by the powerful agency 
 of the external sanctions. If we now suppose this feelmg of 
 unity to be taught as a religion, and the whole force of edu- 
 cation, of institutions, and of opinion, directed, as it once 
 
 was in the case of religion, to make every person grow up 
 from infancy surrounded on all sides both by the profession 
 and by the practice of it, I think that no one, who can realise 
 this conception, will feel any misgiving about the sufficiency 
 of the uhimate sanctions for the Happiness morality." i) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DARWINISM. 
 
 Mill, after Adam Smith and Hartley, traced the working 
 of the laws of sympathy and association in the building up 
 — withing the life of the individual and from an egoistic 
 basis — of a structure in which self-interest becomes virtue, 
 and selflove touched by sympathy becomes benevolence. 
 The suddenness of the change may at times seem surprising 
 — so surprising, indeed, that is was found necessary to pre- 
 suppose in the individual ''a natural basis of sentiment for 
 utilitarian morality". If suddenness of change however were 
 the only obstacle to the acceptance of egoism, thus modified 
 by association and sympathy, as a workable theory, no one 
 need any longer hesitate to regard Utilitarianism as the method 
 of ethics — so successfully has the idea of Time been worked 
 by the evolutionists in explanation of organic, and, as they 
 claim, of mental and moral differentiation. Not that mere 
 lapse of time by itself does anything either for or against the 
 process; it is only so far important, and its importance in 
 this respect is great, that it gives a better chance of bene- 
 ficial variations arising, and of their being selected, accumu- 
 lated, and fixed. The life of the individual is no longer the 
 Alpha and Omega of ethical interest, in this "change from 
 an indefinite incoherent homogeneity to a definite coherent 
 heterogeneity, through continuous differentiations and inte- 
 grations". 
 
 What are the essentials in this doctrine of evolution? 
 
 1) pp. 46—49. 
 
— 12 — 
 
 — 13 — 
 
 more especially, as staled by Darwin? We do not exactly 
 start with a chaos, though all is in flux: nothing is, all is 
 evolving. It is found convenient to start with organisms; and 
 in its earliest stages evolution is little more than a mechanical 
 process of adaptation between an organism and its environ- 
 ment. Organic development is then dependent on two factors 
 — on internal and external conditions: it is a compromise 
 between both, a process of assimilation which reaches its limit 
 only in two cases — (a) when complete adaptation between 
 organism and environment is attained, and (b) when the dis- 
 crepancy between both is so great that adaptation cannot 
 follow quickly enough, leading in this case directly to death, 
 as in the former case indirectly. Within these limits of max- 
 imum and minimum adaptation we have a wide range of 
 adaptation more or less perfect, and affording occasion for 
 all degrees of variation. 
 
 "Our ignorance of the laws of variation is profound." The 
 nature of the most elementar}- organism is a mystery ; we can 
 only observe the relation that exists between it and its en- 
 vironment — by way of action and reaction — and from such 
 observation we may be able to set forth some of the con- 
 ditions that must be present before growth, variation, develop- 
 ment can take effect. Plainly the organism's income must be 
 greater than its expenditure; it must assimilate, from its en- 
 vironment, more than it gives away ; otherwise there is nothing 
 at hand to satisfy the first necessities of progress. So that we 
 are to regard the organism as endowed with a sort of "hunger" 
 which it mechanically seeks to satisfy ; are the conditions such 
 that the environment plentifully supplies the ingredients which 
 tend to satisfy this mechanical hunger of the organism then 
 rapid growth is natural, the tendency to variation in all 
 directions is increased, and an ever greater capacity for more 
 intensive assimilation is produced. 
 
 ^ Of more importance, according to Darwin, are the in- 
 ternal conditions— more important in that we are accustomed 
 to regard the organism as the source whence other organisms 
 multiply and propagate. Where the conditions are favourable. 
 
 this multiplication takes place at a tremendous rate ; there are 
 more organisms than the environment can satisfy; a struggle 
 for existence takes place. Here comes in the importance of 
 variation, its advantage or disadvantage. Such organisms can 
 most easily survive as are possessed of some variation of 
 structure that helps them the more easily to adapt themselves 
 to their environment, to profit by their surroundings; these 
 more successful are the most likely to leave a comparatively 
 healthy progeny behind them; thus the struggle foi; existence 
 continues and the fittest survive. This principle by means of 
 which organisms are enabled to take advantage of, and to 
 preserve, favourable variations, or rather the description of the 
 process by which this more successful adaptation takes place, ^ 
 Darwin calls "natural selection". "It may metaphorically be v 
 said that natural selection is daily and hourly scrutinising, 
 throughout the world, the slightest variations; rejecting those 
 that are bad, preserving and adding up all that are good; 
 silently and insensibly working, whenever and wherever oppor- 
 tunity offers, at the improvement of each organic being in 
 relation to its organic and inorganic conditions of life."i) / 
 
 From the nature of the case, natural selection works only 
 for the good of the organism ; it cannot modify the structure 
 of one species, without giving it any advantage, for the good 
 of another species. A change in favour of another species - 
 without some corresponding advantage to itself would handicap 
 the competitor in the struggle for Ufe. "If it could be proved ^ 
 that any part of the structure of any one species had been 
 formed for the exclusive good of another species, it would 
 annihilate my theory, for such could not have been produced 
 through natural selection. Natural selection tends only to 
 make each organic being as perfect as, or slightly more per- 
 feet than, the other inhabitants of the same country with which 
 it comes into competition. And we see that this is the standard ^ 
 of perfection attained under nature.'**) 
 
 We have thus far seen how organic beings under favour- 
 
 ^) Ort^ of Species, pp. 65, 66. «) Ibid. p. 163. 
 
— 14 — 
 
 able conditions tend to vary and to reproduce their kind. 
 Moreover the tendency to variability is in itself hereditary.^) 
 And "although we have no good evidence of the existence in 
 organic beings of an innate tendency towards progressive 
 development, yet this necessarily follows through the continued 
 action of natural selection. For the best definition which has 
 ever been given of a high standard of organisation is the 
 degree to which the parts have been specialised or differen- 
 tiated ; and natural selection tends towards this end, inasmuch 
 as the parts are thus enabled to perform their functions more 
 
 — ^efficiently."*) Now differentiation of structure and speciali- 
 
 y. sation of function imply habit. "If we suppose any habitual 
 action to become inherited — and it can be shown that this 
 does sometimes happen — then the resemblance between what 
 orginally was a habit and an instinct becomes so close 
 as not to be distinguished. If Mozart, instead of playing the 
 pianoforte at three years old with wonderfully little practice, 
 had played a tune with no practice at all, he might truly be 
 said to have done so instinctively. But it would be a serious 
 error to suppose that the greater number of instincts have 
 been acquired by habit in one generation, and then trans- 
 
 •^xmitted by inheritance to succeeding generations." Nature 
 does not act by bounds : her work is slow, but sure. However 
 instincts may have been acquired, it will be universally ad- 
 mitted that they are as important as corporeal structures for 
 the welfare of each species, under its present conditions of 
 
 •^ life. "Under changed conditions of life, it is at least possible 
 that slight modifications of instinct might be profitable to a 
 species; and if it can be shown that instincts do vary ever 
 so little, then I can see no difficulty in natural selection 
 preserving and continually accumulating variations of instinct 
 to any extent that was profitable." "The instinct of each 
 species is good for itself, but has never so far as we can 
 judge, been produced for the exclusive good of others." 3) 
 
 •^ But instincts diflfer among themselves. Two classes may 
 
 — 15 _ 
 
 be broadly distinguished— domestic and natural , the former *. 
 being far less fixed than the latter. "Under domestication x 
 instincts have been acquired, and natural instincts have been 
 lost, partly by habit, and partly by man selecting and accu- 
 II, mulating, during successive generations, peculiar mental habits 
 and actions, which at first appeared from what we must in, 
 our ignorance call an accident." It may be well here to 
 pause a little and see what is implied by this new factor. 
 What are we to understand by man's power of selecting? 
 On the Darwinian theory, how account for any other than 
 natural selection? Is it possible that a natural process of 
 selection can give birth to a power which, at a few removes, 
 takes leave of its parent only to return and control for its 
 own purposes the power whence it sprang? Darwin's reply is 
 decisive : "in what manner the mental powers were first deve- 
 loped in the lowest organisms is as hopeless an enquiry as how 
 life itself originated. These are problems for the distant 
 future, if they are ever to be solved by man."i) 
 
 Some of the steps in this advance can be noted, and 
 some of the conditions assigned under which the transformation 
 may be supposed to have taken place. "Instinct implies some 
 inherited modification of the brain. Little is known about 
 the functions of the brain, but we can perceive that as the 
 intellectual powers become highly developed, the various parts 
 of the brain must be connected by very intricate channels of 
 the freest intercommunication ; and as a consequence, each se- 
 parate part would perhaps tend to be less well fitted to answer 
 to particular sensations or associations in a definite and in- 
 herited — that is, instinctive manner." 2) Or, as Fiske puts it: 
 "As we ascend the animal scale till we come to the higher 
 birds and mammals, we find a very interesting and remark- 
 able change beginning. The general increase of intelligence 
 involves an increasing variety and complication of experiences. 
 The acts which the animal performs in the course of its life 
 become far more numerous , far more various , and far more 
 
 1) Ibid. p. 91. aj p^ 175 8^ p^ 30^ 
 
 ») Descent 0/ Man, p. (i(i, aj ibj^j^ p gg 
 
-- i6 — 
 
 — 17 
 
 complex. They are therefore severally repeated with less 
 frequency in the lifetime of each individual. Consequently 
 the tendency to perform them is not completely organised in 
 the nervous system of the offspring before birth. The short 
 pciiod of ante-natal experience does not afford time enough 
 for the organisation of so many and such complex habitudes 
 and capacities. The process which in the lower animals is 
 completed before birth m in the higher animals left to be 
 completed after birth. When the creature begins its life it is 
 not completely organised. Instead of the power of doing all 
 the things which its parents did, it starts with the power of 
 doing only some few of them; for the rest it has only latent 
 capacities which need to be brought out by its individual 
 experiences after birth. In other words, it begins its separate 
 life not as a matured creature, but as an infant which needs 
 for a time to be watched and helped."*) 
 
 It comes then to this : natural selection, in bringing about 
 a higher form of organisation with less coherent specialisation 
 of function, has been productive of advantages which are 
 however not without their risks and disadvantages. The more 
 varied experience and higher intelligence of parents go along 
 with the helpless infancy of their offspring. Hence for the 
 offspring itself there is the risk of immediate death : but for 
 the parents — possessing in some degree the power and the 
 will to educate — there is an opportunity for casting the 
 young plastic mind into shape, and for drawing forth its 
 possibilities. The prolonged infancy of the offspring of social 
 animals may then be regarded as not altogether a disadvan- 
 tage: rather must we regard it as that stage in the evolution- 
 ary process where natural selection of organic variations gives 
 way to man's conscious power of selection, and we pass out 
 of the province of "natural science" to enter that of psycho- 
 logy and morals. Only, we must be careful to notice the facts 
 of the case and their implication. What then are the facts? 
 Prolonged infancy is a characteristic of social animals. But 
 
 how explain their existence, their living together at all? Evi- 
 ■' dently from the benefits arising through living in close asso- 
 ciation—mutual help in seizing prey and warding off the 
 common foe. This grouping together of parents and offspring 
 within the social body has its corresponding mental counter- 
 part in the rise of the parental, filial and social affections. 
 To dogmatise here would be out of place; for "with respect 
 to the origin of the parental and filial affections, which ap- 
 parently lie at the base of the social instincts , we know not 
 the steps by which they have been gained ; but we may infer 
 that it has been to a large extent through natural selection." *) 
 For the rest of the chapter we are to regard man as 
 living in society, possessed of different instincts (including 
 among these the social), deriving pleasure from their satis- 
 faction and feeling pain when their action is impeded; en- 
 dowed too with mental powers, with a capacity of looking 
 before and after, along with a conscious power of "selection 
 for his own good". Did man fully exercise all the powers 
 with which nature has endowed him, no question would have 
 arisen as to whether man, as distinguished from the lower 
 animals, is a free cause; he would act, whether for his own 
 or for the social good, just as the conditions of the case 
 determined. And whatever the result we could not but ad- 
 mire it; just as "we ought to admire the savage instinctive 
 hatred of the queen-bee, which urges her to destroy the young 
 queens, her daughters, as soon as they are born, or to perish 
 herself in the combat; for undoubtedly this is for the good 
 of the communitj ; and maternal love or maternal hatred, 
 though the latter fortunately is most rare, is all the same to 
 the inexorable principle of natural selection." 2) However there 
 is the fact that "man selects for his own good"; if one asks 
 for something in explanation of this superior power, Darwin's 
 answer is, "I have nothing to do with the origin of the 
 mental powers, any more than I have with that of life itself". ») 
 
 ■) Fiske, Destiny of Man^ j^^. 39 — 41. 
 
 *) Descent of Man, p. 105. ^ Origin of Species, p. 164. ^) Ibid. 
 P 205. 
 
 2 
 
— i6 — 
 
 — 17 — 
 
 complex. They are therefore severally repeated with less 
 frequency in the lifetime of each individual. Consequently 
 the tendency to perform them is not completely organised in 
 the nervous system of the offspring before birth. The short 
 period of ante-natal experience does not afford lime enough 
 for the organisation of so many and such complex habitudes 
 and capacities. The process which in the lower animals is 
 completed before birth is in the higher animals left to be 
 completed after birth. When the creature begins its life it is 
 not completely organised. Instead of the power of doing all 
 the things which its parents did, it starts with the power of 
 doing only some few of them; for the rest it has only latent 
 capacities which need to be brought out by its individual 
 experiences after birth. In other words, it begins its separate 
 life not as a matured creature, but as an infant which needs 
 for a time to be watched and helped."*) 
 
 It comes then to this : natural selection, in bringing about 
 a higher form of organisation with less coherent specialisation 
 of function, has been productive of advantages which are 
 however not without their risks and disadvantages. The more 
 varied experience and higher intelligence of parents go along 
 with the helpless infancy of their offspring. Hence for the 
 offspring itself there is the risk of immediate death: but for 
 the parents — possessing in some degree the power and the 
 will to educate— there is an opportunity for casting the 
 young plastic mind into shape, and for drawing forth its 
 possibilities. The prolonged infancy of the offspring of social 
 animals may then be regarded as not altogether a disadvan- 
 tage: rather must we regard it as that stage in the evolution- 
 ary process where natural selection of organic variations gives 
 way to man's conscious power of selection, and we pass out 
 of the province of "natural science" to enter that of psycho- 
 logy and morals. Only, we must be careful to notice the facts 
 of the case and their implication. What then are the facts? 
 Prolonged infancy is a characteristic of social animals. But 
 
 how explain their existence, their living together at all ? Evi- 
 dently from the benefits arising through living in close asso- 
 ciation — mutual help in seizing prey and warding off the 
 common foe. This grouping together of parents and offspring 
 within the social body has its corresponding mental counter- 
 part in the rise of the parental, filial and social affections. 
 To dogmatise here would be out of place; for "with respect 
 to the origin of the parental and filial affections, which ap- 
 parently lie at the base of the social instincts, we know not 
 the steps by which they have been gained; but we may infer 
 that it has been to a large extent through natural selection." ^) 
 For the rest of the chapter we are to regard man as 
 living in society, possessed of different instincts (including 
 among these the social), deriving pleasure from their satis- 
 faction and feeling pain when their action is impeded; en- 
 dowed too with mental powers, with a capacity of looking 
 before and after, along with a conscious power of "selection 
 for his own good". Did man fully exercise all the powers 
 with which nature has endowed him, no question would have 
 arisen as to whether man, as distinguished from the lower 
 animals, is a free cause; he would act, whether for his own 
 or for the social good, just as the conditions of the case 
 determined. And whatever the result we could not but ad- 
 mire it; just as "we ought to admire the savage instinctive 
 hatred of the queen-bee, which urges her to destroy the young 
 queens, her daughters, as soon as they are born, or to perish 
 herself in the combat; for undoubtedly this is for the good 
 of the community ; and maternal love or maternal hatred, 
 though the latter fortunately is most rare, is all the same to 
 the inexorable principle of natural selection."*) However there 
 is the fact that "man selects for his own good"; if one asks 
 for something in explanation of this superior power, Darwin's 
 answer is, "I have nothing to do with the origin of the 
 mental powers, any more than I have with that of life itself". 3) 
 
 *) Descent of Man, p. 1 05. ®) Origin of Species, p. 164. ^) Ibid. 
 
 *) Fiske, Destiny of Man, "g^. 39 — 4I. 
 
 p. 205. 
 
— i8 _ 
 
 Bearing this in mind, how from these elementary data— 
 of the social instincts, memory, reason &c.— are we to ac- 
 count for the existence of the moral sense? We must pre- 
 suppose a community of social beings: this community is of 
 high intellectual development, and man, from the activity of 
 his mental faculties, cannot avoid reflection; past impressions 
 and images are incessantly and clearly passing through his 
 mind. Now suppose a conflict to take place between the 
 claims of the self-regarding and social instincts. "At the mo- 
 ment of action, man will no doubt be apt to follow the stronger 
 impulse ; and though this may occasionally prompt him to the 
 noblest deeds, it will more commonly lead him to gratify liis 
 own desires at the expense of other men. But alter their 
 gratification, when past and weaker impressions are judged by 
 the ever-enduring social instinct, and by his deep regard for 
 the good opinion of his fellows, retribution will surely come. 
 He will then feel remorse, repentance, regret or shame. He 
 will consequently resolve more or less firmly to act differently 
 for the future; and this is conscience; for conscience looks 
 backwards, and serves as a guide for the future." "It is 
 obvious that every one may with an easy conscience gratify 
 his own desires, if they do not interfere with his social instincts, 
 that is, with the good of others ; but in order to be quite free 
 from self-reproach, or at least of anxiety, it is almost neces- 
 sary for him to avoid the disapprobation, whether reasonable 
 or not, of his fellowmen. Nor must he break through the 
 fixed habits of his life , especially if these are supported by 
 reason; for if he does he will assuredly feel dissatisfaction. 
 He must likewise avoid the reprobation of the one God or 
 gods in whom, according to his knowledge or superstition, he 
 may believe; but in this case the additional fear of divine 
 punishment often intervenes." >) 
 
 From the preceding it would appear that the dictates of 
 conscience can be followed in two ways — deliberately, and 
 instinctively: on the one hand the good of others may be 
 
 — 19 — 
 
 sought out of regard for the external (physical, political and 
 social) and internal sanctions, — the point of view of the 
 Utilitarians ; on the other hand the social instincts may be 
 followed impulsively, through inheritance and without the stimu- 
 lus of either pleasure or pain, and they lead naturally to the 
 good of others. If it be maintained that such instinctive actions 
 can hardly be accounted moral, the objection would seem to 
 have little weight, seeing that instinct, according to Darwin, 
 has a close connection with habit and that often we are dis- 
 tinctly accountable for the habits we form, and remembering 
 further how "we all feel that an act cannot be considered as 
 perfect, or as performed in the most noble manner, unless it 
 be done impulsively, without deliberation or effort, in the same 
 manner as by a man in whom the requisite qualities are innate." 
 So that "although man has no special instincts to tell 
 him how to aid his fellowmen, he still has the impulse." And 
 even in seeking how to aid others he is not left without 
 assistance : "with his improved intellectual faculties he would 
 naturally be much guided in this respect by extended sympathy, 
 by reason, and by experience." "To do good in return for 
 evil, to love your enemy, is a height of morality to which it 
 may be doubted whether the social instincts would, by them- 
 selves, have ever led us. It is necessary that these instincts, 
 together with sympathy, should have been highly cultivated by 
 the aid of reason , instruction, and the love or fear of God, 
 before any such golden rules would ever be thought of and 
 obeyed. But as love, sympathy and self-command become 
 strengthened by habit, and as the power of reasoning becomes 
 clearer, so that man can value justly the judgment of his 
 fellows, he will feel himself impelled, apart from any tran- 
 sitory pleasure or pain, to certain lines of conduct. He might 
 then declare, I am the supreme judge of my own conduct, 
 and in the words of Kant, I will not in my own person violate 
 the dignity of humanity." ^) Instead of selecting his own good 
 he will work for that of others: he will adopt as the end of 
 
 1) Descent of Man^ p. 1 1 6. 
 
 *) Ibid. p. no. 
 
— 20 — 
 
 21 
 
 conduct "the rearing of the greatest number of individuals in 
 full vigour and health, with all their faculties perfect, under 
 the conditions to which they are subjected" ; he will give way 
 to his social instincts in cases of conflict, having **no doubt 
 that the welfare and the happiness of the individual usually 
 coincide". Thus the reproach is removed of laying the foun- 
 dation of the noblest part of our nature in the base principle 
 of selfishness; unless, indeed, the satisfaction which ever>' 
 animal feels, when it follows its proper instincts, and the dis- 
 satisfaction felt when prevented, be called selfish. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HEDONISM WITH EVOLUTION. 
 
 The writers whose systems we have to set forth in this 
 chapter — Herbert Spencer and Leslie Stephen — have this m 
 common, that they seek to graft on to the evolution hypo- 
 thesis the theory that pleasure is the end of action ; the struggle 
 is no longer one for existence simply, but for pleasurable or 
 desirable existence. Spencer further differs from Darwin in 
 that his system is an attempt at reconciliation between the 
 two opposed schools of English ethical thought; he is more 
 avowedly Utilitarian, but his Utilitarianism is scientific and not 
 empirical; and he regards the intuitions of the moral sense as 
 trustworthy, but accounts for them — as he accounts for the 
 notion of space — by holding that they are the experience of 
 the race rendered organic through inheritance. On one other 
 point Spencer differs from Darwin, viz, on the relation be- 
 tween Egoism and Altruism; according to Spencer it is not 
 possible to merge Egoism into Altruism. Here Stephen seems 
 to side with Darwin, just as he also does in regarding Sym- 
 pathy as a primary animal instinct, although the Sympathy 
 treated of by Stephen is for the most part that which exists 
 -between persons, arising out of interest in persons as such. 
 
 § I. Spencer. 
 
 In all judgments of conduct Spencer finds a postulate is 
 
 involved — one in which pessimists and optimists agree — viz, 
 both their arguments assume it to be self-evident that life 
 is good or bad, according as it does, or does not, bring a 
 surplus of agreeable feeling to self or others or both. The 
 proof is that reversing the application of the words creates 
 absurdities. Every other proposed standard derives its authority 
 from this standard. Whether perfection of nature is the as- 
 signed proper aim, or virtuousness of action, or rectitude of 
 motive, the definition of the perfection, the virtue, the rectitude, 
 inevitably brings us down to happiness experienced in some 
 form, at some time, by some person, as the fundamental idea. 
 Pleasure is as much a form of moral intuition as space is a 
 necessary form of intellectual intuition. 
 
 "The view for which I contend is, that Morality properly 
 so called — the science of right conduct — has for its object to 
 determine ?ww and why certain modes of conduct are detri- 
 mental, and certain other modes beneficial. These good and 
 bad results cannot be accidental, but must be necessary con- 
 sequences of the constitution of things; and I conceive it to 
 be the business of Moral Science to deduce, from the laws 
 of life and the conditions of existence, what kinds of action 
 necessarily tend to produce happiness, and what kinds to pro- 
 duce unhappiness. Having done this, its deductions are to 
 be recognised as laws of conduct; and are to be conformed 
 to irrespective of a direct estimation of happiness or misery."^) 
 
 Consequently Spencer's treatise divides itself into two 
 
 III 
 
 parts, — one descriptive, and the other normative. The de- 
 scriptive portion deals with conduct regarded from four different 
 points of view — physical, biological, psychological, and socio- 
 logical — and traces the development of conduct from the 
 simplest adjustment of acts to ends, to the more complex, and 
 up to the last stages of development — as displayed by the 
 highest type of being, when he is forced, by increase of numbers, 
 to live more and more in the presence of his fellows, and 
 where conduct simultaneously achieves the greatest totality of 
 
 ^) Data of Ethics f S 21, quoted from letter to Mill. 
 
— 22 — 
 
 life in self, in offspring, and in fellowmen. Once the conditions 
 under which this highest life has been brought into being have 
 been stated, the conditions of its increase in length and breadth 
 would seem to be a matter of deduction : by this process the 
 conflicting claims of egoism and altruism are set at rest, and 
 a sketch is given of what conduct ought to be. 
 
 A. Turning now to the descriptive part, and remembering 
 that conduct is the adjustment of acts to ends, we may state 
 moral conduct in 
 
 (i) physical terms by saying that it is conduct where this 
 moving equilibrium between organism and environment, this 
 adjustment of acts to ends, reaches completeness, or approaches 
 most nearly to completeness. The same conduct, from the 
 
 (2) biological standpoint may be defined as a balance of 
 functions. The implication of such a balance is that the sev- 
 eral functions in their kinds, amounts, and combinations, are 
 adjusted to the several activities which maintain and constitute 
 complete life. Passing to the feelings which accompany the 
 performance of functions, Spencer maintains that of necessity 
 during the evolution of organic life, pleasures have become 
 the concomitants of normal amounts of functions, while pains 
 positive and negative, have become the concomitants of excesses 
 and defects of functions. And though in every species de- 
 rangements of these relations are often caused by changes of 
 conditions, they ever re-establish themselves : disappearance of 
 the species being the alternative. From the 
 
 (3) psychological point of view, we have to consider repre- 
 sented pleasures and pains, sensational and emotional, as con- 
 stituting deliberate motives — as forming factors in the con- 
 scious adjustment of acts to ends. Throughout the ascent from 
 low creatures up to man, and from the lowest types of man 
 up to the highest, self-preservation has been increased by the 
 subordination of simple excitations to compound excitations — 
 the subjection of immediate sensations to the ideas of sensations 
 to come — the overruling of presentative feelings by represen- 
 tative feelings, and of representative feelings by re-representa- 
 tive feelings. As life has advanced, the accompanying sen- 
 
 ill 
 
 — 23 — 
 
 tiency has become increasingly ideal; and among feelings 
 produced by the compounding of ideas, the highest, and those 
 which have evolved latest, are the recompounded and doubly 
 ideal. Hence it follows that as guides, the feelings have autho- 
 rities proportionate to the degrees in which they are removed 
 iy their complexity and their ideality from simple sensations 
 and appetites. There arises a certain presumption in favour 
 of a motive which refers to a remote good, in comparison 
 with one which refers to a proximate good. This conscious 
 relinquishment of immediate and special good to gain distant 
 and general good, while it is a cardinal trait of the self-restraint 
 called . moral , is also a cardinal trait of self-restraints other 
 than those called moral— the restraints that originate from 
 %tiix of the visible ruler— political— of the invisible ruler- 
 religious— , and of society at large— social. The idea of 
 authoritativeness has come to be connected with these 
 representative feelings: the implication being that the lower 
 and simpler feelings are without authority. And this idea of 
 authoritativeness is one element in the abstract consciousness 
 of duty. But there is another element — the element of 
 coerciveness ; this is simply the feeling of compulsion accom- 
 panying the political, religious, and social sanctions transferred 
 by means of association to the moral sanction. "Emerging as 
 the moral motive does but slowly from amidst the political, 
 religious, and social motives, it long participates in that con- 
 sciousness of subordination to some external agency which is 
 joined with them; and only as it becomes distinct and pre- 
 dominant does it lose this associated consciousness — only 
 then does the feeling of obligation fade." We cannot help 
 thinking that Spencer's account of moral obligation would have 
 been more successful had he worked out the thought dropped 
 in § 45 : "Moral restraints refer not to the extrinsic effects of 
 acUons but to their intrinsic effects . . . Throughout, the moral 
 motive differs from the motives it is associated with in this, 
 that instead of being constituted by representations of inci- 
 dental, collateral, nonnecessary consequences of acts, it is con- 
 stituted by representations of consequences which the acts 
 
— 24 
 
 — 25 — 
 
 
 \i 
 
 naturally produce." This necessity of inner experience, this 
 natural sequence of intrinsic effects, in the life of the moral 
 man, is something very different from the illusion of associa- 
 tion into which Spencer reduces the feeling of obligation; 
 associations may arise and fade, but surely increase of morali- 
 sation implies increased sensitiveness to moral feeling — or 
 evolution has little meaning. Regarded from the 
 
 (4) sociological standpoint, Ethics becomes nothing else 
 than a definite account of the forms of conduct that are fitted 
 to the associated state, in such wise that the lives of each 
 and all may be the greatest possible, alike in length and breadth. 
 Such "definite account" is not yet at hand, but its leading 
 features may be stated. The fundamental requirement is that 
 the life-sustaining actions of each shall severally bring him the 
 amounts and kinds of advantage naturally achieved by them; 
 and this implies, firstly, that he shall suffer no direct aggressions 
 on his person or property, and secondly, that he shall suffer 
 no indirect aggressions by breach of contract. Observance of 
 these negative conditions to voluntary cooperation having facili- 
 tated life to the greatest extent by exchange of services under 
 agreement, life is to be further facilitated by exchange of ser- 
 vices beyond agreement; the highest life being reached only 
 when, besides helping to complete one another's lives by speci- 
 fied reciprocities of aid men otherwise help to complete one 
 another's lives. 
 
 B. In the normative portion of Spencer's work, we find 
 that the end of action is set forth as the greatest surplus of 
 pleasures over pain. "There is a truth also in the doctrine 
 that virtue must be the aim: for this is another form of the 
 doctrine that the aim must be to fulfil the conditions to achieve- 
 ment of the highest life. That the intuitions of a moral faculty 
 should guide our conduct, is a proposition in which a truth is 
 contained: for these intuitions are the slowly organised results 
 of experience received by the race while living in presence of 
 these conditions. And that happiness is the supreme end is 
 beyond question true : for this is the concomitant of that highest 
 life which every theory of moral guidance has distinctly or 
 
 iiiiiil 
 
 vaguely in view." ^) But what are we to understand by happiness 
 as the end? How can we conceive it to be experienced by 
 innumerable other persons, all diflferently constituted from our- 
 selves and from one another ? Pleasure, we know, is not trans- 
 ferable and cannot be distributed. As in the case of "pleasures 
 of pursuit" it cannot in general be reached by making it the 
 aim ; in order to get it we must somehow forget it. Pleasure 
 then rather consists in or follows upon the due exercise of the 
 various functions of the organism. This exercise requires the 
 presence of certain conditions, on the existence of a structure 
 which is called into play, and on the condition of that struc- 
 ture as fitting or unfitting it to its environment. But if there 
 are any conditions without fulfilment of which happiness cannot 
 be compassed, then the first step must be to ascertain these 
 conditions with a view to fulfilling them ; and to admit this is 
 to admit that not happiness itself must be the end, but ful- 
 filment of the conditions to its attainment must be the immediate 
 end. Now certain conditions to the achievement of happiness 
 have already been partially, if not wholly ascertained; and if 
 so, our first business should be to look for them. Having 
 found them, our rational course is to bring existing intelligence 
 to bear on these products of past intelligence, with the ex- 
 pectation that it will verify the substance of them while possibly 
 correcting the form. But to suppose that no regulative prin- 
 ciples for the conduct of associated human beings have thus 
 far been established, and that they are now to be established 
 
 ■It . , , . j./v. r 
 
 ae novOj is to suppose that man as he is differs from man as 
 he was in an incredible degree. Thus we are again brought 
 back to experience : and in this matter as in others experience 
 gives no direct "yes" or "no" in answer to our enquiries. 
 Indeed it lands us in difficulties. For 
 
 i", "Ethics has to recognise the truth, recognised in un- 
 ethical thought, that egoism comes before altruism. Any 
 arrangements which in a considerable degree prevent superior- 
 ity from profiting by the rewards of superiority, or shield in- 
 
 ») Ibid. S 62. 
 
— 26 — 
 
 feriority, from the evils it entails— any arrangements which 
 tend to make it as well to be inferior as to be superior, are 
 arrangements diametrically opposed to the progress of organi- 
 sation and the reaching of a higher life. But to say that 
 each individual shall reap the benefits brought to him by his 
 own powers, inherited and acquired, is to enundate egoism 
 as an ultimate principle of conduct/* Hence one vague rule :— 
 "the pursuit of individual happiness within those limits pre- 
 scribed by social conditions, is the first requisite to the attain- 
 ment of the greatest general happiness." ^) But 
 
 2®, "in the course of evolution from first to last there 
 has beJn sacrifice involving a loss of bodily substance. . . Self- 
 sacrifice, then, is no less primordial than self-preservation. 
 Being in its simple physical form absolutely necessary for the 
 continuance of life from the beginning ; and being extended 
 mider its automatic form, as indispensable to maintenance of 
 race in types considerably advanced ; and being developed to 
 its semi-conscious and conscious forms along with the con- 
 tinued and complicated attendance by which the offspring of 
 superior creatures are brought to maturity ; altruism has been 
 evolving simultaneously with egoism. The same superiorities 
 which have enabled the individual to preserve itself better, 
 have enabled it better to preserve the individuals derived from 
 it; and each higher species, using its improved faculties for 
 egoistic benefit, has spread in proportion as it has used them 
 secondarily for altruistic benefit." «) But neither principle must 
 be pushed to an extreme : the need for a compromise is thus 
 
 made conspicuous. 
 
 "Our conclusion must be that general happiness is to be 
 achieved mainly through the adequate pursuit of their own 
 happiness by individuals; while, reciprocally, the happinesses 
 of individuals are to be achieved in part by their pursuit of 
 the general happiness." ») The conditions for the carr>'ing out 
 of this reciprocity in conduct are not wanting : for the whole 
 tendency of evolution is, on its social side, towards the equal 
 
 — 27 — 
 
 distribution of the conditions under which happiness may be 
 pursued — and this is nothing but a roundabout insistance 
 on equity; and as far as concerns the individual he is to 
 judge between his own happiness and that of others as an im- 
 partical spectator would do — equity is again the sole content 
 of the principles of conduct. So that, in Spencer's system, 
 the ideal turns out to be Justice , quantitatively determined. 
 
 § 2. Leslie Stephen. 
 
 Stephen's pet aversion is metaphysics. His ^'Science of 
 Ethics'^ is an attempt to establish the science on an empirical 
 basis. Abandoning the enquiry into the origin of this or that 
 faculty he takes the case as it stands, formulates its implica- 
 tions, and points out in what direction the line of progress 
 }ies and how most smoothly it can be traversed. Two character- 
 istics he insists on: (a) every state of desire is marked by 
 feeling, and it is this state of feeling that determines conduct ; 
 (b) man lives in society; man independent of society is a 
 nonentity ; hence the need of the science of sociology, which how- 
 ever as yet "consists of nothing more than a collection of unverified 
 guesses and vague generalities, disguised under a more or less 
 pretentious apparatus of quasi-scientific terminology."^) Stephen 
 is further interesting as being one of the most candid exponents 
 of the biological view of ethics: he is not blind to its short- 
 comings, and in transcending his system he approaches very near 
 to the phase of ethical thought represented by the late Prof. Green. 
 
 Looking at society as we find it we observe that there ^ 
 are in existence a set of rules which, as a matter of fact, is 
 respected in the given society. This set of rules Stephen calls 
 the moral code; and the very fact of their being respected 
 so far determines the ordinary approvals and disapprovals as 
 to be an effective force in governing conduct. Accordingly 
 ethical speculation must be implicated in psychological and 
 sociological enquiries: in the former we have mainly to do 
 with emotion, in the latter with the activity of reason. 
 
 (a) Feeling and Emotion, Conduct is determined by feeling ; 
 
 1) Ibid. S 69. *i Ibid. S 65. *) Ibid. S 9i. 
 
 *) Science of Ethics ^ pp. 10, II. 
 
^ 2H ^ 
 
 — 29 — 
 
 111^ 
 
 J 
 
 m 
 
 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 ever>thing which favours happiness, 
 and "bad" everything which is conducive to misery: nor can 
 any other intelligible meaning be assigned to the words. 
 Happiness guides us when we are eating our dinners, or 
 studying metaphysics, or feeding the hungrj^ It must be equally 
 good for saints, martyrs, heroes, cowards, debauchees, ascetics, 
 mystics, cynics, misers, prodigals, men, women, and babes in 
 arms. Pain and pleasure are, then, the determining causes of 
 action. It may even be said that they are the sole and ulti- 
 mate causes. They are the sole causes in this sense, that 
 where two courses of conduct are otherwise possible, and the 
 choice of one depends upon the agent's own decision, his 
 will is always determined by the actual painfulness or pleasure- 
 ableness of the choice at the moment of choosing , 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. It may happen, but it may also 
 not happen, that the passions may be so regulated that the 
 conduct dictated by our immediate feelings may coincide with 
 that which would be dictated by a judgment of our total 111 
 happiness. And this leads us to our next problem. We can 
 only be affected by the prospect of the future in so far as 
 we are reasoning beings. We must, therefore, consider in 
 what sense the mere blind action of immediate feeling is 
 governed and regulated by the reason. 
 
 (b) Reason as determining conduct. Reason, 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 man 
 is reasonable, he is under the influence of motives which would 
 not otherwise be operative. Now man's reasonable interests 
 may in the main be classified into (i) those which have regard 
 to his own future pleasures and pains, and (2) those which have 
 regard to the condition of the social organism of which he forms 
 a part. In relation to the former man may be regarded as 
 a hierarchy of numerous and conflicting passions, each of 
 
 which has ends of its own, and each of which, separately con- 
 sidered, would give a different law of conduct ; it is the reason 
 that brings the whole conduct into harmony and unity; it 
 forbids us to pursue trifling objects at the expence of im- 
 portant; for instead of allowing each instinct to operate ex- 
 clusively in turn, it subjects each to the implicit and explicit 
 control of the others. But reason further 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 com- 
 placency; every such reflection tends to modify future action 
 by revealing to us more distinctly its social consequences, and 
 by investing it with certain associations of approval or disapproval. 
 Thus the function of reason is twofold — it regulates the self- 
 regarding impulses, and the relation of the individual to society,^ 
 In cases of conflict between feelings inclining now towards 
 the individual's welfare, now towards that of society, who is 
 to decide? what is the criterion by which we can judge of 
 feelings ? what has evolution to say to the matter ? So far as 
 adaptation has taken place the line of progress has been 
 "useful" in the sense of pleasure-giving; so far as the type 
 thus formed represents a favourable adjustment of organism 
 to conditions, the result is "useful" in the sense of life-pre- 
 serving: and a fundamental doctrine from the evolutionist point 
 of view is that pleasure-giving actions must likewise be self- 
 preserving. And this, thinks Stephen, we may certainly say, 
 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 generalise this theory might 
 be cleared up by a more accurate investigation. Races survive 
 in virtue of this correlation between pleasure-giving and life- 
 preserving actions. But the quality which makes a race sur- 
 vive may not always be a source of advantage to every indi- 
 vidual, 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. But the converse pro- 
 
1 
 
 I 
 
 — 30 — 
 
 position does not hold. Hence the necessity of considering 
 the relation of the race to the individual. 
 / Ever}- man is both an individual and a social product, 
 and ever}' instinct both social and self-regarding. The individual 
 is the product of the race; and the race the sum of the in- 
 dividuals. Our ancestors have created a new world for us ; and 
 each individual, in whatever department he labours, assumes 
 that others are labouring in tacit or express cooperation. Thus 
 society is a vast organisation, and it exists as it exists in virtue 
 of this organisation, which is as real as the organisation of 
 any material instrument, though it depends upon habits and 
 instincts instead of arrangements of tangible and visible objects ; 
 for instance, in the social organisation we find political, eccle- 
 siastical, and industrial organs, growing more and more distinct 
 and more interdependent as society advances. But there is an- 
 other form of association, viz, the family, which is frequently 
 mentioned as though it were a coordinate group alongside of 
 the state, the church, and industrial bodies. This mode of 
 speech leads to confusion. The sentiment of loyalty to a state, 
 e.g., is clearly a derivative sentiment; it is the product of 
 many instincts or modes of feeling, each of which has its own 
 laws, independently of this special application. The family, on 
 the contrar}\ depends at once upon the most primitive instincts 
 of our nature, which are the direct products of our organic 
 constitution. The family 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. Clearly then, we must regard the family as the 
 social unit. For a great part of every one*s life the family is 
 the whole world. It is the true school of morality. Family aflfections 
 are both the type and the root of all truly altruistic feeling : here 
 we have the raw material of the moral sense, which will after- 
 wards be developed and regulated by our position in the whole 
 social organism. What then are the constituents of this raw material, 
 found in the family, and afterwards built up into the whole 
 structure of society? To answer this question is to give 
 / The Contents of the Moral Law. The law of nature has 
 
 — 31 — 
 
 but one precept, "Be strong". This law has two main branches 
 "be prudent", and "be virtuous", corresponding to the distinction 
 of the qualities which are primarily useful to the individual and 
 those which are primarily useful to the society— utility meaning — 
 fitness for the conditions of life. The law of prudence corresponds 
 rather to a precedent condition of morality than to morality 
 itself. Morality proper arises with the regulation alike of 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. Further, the 
 individual, so far as reasonable, must avoid error on his own 
 account and must avoid the propagation of error for the wel- 
 fare of the society, whence the virtues of wisdom and trust- 
 worthiness. And, finally, since the social union implies a direct 
 interest of the individual in the welfare of the society, we have 
 the directly social virtues, which imply at once benevolence 
 and justice , according as we attend to the motive or to the 
 regulated action of the motives. These classes of excellence, 
 which by their mode of development are necessarily reconcile- 
 able and mutually implicatory of each other, seem to con- 
 stitute all that is meant by the general moral law, though admit- 
 ting, of course, an indefinite variety of special application. Briefly"^ 
 then morality is a statement of the conditions of social welfare ; / 
 and morality, as distinguished from prudence, refers to those 
 conditions which imply a direct action upon the social union. 
 But how impress virtue on the individual? Nature helps 
 us a long way, for, to put it briefly, we cannot help being 
 altruistic. The world is interesting to me so far as it is the 
 dwelling-place of myself and of beings analogous to myself, 
 moved by passions like my own. And it is a part of my 
 nature to be sympathetic. To be reasonable, I must be sym- 
 pathetic; to be thoroughly and systematically selfish, I must 
 be an idiot. There is no more reason for denying that we may 
 receive pleasure from the pleasure of another man than for doubt- 
 ing that we may receive it from the combustion of coal. Sympathy 
 is not an additional instinct, a faculty which is added when the 
 mind has reached a certain stage of development, a mere incident 
 
_ 32 - 
 
 — 33 
 
 II 
 
 1 
 
 of intellectual growth, but something implied from the first in 
 the very structure of knowledge ; it is a natural and funda- 
 mental fact. Seeing that sympathy depends largely upon our 
 relation to others, we may take it for a fact that our sympa- 
 thetic feelings may often lead to altruistic, nay even, self- 
 sacrificing conduct. But altruism or benevolence is not yet 
 virtue : this latter rather implies the elaboration and regulation 
 of the sympathetic character which takes place through the 
 social factor. In the moral man this regard for society is free 
 from all external compulsion: his motives are instrinsic: for 
 him the form of the moral law is not "do this", but "be this". 
 This recognition of the law as intrinsically binding is, on every 
 hypothesis, the crown and final outcome of the moralised 
 character. The moral law being conformity to the conditions 
 of social welfare, conscience is the name of the intrinsic mo- 
 tives to such conformity. It is 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. Kg. if you ask, "why is maternal love virtue ?" 
 the answer from one point of view is, "because it is essential 
 to social virtue." Looking at the case from the opposite side, 
 we must invert the order of 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 stimulated 
 and fostered : for her the love is its own justification, she has 
 the sentiment, and need look no further. 
 
 The maternal instincts, however, and their accompanying 
 satisfaction are exceptionally strong; we are still at a loss to 
 discover an all-sufficient reason for virtuous conduct on the 
 part of an individual not completely moralised. "The attempt 
 to establish an absolute coincidence between virtue and happiness 
 is in ethics what the attempting to square the circle and to 
 discover perpetual motion are in geometry and mechanics. 
 For my part, I accept the altruist theory, and I accept what 
 I hold to be its legitimate and inseparable conclusion— the 
 conclusion, viz, that the path of duty does not coincide with 
 
 the path of happiness." *) But there is no need to despair. 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. It is hopeless to produce a balance-sheet of pains 
 and pleasure which would prove that the virtuous man gets a 
 greater sum of pleasant emotions or a sum of emotions superior 
 in quality ; 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. Still 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. 
 But whatever doubts we may have as to the possibility of making 
 any given person moral, and of contributing to his personal 
 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 capabilities 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 demon- 
 strated to compel us to do what we can. So that "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." 2) To make our neighbours really moral 
 we must stimulate their instrinsic motives to action; and this 
 must be in all cases the product of the pressure put upon 
 them 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." ^) But 
 are we not thus, after all, landed in a "metaphysic" of ethics? 
 
 1) Ibid. p. 431- ^) Ibid. p. 432. ^) Ibid, p.^ 457- 
 
I-. -J 
 
 I 
 
 ti 
 
 il 
 
 — 34 — 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 REVIEW AND CRITICISM. 
 
 Among moralists there is general agreement as to what is 
 the right in any particular case ; and in daily life there is seldom 
 any difficulty on this point. But the case is different when we 
 turn to the motive to right conduct. We can't help believ- 
 ing what we see to be true; but we can refrain from doing 
 what we see to be right. The fact of irrational impulse 
 leading to irrational conduct remains whatever theory of ethics 
 we adopt. Sidgwi ck distinguishes three kinds of conduct:— 
 
 a. mn-roHonal; e^. as in instinctive action, where impulses 
 to action seem to take effect "instinctively" without definite 
 consciousness of end or means. 
 
 b. irrational; — the result of irrational desires, impelling us 
 to volitions opposed to our deliberate judgments. 
 
 c. rational^ Judgments relating to rational conduct contain 
 the notion "ought" or "right", a notion essentially different 
 from all notions represented by empirical facts: it is 
 fundamental, ultimate, and unanalyseable. The judg- 
 ment is objective ; what I judge "right" or "ought to be" 
 must, unless I am in error, be thought to be so by 
 all rational beings who judge truly of the matter. And 
 along with the cognition of the rightness of the action 
 is given an impulse or motive to action, though this is 
 only one motive among others which are liable to con- 
 flict with it, and is not always a predominant motive. 
 
 Accordingly the answer to the question "why should I do 
 what 1 see to be right" varies with the emotional characteristics 
 of different minds; e^, in the mind of a rational Egoist the 
 ruling impulse is generally what Butler and Hutcheson call a 
 "calm" or "cool" self-love: whereas in the man who takes 
 universal happiness as the end and standard of right conduct, 
 the desire to do what is judged to be reasonable as such is 
 commonly blended in varying degrees with sympathy and philan- 
 thropic enthusiasm. Again, if one conceives the dictating 
 Eeason — whatever its dictates may be — as external to 
 
 — 35 — 
 
 oneself, the cognition of rightness is accompanied by a 
 sentiment of Reverence for Authority; which may by some be 
 conceived impersonally, but is more commonly regarded as 
 the authority of a supreme Person, so that the sentiment 
 blends with the affections normally excited by persons in 
 different relations, and becomes Religious. While again, if 
 we identify Reason and Self, Reverence for Authority blends 
 with Self-respect; and again, the antithetical and even more 
 powerful sentiment of Freedom is called in, if we consider the 
 rational Self as liable to be enslaved by the usurping force 
 of sensual impulses. Quite different again are the emotions 
 of Aspiration or Admiration aroused by the conception of 
 Virtue as an ideal of Moral Perfection or Beauty. Other 
 phases of emotion might be mentioned, all having with these 
 the common characteristic that they are inseparable from an 
 apparent cognition, — implicit or explicit, direct or indirect, — 
 of rightness in the conduct to which they prompt.*) 
 
 "Evidently then Ethics has to do with the cognitions which 
 these various emotions, with their common characteristic of 
 "rightness", accompany. Now Reason, whether applied to the 
 facts of nature or of conduct, seeks after unity ; is there any unity 
 underlying the various cognitions of right ? In the main two "ends" 
 have been regarded as worthy objects of pursuit: at one time 
 Happiness, at another Perfection has held sway. The writer s »/ 
 hitherto dealt with have adopted Happiness as the end, and by 
 happiness they mean pleasure. Pleasure is a kind of feeling which 
 stimulates the will to actions tending to sustain or produce it ; 
 Pain^^o actions tending to remove or avert it. Feeling in 
 itself is non-moral ; it only becomes the object of moral judg- 
 ment when it accompanies a volition. The volitional stimulus 
 to the attainment of pleasure is Desire, to the avoidance of 
 pain, Aversion. The question we have to decide, in criticis- 
 ing the Utilitarian doctrine as set forth by Mill, is whether 
 there are no desires and aversions which have not pleasures 
 and pains for their objects. But we must first of all distinguish 
 
 *) Methods of Ethics (3<> ed.), pp. 39, 40. 
 
I i^ 
 
 — 3,6 — 
 
 between prospective and resultant pleasure. Do I eat because 
 I am hungry, then the end is the satisfaction of hunger, and 
 the satisfaction of any instinct brings with it resultant pleasure ; 
 do I eat for the sake of the pleasure of eating, then to attain 
 pleasure is my motive, and the pleasure attained is the gour- 
 mand's. In the former case a want, the feeling of hunger, is 
 the direct impulse to the eating of food; in the latter case 
 the pleasure expected is the object of a secondary desire. 
 And it would seem as if the question is narrowed down to 
 this — whether, in the sphere of moral conduct, all desires are 
 secondary desires for pleasure? 
 
 On the face of it this looks absurd ; nay more, reflection 
 shows us that as a rule secondary desires are just those which, 
 along with irrational desires, are universally condemned. Life 
 is not a state but an activity, and the pleasures with which 
 it abounds, though intertwined with, are consequent upon 
 action, and not its object; to get these pleasures one often 
 must forget them. The student desires knowledge with a 
 view to getting a firmer grasp of things, not primarily for any 
 pleasures of thought. The artist finds satisfaction in producing 
 works of art — he is only secondarily concerned with any 
 pleasure they may subsequently afford. The impulse to bene- 
 volent aifections is essentially a desire to do good to others 
 for the sake of others : true, the flow of love or kindly feeling 
 is itself highly pleasurable and might cause pain if the act of 
 benevolence were withheld ; but the cultivation of this affection 
 for the sake of its sympathetic pleasures would at once be 
 condemned as egoistic and mean. **So far, then, from our 
 conscious active impulses being always directed towards the 
 attainment of pleasure or avoidance of pain for ourselves, it would 
 seem that we find everywhere in consciousness extra-regarding 
 impulses, directed towards something that is not pleasure, 
 nor relief from pain ; and, in fact, that a most important part 
 of our pleasure depends upon the existence of such impulses." *) 
 
 We may take it then that there exists the phenomenon 
 
 — 37 — 
 
 of strictly disinterested impulse. Mill does not deny this : he 
 only asserts that it has become disinterested owing to well- 
 known psychological laws. Without however prejudicing the 
 question of the validity of the moral sentiments with a theorj^ 
 of their origin, we may perhaps assert that the Utilitarian, more 
 so than others, must assume this phenomenon of disinterested- 
 ness: for he is in the curious position of having the end of 
 conduct determined by reason irrespectively of his own feeling 
 in the matter. Mill, at any rate, hardly attempts to arrive at 
 the Utilitarian en4 by any empirical induction from experience. 
 And in fact the most-H;enowned living representative of Utili- 
 tarianism-rSidgwick^liiaintains that the end cannot be so 
 arrived at^^-h^^establishes it on grounds of Reason, from 
 self-evident principles intuitively known to be valid. The chain 
 of reasoning is as follows : — the satisfaction of any desire is 
 pro tanto good; and an equal regard for all the moments of 
 our conscious experience — so far, at least, as the mere differ- 
 ence of their position in time is concerned — is an essential 
 characteristic of rational conduct. Reason accordingly estab- 
 lishes the law of Prudence. None the less are we forced to 
 admit the universal validity of the principle of Benevolence; 
 "by considering the relation of the integrant parts to the whole 
 and to each other, 1 obtain the self-evident principle that the 
 good of any one individual is of no more importance, from 
 the point of view (if I may so say) of the Universe, than the 
 good of any other." "As rational beings we are bound to 
 aim at good generally, not merely at this or that part of it."*) 
 Then interpreting the good as "desirable consciousness"T:^as 
 happiness or pleasure — he arrives aTThe end, viz, "desirable 
 consciousness or feeling for the innumerable multitude of living 
 beings, present and to come, an End that satisfies our ima- 
 gination by its vastness, and sustains our resolution by its 
 comparative security-^ He allows "that the pursuit of ideal 
 objects such as Truth, Freedom, Beauty, &c., for their own 
 sakes, is indirectly and secondarily, though not primarily and 
 
 *J Ibid. pp. 50, 51. 
 
 ») Ibid. p. 93. ^ Iticl- P- 381- "") Ibid. p. 401. 
 
 .. .iiiiii 
 
II 
 
 i 
 
 ^ 38 ^ 
 
 absolutely rational ; on account not only of the happiness that 
 will result from their attainment, but also of that which springs 
 from their disinterested pursuit."*) But what if one denies 
 the advisability of pursuing Truth, Freedom, Beauty >r their 
 own sakes ? Just as material or other objects are nothing con- 
 sidered apart from some relation to consciousness, so these 
 objective relations are nothing when distinguished from the 
 consciousness accompanying and resulting from them, or, more 
 correctly, from the consciousness that makes them objective 
 
 relations at all. ) 
 
 It would seem as if Sidgwick, over-anxious to escape the 
 circle in which he finds aBcieat Greek philosophy moving, had, 
 in this "desirable consciousness or feeling for the innumerable 
 multitude of living beings present and to come", set up as 
 abstract a conception as was ever proposed for poor human 
 nature to follow. The conception presupposes the commen- 
 surability of pleasures and pains, a condition without which 
 the hedonistic calculus prior to the determination of action 
 would^be^mpossible. It sets up as final the judgment of the 
 sentient individual as to the question how far each element of 
 feeling has the quality of ultimate, that is, universal Good. 2) 
 The necessary reference to the innumerable multitude of living 
 beings present and to come would seem to make it an im- 
 possible conception— not to speak of additional difficulties if 
 we admit, as perhaps we should, that pleasures differ not only 
 in quantity but also in quality, according to the nature of the 
 conditions under which they arise. J^one is more alive to the 
 difficulUes of the position than pidgwiek himself. For, "pass- 
 ing over the uncertainties invdived m hedonistic comparison 
 generally, let us suppose that the quantum of happiness that 
 will result from the establishment of any plan of behaviour 
 among human beings can be ascertained with sufficient exact- 
 ness for practical purposes; and that even when the plan is 
 as yet constructed in imagination alone. It still has to be 
 asked, what is the nature of the human being for whom we 
 
 — 39 — 
 
 are to construct this hypothetical scheme of conduct? For 
 humanity is not something that exhibits the same properties 
 always and everywhere: whether we consider the intellect of 
 man or his feelings, or his physical condition and circumstances, 
 we find them so different in different ages and countries, that 
 it seems prima facie absurd to lay down a set of ideal Utili- 
 tarian rules for mankind generally."*) It seems to us that it 
 is just here that Sidgwick's system comes to grief: the end, 
 discovered by reason and deliberately adopted by an act of 
 will, turns out to be a maximum of desirable consciousness; 
 in the analysis more stress is laid on the desirable than on the 
 conscious element of the end; it is made to consist in feeling 
 pure and simple— an abstraction— and not in self-consciousness 
 in all its phases. This restriction of the content of the end 
 to feeling is the more remarkable when we remember that the 
 object of moral judgment is admitted to be not consequences 
 of actions as such, but more strictly "the volitions themselves ac- 
 companied with intention- whether the intended consequences 
 be external, or some effects produced on the agent's own 
 feelings or character." «) And when the question is raised as 
 to the value of "formally" right conduct— where the agent in 
 willing is moved by pure desire to fulfil duty or chooses duty 
 for duty's sake— as compared with "materially" right conduct 
 —where the agent intends the right particular effects, we are 
 told that "the moral sense of mankind would, under ordinary 
 circumstances, regard the Subjective rightness of an action as 
 generally more important than the Objective," 3) owing to the 
 superior worth of right character or disposition. Of course 
 we are aware that Utilitarians have been most eloquent in their 
 praise of good dispositions as being the most likely means to 
 bring about maximum happiness, but again dispositions are 
 nothing apart from the persons whose dispositions they are, 
 and persons, moral beings, are something more than the tran- 
 sient state of pleasurable feeling insisted upon in the sensa-. 
 tionalist philosophy .~^^^ 
 
 -1 
 
 ») Ibid. p. 403. *) Ihid. p. 396. 
 
 1) Ibid. p. 462, 3- 'i Ib'd- P- 57, 8. ^) Ibid. p. 204, 5. 
 
 
 n 
 
I 
 
 55 f 
 
 'il 
 
 — 40 — 
 
 So that when the time arrives for decision upon a course 
 of action, the ordinary man, if not the Utilitarian philosopher, 
 will seek a rougher and a readier method than that afforded 
 by the hedonistic calculus. He will seek his good, as Aristotle 
 said he ought to, in the exercise of virtue : he will attain his 
 end, in whatever small degree, in the cognition of Truth, in 
 the contemplation of Beauty , in Freedom of action. It will 
 not matter to him if he is told he is moving in a circle. 
 "Granting it to be a circle, it may be none the worse for 
 that. No one complains of the guide who takes him up the 
 mountain that he takes him back to the starting-point. The 
 journey may have been of value, though he returns at the end 
 of it to the same place. As a matter of fact, the same trav- 
 eller never does return to the same place. He is a different 
 man when he comes back, and the home he comes back to 
 is a different place."i) So the virtuous man's act has been 
 one step further in self-realisation: he is in possession of a 
 permanent good which does not pass away with a momentar>' 
 feeling in consciousness. Not that pleasure can or need be 
 renounced altogether. "It is always a part of the desired or 
 willed object. But this pleasure is not prospective pleasure: 
 nor is it the dause of the desire ; nor is it independent of 
 or separable from the rest of the object. Its presence means 
 that the object is an object of desire or wi//. And the pleas- 
 ure is always the pleasure of the action itself. If, then, it is 
 asked whether we desire pleasure or certain objects, the most 
 natural answer is that we desire sometimes one and sometimes 
 the other, according to whichever is more prominent in our 
 minds. Moreover, the pleasure is not pleasure in general, 
 but is my own pleasure, but it does not for that reason make 
 my act a selfish act, any more than it is selfish of me to take 
 my fair share of profits in a partnership, or in general to make 
 the best of myself." "Without the pleasure the standard of 
 action would be something divorced from our experience. And 
 if it is an abstraction to consider pleasure apart from the 
 
 ») Muirhead, Elements of Ethics, p. I73- 
 
 — 41 — 
 f 
 act, it is equallyyan^bstraction to regard the act without its 
 
 pleasure." 1) ^.^<*C 
 
 Turning now Jo the evolutionist writers, we find it the 
 less necessary to refer to their merits seeing that the luminous 
 idea of differentiation and integration is likely to remain for 
 a long time to come the controlling idea in methodical in- 
 vestigation. We have seen how Darwin pursued this method 
 and with what success. He endeavoured to show how along 
 with differentiation and organisation in the race there grew 
 up in the individual a subjective reflection of the same fact, 
 a feeling of sympathy with the feelings of others ; and how in 
 this way we are to account for the growth of moral sentiments. 
 It may be said in general that Darwin's only fault was that 
 he considered a description of the facts as they appeared to 
 an onlooker to be a sufficient explanation of these facts; but, 
 in reality, the struggle for survival represents not the cause of 
 growth but its method. 
 
 Spencer's method is still that of the onlooker; so much 
 so indeed^hat it is difficult at times to draw the line that 
 separates simple mechanical adaptation to environment from 
 truly moral action. This blending of the non-moral with the 
 moral is no doubt a part of his plan, but the result is un- 
 satisfactory in that the facts that come under consideration 
 are only the external effects of actions, not actions as a whole 
 proceeding from characters conscious of the end aimed at. 
 His morality may be summed up in the formula "Do this"; 
 it has not attained to the true character expressed in "Be this". 
 
 Tliis transition from a "Do this" to a "Be this" we find 
 in Stephen; "that man is meritorious who does from an intrinsic 
 motive what another man will do only from an extrinsic motive", 2) 
 who regards the moral law as the "objective" law of his con- 
 duct, and not as the "subjective" law or "reason". The re- 
 cognition of that law as objective is held to be, on every 
 hypothesis, the crown and final outcome of the moralised 
 
 1) Alexander, Moral Order and Progress, pp. 223, 21 1. *) Science 
 of Ethics, p. 267. 
 
Ml 
 
 I 
 
 il 
 
 Jf 
 
 — 4^ ' 
 
 character But when he sets out to explain this objective 
 conduct of the moral man, Stephen has recourse to the social 
 organism with its various functions as they are exercised m 
 contemporary civilised communities. The individual is shown 
 to be a member of different organisations-the family, the 
 state, the church ; it is from his relations to them that his 
 character is what it is. But from the persistent emphasis laid 
 on these objective conditions, and owing to morality being 
 regarded as consisting of actions tending to further the health 
 of the social organism , the individual tends more and more 
 to retire into the background, and society proceeds on its 
 course, unconscious of its movement or its destiny. For assu- 
 redly if there are "no persons without society*', it is quite as 
 true that there is -no society without persons", and more so; 
 for it is the individuals that make society what it is, and to 
 introduce the conception "society", in order to explain why 
 the individual is what he is, thus turns out to be an explana- 
 tion of the obscurum per obscurius. 
 
 Further, it has to be remarked that both Spencer and 
 Stephen have encumbered their theory with hedonistic pre- 
 sumptions. For them the end is not simply Existence— as 
 on the theory of evolution we might expect— but existence 
 qualified by pleasurable feeling i.e. Welfare, Happiness, or 
 Health of the social organism. Now, before this additional 
 quality can be added on to Existence as the end of evolution 
 two points have to be made out, viz (a) that life-preserving 
 actions are pleasure giving ; and (b) that continuous differentia- 
 tion and integration of organic functions implies an increased 
 amount of happiness. In support of these positions Spencer 
 maintains that "those races of beings only can have survived in 
 which, on the (werage, agreeable or desired feelings went along 
 with activities conducive to the maintenance of life, while disagree- 
 able and habitually-avoided feelings went along with activities 
 directly or indirectly destructive of life ;"») and Stephen con- 
 tents himself with saying that life -preserving and pleasure- 
 
 — 43 — 
 
 giving actions "approximately coincide"; but anything like a 
 proof of optimism is not attempted — in spite of there being 
 pessimistic views of life abroad. And again, it is doubtful 
 whether much is ganied by setting up the happiness of society 
 as the end, for this cannot mean the happiness of the social 
 organism, but is only a concise formula for the aggregate 
 happinesses of the individuals composing it, and is as such 
 subject to the same criticisms as apply to the Utilitarian end. 
 So that, briefly, "the doctrine of evolution itself, when applied 
 to empirical morality, only widens our view of the old land- 
 scape—does not enable us to pass from *is' to 'ought', or 
 from efficient to final cause, any more than the telescope can 
 point beyond the sphere of spatial quantity."*) The truths 
 established by evolution may be of use in restraining the 
 ardour and tempering the enthusiasm of those who think they 
 have a panacea for all the ills of life, provided they once had 
 a free hand to apply it; its insistence on heredity and environ- 
 ment as all-important factors in the constitution of individual 
 and social life helps to show that we are still at a distance 
 from that "far-off divine event to which the whole creation 
 moves". But evolution cannot solve the problems it has raised. 
 "What is required to complete the evolutionist theory is (i) 
 once and for all to renounce Hedonism and all its works; 
 (2) to add to its empirical demonstration that the individual 
 is essentially social a teleological demonstration that his good 
 is essentially a common good." '^) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RIGHT CHARACTER. 
 
 "In the recognition of conduct as 'right' is involved an 
 authoritative prescription to do it: but when we have judged 
 conduct to be good, it is not yet clear that we ought to prefer 
 
 i 
 
 1) Data of Ethics, S 33- 
 
 ») Sorley, Ethics of Naturalism, p. 139. *) Muirhead, Elements of 
 
 Ethics, p. 145. 
 
 m 
 
I 
 
 — 44 — 
 
 this kind of good to all other good things. In short, the 
 notion of brightness' is essentially positive, and that of 'good- 
 ness' admits of degress." ») Taking advantage of this distinc- 
 tion, we propose in this chapter to set forth and characterise 
 Martineau's system— reserving for the next Green's theory of 
 
 the Good. 
 
 As was the case with the writers whose systems have been 
 discussed, so does Martineau claim to rest his system on a 
 psychological basis. But a psychological theory of ethics, so 
 long as it remains at its own centre— individual life— lies under 
 all the disabilities to which every system of Monism is exposed. 
 And Martineau is deeply persuaded that no monistic scheme, 
 whether its starting-point be Self, or Nature, or God, can ever 
 interpret, without distorting or expunging, the facts on which 
 our nature and life are built. He has devoted many pages of 
 his treatise to show that a system proceeding from a naturalistic 
 or materialistic standpoint to deduce the moral from the non- 
 moral either reads into the non-moral a meaning which is not 
 there, or fails to note the characteristically moral where it 
 exists. Accordingly taking his stand on self-consciousness as 
 declaring truths notiora nobis he seeks to discover their mean- 
 ing and to set forth their implications. 
 
 Consciousness would seem to spend itself in two main 
 
 directions : 
 
 i», attention to the facts of nature, observation of its 
 order, perception of its laws, may lead to a theory of know- 
 ledge; but 
 
 2<», as persons we stand in relation to other persons — 
 our fellowmen— and to something higher than we, but still a 
 
 person, viz, God. 
 
 The fields are fairly distinct: for is it not true that the 
 sense of shame is different from the sound of thunder, and 
 the comparison of triangles unlike the aspiration of prayer? 
 The activity of consciousness in the pursuit of knowledge may 
 be characterised as Perception^ in the establishment of a system 
 
 — 45 — 
 
 of morals. Conscience, Apart from any metaphysical assump- 
 tions, both may be said to find the law, but not to make it ; 
 they reveal, but do not frame it. Each is to be dictator in 
 its own sphere] — perception, among the objects of sense, — 
 concience, as to the conditions of duty. The objects of sense 
 "a^ arranged according to the organs of sense, not according 
 to any inner principle; but "there are no bones, or muscles, 
 or feathers appropriated to the exclusive use of self-love; no 
 additional eye or limb set apart for the service of benevolence ; 
 no judicial wig adhering to the head that owns a conscience ; 
 so that in this field, i.e. through the whole scene of the moral 
 phenomena, no help can be had from the zoological record." 
 But just as in the field of perception, j<f^- knowledge is the 
 secondary accompaniment of other knowledge : inseparable in- 
 deed from all our mental action, but not the end on which 
 it is directed ; proceeding pari passu with our advance among 
 the objects and changes of the universe, but rather as the 
 collateral shadow than as the main figure in the movement; 
 so conscience first finds its exercise among personal relations 
 and then becomes aware of itself. The individual is, in fact, 
 the later product ; and disengages himself into his independent 
 wholeness as the ripest fruit of a collective development. 
 Humanity first, as a plural organism ; and then personality, in 
 its singular force ;— that is the order of Nature and Providence. 
 But once introspection can proceed so far as to be able to 
 distinguish between the self and the contents due to its activ- 
 ity, a theory of knowledge is possible; in like manner once 
 the personality is there, we are in a position to establish 
 critically a theory of morals. But criticism, like charity, begins 
 at home. Accordingly Martineau's method is to invite the 
 conscience itself to declare its own psychology. 
 
 Moral Judgment, The one great fact we have here to 
 recognise is that distinctively as men we have an irresistible 
 t'^ndency to approve and disapprove y to pass judgments of 
 right and wrong. What are the objects on which our moral 
 
 ») Methods of Ethics, p. 103. 
 
 ») Types of Ethical Theory, Vol. II, p. 367. 
 
— 4^ — 
 
 — 47 — 
 
 judgment directs itself? Self-evidently, it is persons exclusively, 
 and not things, that we approve or condemn. "If the rock 
 is siern, if the stream is Joyous, if the star is mild, it is be- 
 cause the inner heart of nature is felt to speak through them, 
 and hold communion with usj and only in proportion as we 
 lift the external world into this personal element, can such 
 language appear justified. Benefit and mischief are in them- 
 selves wholly characterless; and we neither applaud the gold 
 mine, nor blame the destructive storm." It follows, that what 
 we judge is always the inner spring of an action, as distin- 
 guished from its outward operation. For whatever else may be 
 implied in its being a personal phenomenon, this at least is 
 involved, that it is issued by the mind, and has its dynamic 
 source there. Hindrance, by simply stopping execution does 
 not alter the character of intention; "else would guilt return 
 to innocence by being frustrated, and goodness go for nothing 
 when it strives in vain." The inner spring of action is not 
 apprehensible by any external observation, but can be known, 
 in the first instance, only by internal self-consciousness. Of 
 other men's actions the visible part, which follows on the 
 mental antecedents, is the first element that comes before our 
 view ; all that precedes is beyond the reach of eye and ear, and 
 is read off only by inference from the external sign. The 
 sign would be unmeaning to us, were not the thing signified 
 already familiar to us by our own inner experience. "Without 
 susceptibility to love, how stupidly should we stare at the kiss 
 of the mother to the child ! without openness to sorrow, at the 
 prostrate and sobbing mourner! without sense of religion, at 
 the clasped hands of prayer !" This however is not all. The 
 remark is as old as the time of Socrates, that the aptitudes 
 of spontaneous genius do not constitute wisdom; and it is 
 another side of the same truth , that the impulses of spon- 
 taneous action do not constitute character. We never judge 
 our spontaneities y but only our volitions. In the spontaneous 
 state, a single impulse is present; in the voluntary not less than 
 two. All judgment is relative, and predicates distinction ; and 
 our mind could attach no attribute to a spring of action, did 
 
 we not see it side by side with something dissimilar; which 
 is nothing else than some ' possible substitute , some other 
 spring of action, displaying the complementary colours to the 
 moral eye. Endeavour to do away with this duality ; thin off 
 this second object till it melts in the surrounding field; still 
 there remains this surrounding field itself; and you at least 
 have before you, as the condition of judgment, your mind 
 with the given spring of action and your mind without it: the 
 positive to compare with the negative, the active with the 
 passive, living force with abstinent inertia. This plurality of 
 simultaneous tendencies, however, would still present no case 
 for moral judgment, were it not also felt to be a plurality of 
 simultaneous possibilities ; />. the impulses must be simultaneous 
 inter se, and they must both be possibilities to us. So then 
 we come to the conclusion that the objects of our moral 
 judgment are, originally, our own inner principles of self-con- 
 scious action, as freely preferred or excluded by our will. 
 Our next object will be to enumerate these springs of action, 
 first in psychological, and then in their moral, order. 
 
 (a) Springs of Action: Psychological Order. 
 
 Martineau begins by distinguishing between two sets of 
 impelling principles; viz, those which urge man, in the way 
 of unreflecting instinct, to appropriate objects or natural ex- 
 pression — Primary springs of action ; and those which supervene 
 upon self-knowledge and experience, and in which the pre- 
 conception is present of an end gratifying to some recognised 
 feeling — Secondary springs of action. This too is the order 
 of their derivation: The secondary feelings are the primary 
 over again, metamorphosed by the operation of self-consciousness. 
 
 Of the primary springs of action we may distinguish four 
 classes : — 
 
 I. Fropensions, bearing in the highest degree the character 
 of subjective appetency and mere drift of nature and requir- 
 ing from external objects the minimum of importunity and 
 reaction to move response: viz, two having reference respec- 
 tively to food and sex (appetites), and animal Spontaneity (the 
 tendency to physical activity alternating with repose). 
 
 PI 
 
I 
 
 — 48 — 
 
 2. Passions: they are what we suffer at the hands of other 
 objects— objects which are in every case painful and uncon- 
 genial; so that the emotions towards these objects are in- 
 variably repulsions, thrusting away what is hurtful or inhar- 
 monious , or else withdrawing us thence. The passions are 
 three: towards an object of natural aversion immediately before 
 us we feel AnHpathy\ towards that which has just hurt us, we 
 experience Anger; towards that which menaces us with evil, 
 
 we look with Fear. 
 
 Not one of the principles hitherto enumerated has any 
 reference to Persons, or involves more than a relation to 
 tilings,— Irving things, it may be, but nothing more. Two 
 classes of active principles remain to be mentioned ; and 
 though in the first of these we find still some affinity with 
 lower tribes of being, yet the special element oi personality 
 so predominates in their human manifestation, and even 
 so reacts on them and exalts them in the animals that 
 are companions of man, that in dealing with them we 
 must regard ourselves as crossing the line, and say that, 
 in a world without persons, they would fail of their proper 
 
 idea and identity. 
 
 3. Affections : called so , because they take us and form 
 us into a certain frame of mind towards other persons , and 
 operate therefore as attractions, and not, like the passions, as 
 repulsions. They belong to us as surrounded by beings more 
 or less in our own image, and repeating to us our own ex- 
 perience; and the lowest condition of their existence is, the 
 presence of living creatures, reminding us of our kind , if not 
 belonging to it. Of these, the first in order, as the least ex- 
 clusively human, is the Parental; the conditions of which aie, 
 that the beings on whom it is directed be , independently of 
 us, the image of our essence, and, dependency upon us, the 
 continuation of our existence. The second is the Social; 
 directed not only to our like, as the former, but to our equals, 
 as respondent natures , holding up the mirror to our being, 
 and at once taking us out of ourselves and sending us mto 
 ourselves. Neither the family nor the community fulfils its idea 
 
 — 4Q — 
 
 without the coexistence of the other; the home never reveals 
 its true meaning or perfects its constitution but in society; 
 and society never finds its soul or discloses its moral essence, 
 till formed into an aggregate of families. The third affection, 
 drawing us to the beings we interpret by ourselves, is com- 
 passion, the feeling that springs forth at the spectacle of suffer- 
 ing. There is no feeling which it is less possible to deduce 
 from any interested source. 
 
 4. Sentiments: which direct themselves upon ideal relations, 
 objects of apprehension or thought that are above us, yet 
 potentially ours. They divide themselves no other than the 
 faculties and sciences of our nature; and as that nature is 
 intellectual, giving us a science of Logic; and imaginative, 
 affording ground for an Aesthetic; and moral, giving rise to 
 a doctrine of Ethics and Faith ; so are there three correspond- 
 ing sentiments, operating as the mainsprings of the respective 
 faculties , and supplying the tension of all their activity : viz. 
 Wonder, asking for Causality ; Admiration, directed upon Beauty; 
 and Reverence, looking up to transcendent Goodness. They 
 all meet their objects first beyond the realm of mere pheno- 
 mena, and at once attest and interpret an ulterior sphere of 
 spiritual realities. 
 
 When we look back on the springs of action in their 
 serial order, we cannot fail to notice the law of their succes- 
 sion. They are none of them mere egoistic phenomena, scin- 
 tillating and quenched within our isolated history; they all 
 have their external correlates. In the part they play within 
 us, these correlates rise from a minimum to a maximum of 
 qualitative influence; being of the Propensions, mere conditions; 
 of the Passions, causes ; of the Affections, personal objects ; of 
 the Sentiments, the perfect realisation. 
 
 These twelve primary principles are essentially disinterested 
 in their action, simply impelling us hither and thither, without 
 choice or reckoning of ours. But they cannot play their part 
 on the theatre of a self-conscious nature, without our soon 
 discovering what they do with us. Each of them, in the attain- 
 ment of its end, yields us a distinct kind of satisfaction ; and, 
 
 4 
 
— so- 
 on next taking possession of us, finds us with a preconception 
 o? TexpenLL to which it leads. These -eral saUsfac- 
 Ls. it is manifest, may themselves become .n^s a taste for 
 rea" ing which will constitute new springs of acUon, added 
 on tTL former, variously mingling with them, .ften qmte 
 
 ascendent over them. , . 
 
 These are the s.onJary principles; '^»'«'^<=*''"^f ^^^ ^ ^" 
 interested nature, or invariable aim '^ ]>^°''j''\Z^^J^l 
 of ourselves. This change is great and ethically -°«^^ 
 but as it is uniform throughout the list, a P^--^ "^ J^^f. 
 series which is but the self-conscious counterpart of the pn 
 n>ar>- principles, and which might be psychologically disposed 
 mar> prmcip „™„,i„„ The moral effect however of 
 
 of with this general descnpUon. 1 he moral 
 
 self-consciousness is ver)- different in '^'ff^^f J^"^. f ^^'^ 
 
 series: some of the principles no ---. ^°-!' ^'^J^f ^^^ 
 they run out into ulterior forms more important than them 
 selves, and demanding recognition by separate names. Thus 
 
 7^&co«dary Propensions : appearing as love of Pleasure, 
 Money. Power, the second being a development out of the 
 first and third secondar)' spring. 
 
 2 Secondary Passions; the fondness for anUpathy, or pleas- 
 ure in hating, we call, as a feeling. lU-wiU or Malice, and in 
 its expression Censoriousness ; the cherishing of resentment, 
 Vindictiveness; of fear. Suspiciousness, or Mistrust 
 
 3. Secondary Affections; may be classed together as Sen- 
 
 """T Wary Sentiments, giving rise to Self-culture, Aesthe^ 
 
 ticism, and Interest in Religion. ^ c.v,<. iov7 
 
 There are numerous ulterior compounds, such as the love 
 of Praise, EmulaUon. &c. ; with the help of the laws of asso- 
 elation, of sympathy, and of distance, these compound forms 
 of motive can be easily resolved into their elements, 
 (b.) Springs of Action: Moral Order. 
 This classification does not follow any orgamc pnnciple 
 of growth ; nor is it an arranging of the springs according to 
 strength of impulse. It is an order of gradaUon according to 
 
 ill 
 
 — 51 ~ 
 
 moral worth, and moral worth does not admit of further ana- 
 lysis. It is an attribute of the moral man and his character- 
 istic. Now if it be true that each separate verdict of right 
 and wrong pronounces some one impulse to be of higher worth 
 than a competitor, each must come in turn to have its rela- 
 tive value determined in comparison with the rest; and, by 
 collecting these series of decisions into a system, we must find 
 ourselves in possession of a table of moral obligation, gradu- 
 ated according to the inner excellence of our several tenden- 
 cies. This is wholly a task of introspective classification and 
 comparative estimate. It is one followed, more or less, by the 
 chiefs of both ancient and modern philosophy, and has fallen 
 into disrepute mainly through the influence of writers who 
 have approached the study of Morals from either the casuist's 
 or the jurist's point of view. Martineau's table as finally ar- 
 ranged is as follows: — 
 
 Lowest. 
 
 1. Secondary Passions; Censoriousness, Vindictiveness, 
 Suspiciousness. 
 
 2. Secondary Organic Propensions; Love of Ease and 
 Sensual Pleasure. 
 
 3. Primary Organic Propensions: — Appetites. 
 
 4. Primary Animal Propension; — Spontaneous Activity (un- 
 selective). 
 
 5. Love of Gain (reflective derivative from Appetite). 
 
 6. Secondary Aifections (sentimental indulgence of sym- 
 pathetic feelings). 
 
 7. Primary Passions ; — Antipathy, Fear, Resentment. 
 
 8. Causal Energy; — Love of Power, or Ambition; Love 
 of Liberty. 
 
 9. Secondary Sentiments; — Love of Culture. 
 
 10. Primary Sentiments of Wonder and Admiration. 
 
 11. Primary Affections, Parental and Social; — with Gene- 
 rosity and Gratitude. 
 
 12. Primary Affection of Compassion. 
 
 13. Primary Sentiment of Reverence. 
 
 Highest. 
 
— 52 — 
 
 We are now prepared for an exact definition of Right and 
 
 Wrone- which will assume this form: Every acUon is Rtghi, 
 
 wWch in presence of a lower principle, follows a higher: every 
 
 r^on is Wron,, which, in presence of a higher pnncple 
 
 follows a lower. * 
 
 Have we. when we have proceeded thus far, got at a 
 sufficient condition of duty? Does the statement square w.th 
 L fact conveyed to us under the feeling of obhgaUon? Mar- 
 Lu would be the last to say so: for. "-th°ut '..y..*;'^"^; 
 ditions, the idea of Duty involves a contradiction and Us 
 ph aseology passes into an unmeaning figure of speech". Now. 
 rememSg how in perception it is Self and Nature, m Morals 
 SeTfTnd God. that stand face to face, we are not surprised 
 fo find that the moral order of the springs of action, proper^ 
 arranged and sorted out, "fall into the systematic code of 
 SvTne Law". It is this theistic background that prevents us 
 Slregarding the theory as hanging in the air; it is owing 
 o their springing from this source that the dictates con- 
 science obtain their unconditional -*°"~^^ ^ J^J^^^, 
 sense of authority means anything, it means ^^^ ''--"J^^ 
 of something higher than we, havmg claims on our self 
 ot someimug 6 .—hoverinK over and transcending 
 
 therefore no mere part ol it, — noveiius " 
 
 iTr personality, though also mingling ^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 and manifested ^^ ^^^^^^^^ owl "S, bTIm 
 this senUment, I cannot stop w.thm m> own , 
 
 irresistibly carried on to the recognition of ''°°*t>«; ^^^ " 
 Nor doe that <other' remain without further witness : the p ed. 
 cati 'higher than 1' takes me yet a step beyond: for what am 
 Tk person: 'higher' than whom no 'thing' assuredly.-no 
 mere /L.-"«-«.- can be; but only anotker Person, greater 
 Tnd hfgher and of deeper insight.-) This gives us a clue to 
 the fact that Reverence is placed highest among the springs 
 of aS^.n and not, say. Universal Benevolence; and further 
 accounts for the absence of the Love of Virtue-at least under 
 
 — 53 — 
 
 that name— from the list. "Reverence cares for right actions 
 not simply as good phenomena, but chiefly as the expression 
 of right affection, as functions of pure, of faithful, of self- 
 devoted, of lofty character." ») And "after one is lifted into 
 Reverence his nature is enriched by a new affection and para- 
 mount motive, which, in the strictest sense, may be called 
 the love of virtue, the devotion to right. Before, he had the 
 feeling without the conception; now, he has the conception, 
 as the centre and object of a deeper and larger feeling." *) 
 So that Reverence is not only the highest spring, but also in 
 the moral — or, more correctly, religious — man it is the feeling 
 which urges him to adopt the higher of two competing springs. 
 We thus understand how it is that we strictly owe to God 
 conformity with our own ideal. Attaining it with ever such 
 exactitude, we simply fulfil our obligation, and can pretend to 
 no merit before Him. 
 
 What in the meantime is our relation to our fellowmen? "In all 
 our dealings with one another, nay, in all our self-knowledge in 
 presence of one another, we necessarily assume an invariable 
 constitution of humanity in our separate personalities, and 
 never relinquish this natural ground, except where we are 
 forced from it by positive evidence of specialty. If I am 
 justified in assuming in my neighbours an apprehension like 
 my own of the equality of two vertical angles, can any reason 
 be given why I may not in like manner assume that they feel 
 with me the respective *authorit)' of honour and perfidy? 
 The supposition of 'subjective' morals is no less absurd than 
 that of subjective mathematics." 3) Accordingly there is nothing 
 to prevent the acquisition of merit towards our fellowmen ; for 
 the authoritative measure of duty, in every transaction between 
 different persons, is the mutually understood ideal, Martineau 
 is far from maintaining that all men have come to an under- 
 stood concurrence on matters of right; this would be to run 
 in the face of present facts and close the avenue of progress 
 in the future. His assumption is that of a common human 
 
 ») Ibid. p. i04. 
 
 1) Ibid. p. 223. '2) Ibid. p. 223. '^) Ibid. pp. 102, 3. 
 
■ 
 
 — 54 
 
 nature, accompanied by an unequal development of that nature. 
 But given a certain stage of development, then "however 
 limited the range of our moral consciousness, it would lead 
 us all to the same verdicts, had we all the same segment of 
 
 the series under our cognisance." 
 
 We have seen what is to be understood by our duty to 
 God and to our fellowmen. Is there such a thing as a Duty 
 to ourselves? This is the question of the relation of Con- 
 science to Prudence. The danger we have to guard agamst 
 is that of digging ditches where nature has drawn only thin 
 lines. Suppose, e.g., we provisionally pronounce it the law of 
 prudence to gratify our tendencies to action in the order of 
 their eagerness, and live chiefly in the indulgence of the rul- 
 ing passion, whatever it be, so that Prudence would be self- 
 surrender to the strongest impulse as contrasted with Duty, 
 self-surrender to the highest, still we should have to shade off 
 the contrast, and that in two directions. For, on the one 
 hand, the moral consciousness, though not presupposing any 
 sentient effects' of our activity, would soon be followed by 
 them; because we cannot imagine the higher authority either 
 obeyed or resisted without entailing its own inner sequel of 
 satisfaction or shame. And on the other hand, the advantage 
 of yielding to a vehement impulse may be dearly purchased 
 at the cost of ulterior effects,— the consequences entailed by 
 the order of the world and the sentiments of mankind , in- 
 cluding our own. And we must always remember- however 
 apt we may be' to forget it— that the world where Duty is 
 exercised is the same world as that in which Prudence has 
 sway; our life is one, whatever our standpoint; and preference 
 of . a' course of action on grounds of prudence has meaning 
 only because it is essentially moral preference. So that it 
 seems to us that Martineau draws a too hard and fast line 
 between the two principles. Prudence, we are told, is evidently 
 confined altogether to the secondary springs of action; while 
 Conscience has a discriminating voice over all, primary and 
 
 ») Ibid. p. 6i. 
 
 ~- 55 — 
 
 secondary. For by its definition Prudence is simply the act 
 of the understanding in measuring and comparing the pleasur- 
 able effects on one's self of this or that mode of activity ; and 
 implies 2. foresight which can only come after experience and 
 memory of what our impulses do with us. Conscience, on the 
 other hand, is concerned with quite another order of differences; 
 —differences of inherent excellence and authority, which by 
 their very nature must be cognisable prior to action, and are 
 accordingly not learned by experiment, but read off by insight, 
 presenting themselves to consciousness as premonitions, not 
 as the sequel, of conduct. Thus we find ourselves once again 
 back at a graduated scale of excellence among our natural 
 principles, quite distinct from the order of their intensity, and 
 irrespective of the range of their external effects. The sen- 
 sibility of the mind to the gradations of this scale is precisely 
 what we call Conscience— the critical perception we have of 
 the relative authority of our several principles of action. There 
 is no analysis or research required ; it is a choice of Hercules, 
 only without the reasoning and the rhetoric; the claims are 
 decided by a glance at their face. 
 
 What are we to say in general as to this ethical theory 
 of motives? Nothing need be said in justification of the 
 method , from the point of view of theory ; this establishment 
 of ethics on the basis of motive and personality is a redemp- 
 tion of it from the altar of materialism ; for morality, if any- 
 thing, is internal. There is a further gain in this— that the 
 correct valuation of a motive includes within itself the valu- 
 ation of the whole class of actions performed from that 
 motive. But the method has its imperfections and indeed is 
 only set forth as introductory to Applied Ethics. For in the 
 solution of all ethical problems , v^re have successive recourse 
 to two distinct rules ; viz, the Canon of Principles, which gives 
 the true moral criterion for determining the right of the case ; 
 and then, the Canon of Cons(quences, which gives the rational 
 criterion for determining its wisdom. The former suffices for 
 the estimate of Character; but, for the estimate of Conduct, 
 must be supplemented by the latter. So that concrete examples 
 
X 
 
 - 56 - 
 
 must first be resolved into the two aspects which they always 
 mix up together; viz, 'what, in point of motive, is right rela- 
 tively to the agent in his given position ?' and 'What, in point 
 of social effect, is the right mode of action to be instituted 
 under the supposed condition?' But is it always possible to 
 make this distinction between the form of a motive and its 
 content? Would not that be a return to Kant's position of 
 setting up the will without any object willed? Ought we not, 
 wiih Sidgwick, to hold that it is the intention rather than the 
 motive that must be judged, seeing that there is general agree- 
 ment upon the fact that disastrously bad acts can follow upon 
 the best of motives ? This being once admitted, the further 
 objection as to differences of opinion regarding the relative 
 value of the various springs in the scale, would tend to be re- 
 moved, for the consideration of results would tend to correct 
 the prior estimate,— though such a calculation also tends of 
 course to become subject to the same difficulties as we saw 
 attached to the hedonistic calculus. This return to the em- 
 piricist position is however only what might have been expected; 
 for this scale of relations aims at exhibiting the duty of the 
 moral agent in each crisis of competitive impulse, as it is given 
 him ; but it does not profess to measure the comparative value 
 of the several springs of action in human life as a whole. 
 It is not the quality alone of the springs that concerns us ; 
 their frequency also must be taken into consideration. For 
 "the limits within which the higher moral altitudes can be 
 secured by voluntary command of favouring circumstance are 
 extremely narrow. Go where we ma}, we carry the most 
 considerable portion of our environment with us in our own 
 constitution: from whose propensions, passions, affections, it 
 is a vain attempt to fly."') 
 
 1) Ibid. p. 268. 
 
 01 
 
 — 57 — 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GOOD CONDUCT. 
 
 The opening pages of Green's ProUgotnena io Ethics are 
 occupied with a discussion of the Metaphysics of Knowledge ; 
 they contain a polemic against the prevailingly naturalistic 
 standpoint of utilitarian and evolutionist writers, and counsel 
 a return to the idealism of Kant. According to Green idealism 
 alone is capable of affording the true basis of a Theory of 
 Knowledge and of the Good. 
 
 Ever}' materialistic system must have its ground in ex- 
 perience. But 'experience' is a word of ambiguous meaning ; 
 it may mean a process of change, as when a plant is said to 
 experience a succession of atmospheric or chemical changes; 
 or it may mean a consciousness of that change as when we 
 are aware of a change in our mental states. It is in this 
 latter sense — as a consciousness of events as a related series 
 — that experience can help to account for the knowledge of 
 an order of nature, and experience in this sense cannot be 
 explained by any natural history, properly so called. That there 
 is an unalterable order of relations, if we could only find it 
 out, is the presupposition of all our enquiry into the real nature 
 of appearances. But what is implied in there being such a 
 single, all-inclusive, system of relations? What is the con- 
 dition of its possibility? The fact is, relation involves all the 
 myster}' of the existence of many in one: and the mystery 
 can only be explained on the presupposition that there is 
 something other than the manifold things themselves, which 
 combines them without effacing their severalty. With such a 
 combining agency we are familiar as our intelligence. It is 
 through it that the sensation of the present moment takes a 
 character from comparison with the sensation of a moment 
 ago, and that the occurrence, consisting in the transition from 
 one to the other, is presented to us. If it were not for the 
 action of something which is not either of them or both to- 
 gether, there would be no alternative between their separate- 
 ness and their fusion. One might give place to the other, or 
 
^1 
 
 I* 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 — 58 — 
 
 both together might be combined into a third; but a unity in 
 Dom logc 6 „^-,p„ed could not be constituted 
 
 which their distmctness is preservea couia 
 without the relating act of an intelligence -h'<='^ ^oes no 
 blend with either. The same or an analogous ^^^^'""^ ' in 
 cessary to account for any relation whatever_fo a elaUon 
 between material atoms as much as any other. ^ -^ Te _ 
 these atoms to be real otherwise than merely as ^^^ »«• ^^J 
 wise than in the 'cosmos of our experience', we must recogn^e 
 as the condition of this reality the action of some unifying 
 principle analogous to that of our understanding. So that 
 L true account of the possibility of the -« of an un 
 alterable system of relations is held to be that the concrete 
 whole, which may be described indifferently as an eter-' J^ 
 telligence realised in the related facts of the world , or as a 
 system of related facts rendered possible by such an intelligence 
 pLrtially and gradually reproduces itself - -•/7"'~Z 
 piecemeal, but in inseparable correlation, -derstand.ng and 
 the facts understood, experience and the experienced worid. 
 AS to what that consciousness in itself or in its cojnplete^ess 
 is we can only make negative statements. Uat there is such 
 a'consciousness is implied in the existence of the worid; bu 
 wM it is we only know through its so far actmg in us as 
 to enable us, however partially or interruptedly, to have know- 
 ledge of a world or an intelligent experience. Nature in its 
 reaUtv, or in order to be what it is. implies a principle which 
 is not natural; we are most safe in calling this principle spir- 
 itual, because we are warranted in thinking of it as a sell- 
 distinguishing consciousness. 
 
 Let us note the application of this principle to perce^f^on. 
 
 It is admitted on all hands that there can be no perception 
 
 without (in Locke's phraseology) 'actual present sensation ; 
 
 e,g, it is necessary to a perception of colour that there should 
 
 be a sensation , arising out of a stimulus of the opUc nerve 
 
 by a particular vibration of ether. That vibration, however, 
 
 ^the external exciting cause of the sensation-is not the 
 
 object perceived in the perception of the colour. Tliat objec 
 
 indeed will not be the same for every percipient. It will var> 
 
 — 59 — 
 
 according to the extent of his knowledge and to the degree 
 of attention aroused in him in the particular case. And any 
 combination of the data of feeling as qualities of an object, 
 or as facts related to a certain sensation, which the occurrence 
 of that sensation may recall to us, implies the action of a 
 subject which thinks of its feelings, which distinguishes them 
 from itself, and can thus present them to itself as facts. The 
 constituents of a perceived object, whether we consider them 
 qualities or related facts, survive in their multiplicity at the 
 same time that they constitute a single object. The condition 
 of their doing so is the self-distinction of the thinking subject 
 from the data of sensation, which it at once presents to itself 
 in their severalty as facts, and unites as re/ateti facts in virtue 
 of its equal presence to them all. So that the ordinar>' per- 
 ception of sensible things or matters of fact involves the de- 
 termination of a sensible process, which is in time, by an 
 agency that is not in time,~in Kant's language, a combination 
 of *empirical and intelligible characters'. 
 
 This however is only set forth as a statement of what is 
 implied in perception as it is; what are we to say of its be- 
 coming, of its history, of the growth of perceiving conscious- 
 ness? This will be found to be a history— not of conscious- 
 ness itself, for it can have no history, but— of the process by 
 which the animal organism becomes the vehicle of an eternally 
 complete consciousness. "Our consciousness", in fact, may 
 mean either of two things; either a function of the animal 
 organism, which is being made, gradually and with interruptions, 
 a vehicle of the eternal consciousness; or that eternal con- 
 sciousness itself, as making the animal organism its vehicle and 
 subject to its limitations in so doing, but retaining its essential 
 characteristic as independent of time, as the determinant of 
 becoming, which has not and does not itself become. "A 
 familiar illustration may help to bring home that view of what 
 is involved in the attainment of knowledge for which we are 
 here contending. We often talk of reading the book of nature; 
 and there is a real analogy between the process in which we 
 apprehend the import of a sentence, and that by which we 
 
x 
 
 — 60 — 
 
 arrive at any piece of knowledge. In reading the sentence 
 we see the words successively, we attend to them successively, 
 we recall their meaning successively. But throughout that suc- 
 cession there must be present continuously the consciousness 
 that the sentence has a meaning as a whole; otherwise the 
 successive vision, attention and recollection would not end in 
 a comprehension of what the meaning is. This consciousness 
 operates in them, rendering them what they are as organic to 
 the intelligent reading of the sentence. And when the read- 
 ing is over, the consciousness that the sentence has a meaning 
 has become a consciousness of what in particular the meaning 
 is,— a consciousness in which the successive results of the 
 mental operations involved in the reading are held together, 
 without succession, as a connected whole. The reader has 
 then, so far as that sentence is concerned, made the mind of 
 
 the writer his own."*) 
 
 Green maintains that there is no incompatibility between 
 this doctrine and the admission that all the processes of brain 
 and nerve and tissue, all the functions of life and sense, or- 
 ganic to this activity (though even they, as in the thinking man, 
 cannot properly be held to be merely natural), have a strictl) 
 natural history. "And having admitted that certain processes 
 in time are organic in man to that consciousness exercised in 
 knowledge which we hold to be eternal, we have no interest 
 in abridging these processes. If there are reasons for holding 
 that man, in respect of his animal nature, is descended from 
 *mere' animals— animals in whom the functions of life and 
 sense were not organic to the eternal or distinctively human 
 consciousness,— this does not affect our conclusion in regard 
 to the consciousness of which, as he now is, man is the subject; 
 a conclusion founded on analysis of what he now is and does." 2) 
 
 So far we have dealt with perception. But the animal 
 system is organic not only to impressions, but also to wants. 
 These wants, with the sequent impulses, must be distinguished 
 from the consciousness of wanted objects, and from the effort 
 
 1) Prolegomena to Ethics, pp. 75. 6. «) Ibid. p. 87. 
 
 — 61 • — 
 
 to %vi^ reality to the objects thus present in consciousness as 
 wanted, no less than sensations of sight and hearing have to 
 be distinguished from the consciousness of objects to which 
 those sensations are conceived to be related. The transition 
 from mere want to consciousness of a wanted object, from the 
 impulse to satisfy the want to an effort for realisation of the 
 idea of the wanted object, implies the presence of the want 
 to a subject which distinguishes itself from it, and is constant 
 throughout successive stages of the want. The idea of an 
 end, which a self-conscious subject presents to itself, and which 
 it strives and tends to realise, we call a motive. An appetite 
 or want only becomes a motive, so far as upon the want there 
 supervenes the presentation of the want by a self-conscious 
 subject to himself, and with it the idea of a self-satisfaction 
 to be attained in the filling of the want. The motive is not 
 made up of a want and self-consciousness, any more than life 
 of chemical processes and vital ones ; but, indivisible as it is, 
 it results, as perception results, from the determination of an 
 animal nature by a self-conscious subject other than it; sore- 
 suits, however, as that the animal condition does not survive 
 in the result. This will become more clear after an 
 
 Analysis of Desire. How do we come to desire food? 
 What do we mean by the desire? Do we mean by it (i) 
 hunger itself, as a particular sort of painful feeling ; or (2) an 
 instinctive impulse to obtain food, excited by this painful feel- 
 ing but without consciousness of an object to which the im- 
 pulse is directed; or (3) an impulse excited by the image of 
 a pleasure previously experienced in eating, such as we seem 
 to notice in a well-fed dog or cat when the dinner-bell rings; 
 or (4) desire for an object in the proper sense; that is, for 
 something which the desiring subject presents to itself as 
 distinct at once from itself, the subject that desires, and from 
 other objects which might be desired but for the time are 
 not? In (i), desire being equivalent to hunger cannot be ex- 
 plained by it. As regards (2), the human infant seeks food 
 instinctively without any previous experience of it as something 
 that will remove the pain of hunger. And (3), the mere revival 
 
I 
 
 — 62 — 
 
 in a sentient being of the image of a past pleasure, with the 
 consequent impulse after the renewal of the pleasure, does 
 not imply any consciousness by the subject of itself in distinc- 
 tion from the pleasure as the subject which has enjoyed it, 
 and may enjoy it again , and which has also enjoyed other 
 pleasures comparable with it; nor any consciousness of an 
 objective world to which belong the conditions of the pleasure 
 —the means to it, and its consequences. This is what gives 
 its character to the moral and intellectual experience of man. 
 There is for him a world of feeling , however limited in its 
 actual range, yet boundless in capacity, of which he presents 
 himself as the centre. It is by its relation to this world that 
 any particular pleasure is defined for him as an object of 
 desire, and thus, however animal in its origin, becomes to him 
 through such reference to a 'before and after' of experience, 
 what it is not to the animal that feels but does not distinguish 
 itself from its immediate feeling. Apart from self-consciousness 
 animal desire would have no moral character. There is a 
 real unity in all our desires ; only it is not Desire, but the self. 
 But this also is the unity in all acts of intellect; how then are 
 we to reconcile this with the obvious difference of intellect 
 
 from desire? 
 
 Desire ami IniellecL We must ascribe to the self-con- 
 scious soul or man two equally primitive, coordinate, possi- 
 bilities of desiring and understanding. The element common 
 to both lies in the consciousness of self and a world as in a 
 sense opposed to each other, and in the conscious effort to 
 overcome this opposition. Desire implies, on the part of the 
 desiring subject (a) a distinction of itself at once from its 
 desires and from the real world ; (b) a consciousness that the 
 conditions of the real world are at present not in harmony 
 with it, the subject of the desire ; (c) an effort, however un- 
 developed or misdirected, so to adjust the conditions of the 
 real world as to procure satisfaction of the desire. So it is 
 with the intellect: the establishment or discovery of relations 
 —we naturally call it establishment when we think of it as a 
 function of our own minds, discovery when we think of it as 
 
 - 63 - 
 
 a function determined for us by the mind that is in the world 
 —is the essential thing in all understanding. Whatever the 
 object which we set ourselves to understand, the process begins 
 with our attention being challenged by some fact as simply 
 alien and external to us, as no otherwise related to us than 
 is implied in its being there to be known; and it ends, or 
 rather is constantly approaching to an end never reached, in 
 the mental appropriation of the fact, through its being brought 
 under definite relations with the cosmos of facts in which we 
 are already at home. This community of principle in the 
 two cases we may properly indicate by calling our inner life, 
 as determined by desires for objects, practical thought, while we 
 call the activity of the understanding speculative thought. Nor 
 is this all. The exercise of the one activity is always a ne- 
 cessary accompaniment of the other. No man learns to know 
 anything without desiring to know it. Similarly, so soon as 
 any desire has become more than an indefinite yearning for 
 we know not what, so soon as it is really desire for some 
 object of which we are conscious, it necessarily implies an 
 employment of the understanding upon those conditions of 
 the real world which make the difference, so to speak, be- 
 tween the object as desired and its realisation. Thus thought 
 and desire are not to be regarded as separate powers, of 
 which one can be exercised by us without, or in conflict 
 with, the other. They are rather different ways in which the 
 consciousness of self, which is also necessarily consciousness of 
 a manifold world other than self, expresses itself. One is the 
 effort of such consciousness to take the world into itself, the 
 other its effort to carry itself out into the world. 
 
 Desire and Will. The distinction between desire and 
 
 1 
 
 will seems firmly established in the experience of men as ex- 
 pressed in our habitual language, *1 should like to but I wont' : 
 we say *a man may be torn by conflicting desires'. What 
 are we to say to the distinction ? Simply this : — that the final 
 'desire' differs in kind from the other competing impulses. 
 It is what none of them were while competing, what none of 
 them are, so far as any of them survive along with it. It 
 
¥ 
 
 f 
 
 - 64 - 
 
 implies, as did none of them, the presentation of an object 
 with which the man for the time identifies himself or his good, 
 and a consequent effort to realise this object. He now, as 
 he did not before, consciously directs himself to the realisation 
 of a desired object. If he desired before , it was owing to 
 the result of his organisation , of habits (his own or his an- 
 cestors'), of external excitement, &c. ; it is at any rate in an- 
 other way that he desires now. In fact, the final preference 
 is an act of will. "When it is urged, therefore, that the will 
 often conflicts with and overcomes a man's desires and that 
 an act of will therefore must be other than a desire, we answer, 
 certainly it is other than any such desire as those which it is 
 said to overcome. But it is not other than desire in that 
 sense in which desire is ever the principle or motive of an 
 imputable human action, of an action that has any moral 
 quality, good or bad, that can properly be rewarded or 
 punished, or is fit matter for praise or blame."*) The true 
 distinction lies between passions as influences affecting a man 
 —among which we may include 'mere desires', if we please 
 —and the man as desiring, or putting himself forth in desire 
 for the realisation of some object present to him in idea, 
 which is the same thing as willing. And so with regard to 
 IntdUa and Will] speculation and moral action are coor- 
 dinate employments of the same self-conscious soul, and of 
 the same powers of that soul, only differently directed. Will 
 then is equally and indistinguishably desire and thought as 
 they are involved in the direction of a self-distinguishing and 
 self-seeking subject to the realisation of an idea. The will 
 is simply the man. Any act of will is the expression of the 
 man as he at that time is. The motive issuing in his act, 
 the object of his will, the idea which for the time he sets 
 himself to realise, are but the same thing in different words. 
 Each is the reflex of what for the time , as at once feeling, 
 desiring, and thinking, the man is. The real nature of any 
 act of will depends on the particular nature of the object in 
 
 ') Ibid. p. 149- 
 
 _ 65 - 
 
 which the person willing for the time seeks self-satisfaction ; 
 and the real nature of any man as the subject of will — his 
 character — depends on the nature of the objects in which he 
 mainly tends to seek self-satisfaction. Self-satisfaction is the 
 form of every object willed; but the filling of that form, the 
 character of that in which self-satisfaction is sought, ranging 
 from sensual pleasure to the fulfilment of a vocation conceive<l 
 as given by God, makes the object what it really is. In 
 general we may say that by will is understood an effort (or 
 capacity for such an effort) on the part of a self-conscious 
 subject to satisfy itself; by reason, in the practical sense, the 
 rapacity on the part of such a subject to conceive a better 
 state of itself as an end to be attained by action. The true 
 development of man , the only development in which the 
 capabilities of his *heaven-bom' nature can be actualised, lies 
 in the direction of union between the developed will and the 
 developed reason in a life according to reason; a certain 
 precedence is given to reason, because (though it is also the 
 condition of vice) , as rightly developed , it has the initiative 
 of all virtue. 
 
 Characteristics of the Moral Ideal, 
 
 (a.) The personal character of the moral ideal. It is 
 clearly of the very essence of the doctrine above advanced 
 that the divine principle, which we suppose to be realising 
 itself in man, should be supposed to realise itself in persons, 
 as such. It is the irreducibility of this self- objectifying con- 
 sciousness to anything else, the impossibility of accounting for 
 it as an effect, that compels us to regard it as the presence 
 in us of the mind for which the world exists. But it is only 
 so far as we are members of a society, of which we can con- 
 ceive the common good as our own, that the idea has any 
 practical hold on us at all, and this very membership implies 
 confinement in our individual realisation of the idea. Yet is 
 not such confinement the condition of the only personality 
 that we know? It is the condition of social life, and social 
 life is to personality what language is to thought. There can 
 be nothing in a nation however exalted its mission, or in a 
 
 5 
 
— 66 -- 
 
 67 — 
 
 I 
 
 society however perfectly organised, which is not in the persons 
 composing the nation or the society. Our ultimate standard 
 of worth is an ideal of personal worth. All other values are 
 relative to value for, of, or in a person. It does not follow 
 from this that all persons must be developed in the same 
 way. Under any conditions possible, so far as can be seen, 
 for human society, one man who was the best that his position 
 allowed, would be very different from another who was the 
 best that his position allowed. But, in order that either may 
 be good at all in the moral sense, i.e. intrinsically and not 
 merely as a means — in order that the idea of the human 
 spirit may be in any sense fulfilled in him — the fulfilment of 
 that idea in some form or other, must be the object in which 
 he seeks self-satisfaction, the object for which he lives in 
 living for himself. And it is only so far as this development 
 and direction of personality is obtained for all who are ca- 
 pable of it (as presumably every one who says "1" is capable), 
 that human society, either in its widest comprehension or in 
 any of its particular groups, can be held to fulfil its function, 
 to realise its idea as it is in God. 
 
 (b.) The formal character of the moral ideal or law. 
 From the mere idea in a man 'of something , he knows not 
 what, which he may and should become', to the actual practice 
 which is counted morally good, it may naturally seem a long 
 step. "If on being asked for an account of the unconditional 
 good, we answer either that it is the good will or that to 
 which the good will is directed, we are naturally asked further 
 what then is the good will? The circle is only escaped 
 in Utilitarianism because its ideal is not a morcU ideal. By a 
 moral ideal we mean some type of man or character or per- 
 sonal activity, considered as an end in itself.'**) It is there- 
 fore not an illogical procedure, because it is the only pro- 
 cedure suited to the matter in hand, to say that the goodness 
 of man lies in devotion to the ideal of humanity, and then 
 that the ideal of humanity ( (insists in the goodness of man. 
 
 ') Ibid. p. 205. 
 
 So that the basis of morality is the duty of realising an ideal 
 which cannot be adequately defined till it is realised, and 
 which, when realised, would no longer present itself as a source 
 of duties, because the should be would be exchanged for the 
 is. At the same time , then , that the categorical imperative 
 can enjoin nothing without liability to exception but disinter- 
 ested obedience to itself, it will have no lack of definite con- 
 tent. The particular duties which it enjoins will at least be 
 all those in the practice of which , according to the hitherto 
 experience of men, some progress is made towards the fulfil- 
 ment of man's capabilities, or some condition necessary to 
 that progress is satisfied. 
 
 The Origin and Dei'elopment of the Moral Ideal, 
 (a.) Reason as source of the Idea of a Common Good. 
 We may take it as an ultimate fact of human history — a fact 
 without which there would not be such a history, and which 
 is not in turn deducible from any history — that out of sym- 
 pathies of animal origin, through their presence in a self-con- 
 scious soul, there arise interests as of a person in persons. 
 The idea, then, of a possible well-being of himself, that shall 
 not pass away with this, that, or the other pleasure ; and rela- 
 tion to some group of persons whose well-being he takes to 
 be as his own, and in whom he is interested in being inter- 
 ested in himself— these two things must condition the life of 
 any one who is to be a creator or sustainer either of law or of 
 that prior authoritative custom out of which law arises. Without 
 Ihem there might be instruments of law and custom: intelligent 
 cooperating subjects of law and custom there could not be. 
 (b.) The Extension of the Area of Common Good. The 
 earliest ascertainable history exhibits to us communities, rela- 
 
 ml 
 
 lively very confined , within any one of which a common 
 good, and in consequence a common duty, is recognised 
 as between the members of the community, while beyond 
 the particular community the range of mutual obligation is 
 not understood to extend. Among ourselves, on the contrary, 
 it is almost an axiom of popular Ethics that there is at 
 least a potential duty of every man to every man— a duty 
 
 5* 
 

 — 6R — 
 
 which becomes actual so soon as one comes to have any 
 dealings with the other. "No gradual modification of selfish 
 fear or hope could yield a disposition of this kind ; and if 
 these were the sole original motives to civil or tribal or family 
 obedience, it would be unintelligible that a state of mind should 
 result, in which a man imposes duties on himself quite beyond 
 the range of such obedience. But if at the root of such obe- 
 dience , as well as of the institutions to which it has been 
 rendered, there has been an idea of good, suggested by the 
 consciousness of unfulfilled possibilities of the rational nature 
 common to all men , then it is intelligible that , as the range 
 of this idea extends itself— as it comes to be understood that 
 no race or religion or status is a bar to self-determined co- 
 operation in its fulfilment— the sense of duty which it yields, 
 and which has gained its power over natural desires and aver- 
 sions through generations of discipline in the family and the 
 state, should become a sense of what is due to man as such, 
 and not merely to the members of a particular community. 
 The change is not necessarily in the strength, in the con- 
 straining power, of the feeling of duty— perhaps it is never 
 stronger now than it may have been in an Israelite who would 
 have yet recognised no claim in a Philistine, or in a Greek 
 who would yet have seen no harm in exposing a sickly child 
 —but in the conceived range of claims to which the duty is 
 relative. Persons come to be recognised as having who would 
 once not have been recognised as having any claim, and the 
 claim of the Iffoi xo* o/ioioi comes to be admitted where only 
 the claim of indulged inferiors would have been allowed be- 
 fore. It is not the sense of duty to a neighbour, but the 
 practical answer to the question, who is my neighbour? that 
 
 has varied."*) 
 
 Thus in the conscientious citizen of modem Christendom 
 reason without and reason within, reason as objective and reason 
 as subjective, reason as the better spirit of the social order in 
 which he lives, and reason as his loyal recognition and inter- 
 
 *) Ibid. p. 220. 
 
 - 69 - 
 
 pretation of that spirit — these being but different aspects of 
 one and the same reality, which is the operation of the divine 
 mind in man — combine to yield both the judgment, and obe- 
 dience to the judgment, which we variously express by saying 
 that every human person has an absolute value ; that humanity 
 in the person of every one is always to be treated as an end, 
 never merely as a means; that in the estimate of that well- 
 being which forms the true good every one is to count for 
 one and no one for more than one ; that every one has a 
 •suum* which every one else is bound to render him. 
 
 (c.) The determination of the Idea of Common Good. The 
 ground of the desire for well-being is a demand for an abi- 
 ding satisfaction of an abiding self. This demand has led 
 to an ordering of life in which some permanent provision is 
 made, better or worse, for the satisfaction of those interests 
 which are not interests in the procuring of pleasure, but which 
 may be described most generally as interests in the develop- 
 ment of our faculties, and in the like development of those 
 for whom we care — interests ranging, perhaps, from provision 
 for one's family to the improvement of the public health or 
 to the production of a system of philosophy. Just so far as 
 he is interested in such objects must the individual indeed 
 anticipate pleasure in their realisation , but the objects , not 
 the pleasure, form the actuating content of his idea of true 
 well-being. A transfer of his interest from the objects to the 
 pleasure would be its destruction. On Green's view, the idea 
 of the good is an idea which gradually creates its own filling. 
 Moral development implies a progressive determination of the 
 idea of the end itself, as the subject of it, through reflection 
 on that which, under influence of the idea but without ad- 
 equate reflection upon it, he has done and has become, 
 comes to be more fully aware of what he has it in him to 
 do and to become. Of a moral development in this sense we 
 have evidence in the result; and we can understand the prin- 
 ciple of it ; but the stages in the process by which the principle 
 thus unfolds itself remain obscure. 
 
 r \ 
 
JO — 
 
 '— 7r — 
 
 T^e Application of Moral Philosophy io Conduct. 
 
 What is of importance here is that one should keep alive 
 that kind of sense of shortcoming in his motives and character, 
 which is the condition of aspiration and progress towards 
 higher goodness. This function of conscience expresses the 
 aspiration, the effort, in man to be the best that he has it in 
 him to be, from which is ultimately derived the thought that 
 there is something which ought to be done, and the enquiry 
 what in particular it is. It represents the quest for right con- 
 duct, as carried on by the individual under that sense of 
 personal responsibility for doing the best, for attaining the 
 highest, which can alone make him a reformer of his own practice 
 or of the practice of others. As it stands before the mind of any 
 particular person, the ideal will not directly yield an injunction 
 to do anything in particular which is not in his mind already 
 associated with good results, not to abstain from anything 
 which is not already associated with evil results. But while 
 it will not immediately instruct him as to the physical or social 
 consequences of action, and through such instruction yield new 
 commands, it will keep him on the look out for it, will open 
 his mind to it, will make him ready, as soon as it comes, to 
 interpret the instruction into a personal duty. For the spring 
 of all moral progress can lie nowhere else than in the attrac- 
 tion of heart and will by the ideal of human perfection, and 
 in the practical convictions which arise from it ; but philosophy 
 will still be needed as the interpreter of practical conviction, and 
 it can itself alone provide for the adequacy of the interpretation. 
 
 "It is true, of course, that when the soul is suddenly 
 called upon to face an awful moment, to which are joined 
 great issues for good or evil in its moral history, it is not by 
 'going over the theory of virtue in one's mind', not by any 
 philosophical consideration of the origin and validity of 
 moral ideas, that the right determination can be given. A 
 judgment of the sort we call intuitive— a judgment which 
 in fact represents long courses of habit and imagination 
 founded on ideas— is all that the occasion admits of. But 
 even in such cases it may make a great difference to the 
 
 issue, whether the inclination to the weaker or less worthy 
 course is or is not assisted by a suggestion from the intellect 
 that the counterinj unction of conscience is illusory. And in 
 such an age as ours this suggestion is likely to be forth- 
 coming, if scepticism has been allowed to pull to pieces the 
 imaginative vesture in which our formative practical ideas 
 have clothed themselves, without a vindication by philosophy 
 of the ultimate authority of the ideas themselves, and of so 
 much in the language of religious imagination as is their 
 pure and (to us) necessary expression."*) 
 
 "It may thus fail to the moral philosopher, under certain 
 conditions of society and of intellectual movement, to render 
 an important practical service. But he will render it simply 
 by fulfilling with the utmost possible completeness his proper 
 work of analysis. As a moral philosopher he analyses human 
 conduct; the motives which it expresses, the spiritual endow- 
 ments implied in it, the history of thought , habits and insti- 
 tutions through which is has come to be what it is. He does 
 not understand his business as a philosopher, if he claims 
 to do more than this. He will not take it for a reproach 
 to be reminded that no philosopher can supply a 'moral 
 dynamic'. The pretension to do so he would regard as a 
 great impertinence. He finds moral dynamic enough in the 
 actual spiritual nature of man, when that nature is regarded, 
 as it is his business to regard it, not merely in its hitherto 
 performance, but in its intrinsic possibilities. If he cannot 
 help wishing for more, that is an accident of the very aspira- 
 tion after perfection of conduct which constitutes the dynamic. 
 His immediate business as a philosopher is not to strengthen 
 or heighten this aspiration, much less to bring it into existence, 
 but to understand it. As a man and a citizen, indeed, it is 
 his function to serve as its organ; to give effect to it in his 
 own conduct, to assist in communicating it to others. And 
 since in being a philosopher he does not cease to be a man 
 and a citizen , he will rejoice that the analysis , which alone 
 
 *) Ibid. p. 350. 
 
— 7^ — 
 
 forms his employment as a philosopher, should incidentally 
 serve a purpose subordinate to the *moral dynamic* — that it 
 should help to remove any obstacle to the effort of the human 
 soul after a perfect life."*) 
 
 1) Ibid. pp. 3S7. 8. 
 
 ( 
 
 I was born at Llandyssul , South Wales, on the i6th of 
 April, 1865. Studied at the Presbyterian College, Carmarthen, 
 University College of Wales , Aberystwith , University College, 
 London, and Manchester New College, London and Oxford. 
 Graduated in arts at the London University in 1887 : proceeded 
 as Hibbert Scholar to Berlin, Oct. 1890: passed the examina- 
 tion for the M. A. degree at the London University in June 
 1 891: and further pursued my studies at Leipzig from Oct. 
 1 89 1 to Aug. 1892. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
t 
 
 — 72 — 
 
 forms his employment as a philosopher, should incidentall) 
 serve a purpose subordinate to the 'moral dynamic*— that it 
 should help to remove any obstacle to the effort of the human 
 soul after a perfect life."*) 
 
 ') Ibid. pp. 357. 8. 
 
 1 was born at Llandyssul, South Wales, on the i6th of 
 April, 1865. Studied at the Presbyterian College, Carmarthen, 
 University College of Wales , Aberystwith , University College, 
 London, and Manchester New College, London and Oxford. 
 Graduated in arts at the London University in 1887 : proceeded 
 as Hibbert Scholar to Berlin, Oct. 1890: passed the examina- 
 tion for the M. A. degree at the London University in June 
 1 891: and further pursued my studies at Leipzig from Oct. 
 1 89 1 to Aug. 1892. 
 
 jiTr