General Comments

There are few circumstances among those which make up the present condition of human knowledge, more unlike what might have been expected, or more significant of the backward state in which speculation on the most important subjects still lingers, than the little progress which has been made in the decision of the controversy respecting the criterion of right and wrong. From the dawn of philosophy, the question concerning the summum bonum, or, what is the same thing, concerning the foundation of morality, has been accounted the main problem in speculative thought, has occupied the most gifted intellects, and divided them into sects and schools, carrying on a vigorous warfare against one another. And after more than two thousand years the same discussions continue, philosophers are still ranged under the same contending banners, and neither thinkers nor mankind at large seem nearer to being unanimous on the subject, than when the youth Socrates listened to the old Protagoras, and asserted (if Plato's dialogue be grounded on a real conversation) the theory of utilitarianism against the popular morality of the so-called sophist.

Few features of human knowledge today are more unexpected than our limited progress in deciding what makes actions right or wrong. Few reveal more clearly how far behind our thinking on the most important subjects still is. Since philosophy began, the question of the summum bonum, or highest good, has been considered the central problem of philosophical thought. This is also the question of morality’s foundation. The question has occupied the most gifted minds and divided them into rival groups and schools, fiercely battling one another. Yet after more than two thousand years, the same debates continue, and philosophers still line up under the same opposing banners. Neither thinkers nor humanity as a whole seem any closer to agreement than when young Socrates listened to old Protagoras. Socrates then defended the theory of utilitarianism against the conventional morality of the so-called sophist. This assumes that Plato’s dialogue is based on a real conversation.

It is true that similar confusion and uncertainty, and in some cases similar discordance, exist respecting the first principles of all the sciences, not excepting that which is deemed the most certain of them, mathematics; without much impairing, generally indeed without impairing at all, the trustworthiness of the conclusions of those sciences. An apparent anomaly, the explanation of which is, that the detailed doctrines of a science are not usually deduced from, nor depend for their evidence upon, what are called its first principles. Were it not so, there would be no science more precarious, or whose conclusions were more insufficiently made out, than algebra; which derives none of its certainty from what are commonly taught to learners as its elements, since these, as laid down by some of its most eminent teachers, are as full of fictions as English law, and of mysteries as theology. The truths which are ultimately accepted as the first principles of a science, are really the last results of metaphysical analysis, practised on the elementary notions with which the science is conversant; and their relation to the science is not that of foundations to an edifice, but of roots to a tree, which may perform their office equally well though they be never dug down to and exposed to light. But though in science the particular truths precede the general theory, the contrary might be expected to be the case with a practical art, such as morals or legislation. All action is for the sake of some end, and rules of action, it seems natural to suppose, must take their whole character and colour from the end to which they are subservient. When we engage in a pursuit, a clear and precise conception of what we are pursuing would seem to be the first thing we need, instead of the last we are to look forward to. A test of right and wrong must be the means, one would think, of ascertaining what is right or wrong, and not a consequence of having already ascertained it.

It is true that similar confusion and uncertainty surround the first principles of all sciences. In some cases, similar disagreements also exist. Even mathematics, considered the most certain science, is no exception. Yet these problems do little to weaken the reliability of scientific conclusions, and generally do not weaken it at all. This seems strange, but there is an explanation. A science’s specific teachings are not usually derived from its so-called first principles. Nor does the evidence for those teachings usually depend on those principles. If they did, no science would be less secure than algebra, or have less adequately supported conclusions. Algebra gets none of its certainty from what students are commonly taught as its basic principles. As presented by some of algebra’s most distinguished teachers, these principles contain as many fictions as English law. They also contain as many mysteries as theology. The truths ultimately accepted as a science’s first principles are actually the final results of metaphysical analysis. This analysis examines the basic concepts the science deals with. These principles relate to the science not as foundations relate to a building, but as roots relate to a tree. Roots can do their work equally well even if they are never dug up and exposed to light. But although particular truths come before general theory in science, we might expect the opposite in practical disciplines. Morality and lawmaking are examples. All action serves some goal. So it seems natural to suppose that rules for action must take their entire character from the goal they serve. When we pursue something, a clear and precise understanding of our goal would seem to be our first need. We would not expect that understanding to come last. A standard of right and wrong should, one would think, help us determine what is right or wrong. We would not expect that standard to emerge only after we had already determined the answer.

The difficulty is not avoided by having recourse to the popular theory of a natural faculty, a sense or instinct, informing us of right and wrong. For—besides that the existence of such a moral instinct is itself one of the matters in dispute—those believers in it who have any pretensions to philosophy, have been obliged to abandon the idea that it discerns what is right or wrong in the particular case in hand, as our other senses discern the sight or sound actually present. Our moral faculty, according to all those of its interpreters who are entitled to the name of thinkers, supplies us only with the general principles of moral judgments; it is a branch of our reason, not of our sensitive faculty; and must be looked to for the abstract doctrines of morality, not for perception of it in the concrete. The intuitive, no less than what may be termed the inductive, school of ethics, insists on the necessity of general laws. They both agree that the morality of an individual action is not a question of direct perception, but of the application of a law to an individual case. They recognise also, to a great extent, the same moral laws; but differ as to their evidence, and the source from which they derive their authority. According to the one opinion, the principles of morals are evident à priori, requiring nothing to command assent, except that the meaning of the terms be understood. According to the other doctrine, right and wrong, as well as truth and falsehood, are questions of observation and experience. But both hold equally that morality must be deduced from principles; and the intuitive school affirm as strongly as the inductive, that there is a science of morals. Yet they seldom attempt to make out a list of the à priori principles which are to serve as the premises of the science; still more rarely do they make any effort to reduce those various principles to one first principle, or common ground of obligation. They either assume the ordinary precepts of morals as of à priori authority, or they lay down as the common groundwork of those maxims, some generality much less obviously authoritative than the maxims themselves, and which has never succeeded in gaining popular acceptance. Yet to support their pretensions there ought either to be some one fundamental principle or law, at the root of all morality, or if there be several, there should be a determinate order of precedence among them; and the one principle, or the rule for deciding between the various principles when they conflict, ought to be self-evident.

The difficulty is not avoided by appealing to the popular theory of a natural faculty that tells us right from wrong. This faculty is supposed to be a sense or instinct. But the very existence of such a moral instinct is disputed. Moreover, believers in this instinct who claim any philosophical standing have had to abandon one idea. They can no longer claim that the instinct identifies right and wrong in a particular case. It does not work as our other senses do when we see or hear something actually present. According to all its interpreters who deserve to be called thinkers, our moral faculty supplies only general principles of moral judgment. It belongs to our reason, not to our senses. We must look to it for abstract moral doctrines, not for direct awareness of morality in particular cases. The intuitive school of ethics insists on general laws, just as the school we may call inductive does. Both agree that we do not judge an individual action’s morality by direct perception. Instead, we apply a law to a particular case. The two schools also recognize largely the same moral laws. But they disagree about the evidence for those laws and the source of their authority. According to one view, moral principles are self-evident à priori, independently of experience. To accept these principles, we need only understand the meaning of their terms. According to the other view, right and wrong, like truth and falsehood, are matters of observation and experience. But both schools hold equally that moral judgments must be deduced from principles. The intuitive school insists just as strongly as the inductive school that there is a science of morality. Yet intuitive thinkers seldom try to list the à priori principles that are supposed to provide this science’s starting points. Still more rarely do they try to reduce these various principles to one fundamental principle, or common basis of obligation. They either assume that ordinary moral rules have authority independent of experience, or propose some general statement as their common foundation. This statement’s authority is much less obvious than the authority of the rules themselves. It has also never gained popular acceptance. Yet to justify these thinkers’ claims, there ought to be one fundamental principle or law underlying all morality. Or, if there are several principles, there should be a definite order of priority among them. That single principle ought to be self-evident. If there are several, the rule for deciding between them when they conflict ought to be self-evident.

To inquire how far the bad effects of this deficiency have been mitigated in practice, or to what extent the moral beliefs of mankind have been vitiated or made uncertain by the absence of any distinct recognition of an ultimate standard, would imply a complete survey and criticism of past and present ethical doctrine. It would, however, be easy to show that whatever steadiness or consistency these moral beliefs have attained, has been mainly due to the tacit influence of a standard not recognised. Although the non-existence of an acknowledged first principle has made ethics not so much a guide as a consecration of men's actual sentiments, still, as men's sentiments, both of favour and of aversion, are greatly influenced by what they suppose to be the effects of things upon their happiness, the principle of utility, or as Bentham latterly called it, the greatest happiness principle, has had a large share in forming the moral doctrines even of those who most scornfully reject its authority. Nor is there any school of thought which refuses to admit that the influence of actions on happiness is a most material and even predominant consideration in many of the details of morals, however unwilling to acknowledge it as the fundamental principle of morality, and the source of moral obligation. I might go much further, and say that to all those à priori moralists who deem it necessary to argue at all, utilitarian arguments are indispensable. It is not my present purpose to criticise these thinkers; but I cannot help referring, for illustration, to a systematic treatise by one of the most illustrious of them, the Metaphysics of Ethics, by Kant. This remarkable man, whose system of thought will long remain one of the landmarks in the history of philosophical speculation, does, in the treatise in question, lay down an universal first principle as the origin and ground of moral obligation; 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 grotesquely, 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 universal adoption would be such as no one would choose to incur.

How far have the harmful effects of this deficiency been reduced in practice? How much has the lack of a clearly recognized ultimate standard distorted people’s moral beliefs or made them uncertain? Answering these questions would require a complete review and critique of past and present ethical teaching. But one point would be easy to show. Whatever stability or consistency these moral beliefs have gained comes mainly from the unspoken influence of an unrecognized standard. Without an accepted first principle, ethics has served less to guide people’s existing feelings than to give them moral authority. Yet people’s approval and disapproval depend greatly on how they think things affect their happiness. So the principle of utility has played a large part in shaping moral teachings, even among its most scornful opponents. Bentham later called this principle the greatest happiness principle. No school of thought denies that actions’ effects on happiness matter greatly, and even predominantly, in many specific moral questions. This is true however unwilling that school is to recognize happiness as morality’s fundamental principle and the source of moral obligation. I might go much further. All à priori moralists who consider argument necessary at all must rely on utilitarian arguments. My present purpose is not to criticize these thinkers. But I cannot help citing, as an illustration, a systematic work by one of their most distinguished representatives: Kant’s Metaphysics of Ethics. Kant was a remarkable man. His system of thought will long remain a landmark in the history of philosophical inquiry. In this work, he does establish a universal first principle as the source and basis of moral obligation. The principle is this: 'Act so that the rule you follow could be adopted as a law by all rational beings.' But then he tries to derive actual moral duties from this principle. Here he fails, almost grotesquely, to show any contradiction in all rational beings adopting the most outrageously immoral rules of conduct. He fails to show any logical impossibility, let alone any physical impossibility, in their doing so. All he shows is that no one would choose to face the consequences of everyone adopting those rules.

On the present occasion, I shall, without further discussion of the other theories, attempt to contribute something towards the understanding and appreciation of the Utilitarian or Happiness theory, and towards such proof as it is susceptible of. It is evident that this cannot be proof in the ordinary and popular meaning of the term. Questions of ultimate ends are not amenable to direct proof. Whatever can be proved to be good, must be so by being shown to be a means to something admitted to be good without proof. The medical art is proved to be good, by its conducing to health; but how is it possible to prove that health is good? The art of music is good, for the reason, among others, that it produces pleasure; but what proof is it possible to give that pleasure is good? If, then, it is asserted that there is a comprehensive formula, including all things which are in themselves good, and that whatever else is good, is not so as an end, but as a mean, the formula may be accepted or rejected, but is not a subject of what is commonly understood by proof. We are not, however, to infer that its acceptance or rejection must depend on blind impulse, or arbitrary choice. There is a larger meaning of the word proof, in which this question is as amenable to it as any other of the disputed questions of philosophy. The subject is within the cognizance of the rational faculty; and neither does that faculty deal with it solely in the way of intuition. Considerations may be presented capable of determining the intellect either to give or withhold its assent to the doctrine; and this is equivalent to proof.

Here, without discussing the other theories further, I will try to help readers understand and appreciate the Utilitarian or Happiness theory. I will also try to offer whatever proof the theory allows. Clearly, such proof cannot be proof in the ordinary, everyday sense. Questions about ultimate goals cannot be proved directly. Anything we can prove to be good must be shown to serve something accepted as good without proof. Medicine is proved good because it promotes health. But how can we prove that health is good? Music is good partly because it produces pleasure. But what proof can we give that pleasure is good? Suppose, then, someone proposes a general principle covering everything good in itself. Suppose this principle also says that everything else is good only as a means, not as a goal. We may accept or reject the principle, but we cannot prove it in the usual sense. We should not conclude, however, that accepting or rejecting the principle must depend on blind impulse or arbitrary choice. The word proof has a broader meaning. In this broader sense, this question is as open to proof as any other disputed question in philosophy. Reason can examine the subject, and reason does not address it through intuition alone. Arguments can be offered that lead the mind either to accept the theory or to withhold acceptance. And this amounts to proof.

We shall examine presently of what nature are these considerations; in what manner they apply to the case, and what rational grounds, therefore, can be given for accepting or rejecting the utilitarian formula. But it is a preliminary condition of rational acceptance or rejection, that the formula should be correctly understood. I believe that the very imperfect notion ordinarily formed of its meaning, is the chief obstacle which impedes its reception; and that could it be cleared, even from only the grosser misconceptions, the question would be greatly simplified, and a large proportion of its difficulties removed. Before, therefore, I attempt to enter into the philosophical grounds which can be given for assenting to the utilitarian standard, I shall offer some illustrations of the doctrine itself; with the view of showing more clearly what it is, distinguishing it from what it is not, and disposing of such of the practical objections to it as either originate in, or are closely connected with, mistaken interpretations of its meaning. Having thus prepared the ground, I shall afterwards endeavour to throw such light as I can upon the question, considered as one of philosophical theory.

We will soon examine what these considerations are and how they apply to the case. We will then consider what rational grounds they provide for accepting or rejecting the utilitarian formula. But before we can rationally accept or reject the formula, we must understand it correctly. I believe that the generally poor understanding of its meaning is the main obstacle to its acceptance. If even the most serious misunderstandings were cleared up, the question would become much simpler. Many of its difficulties would also disappear. So before discussing the philosophical grounds for accepting the utilitarian standard, I will offer some illustrations of the doctrine itself. My aim is to show more clearly what the doctrine is and distinguish it from what it is not. I also aim to answer practical objections that arise from, or are closely connected with, misunderstandings of its meaning. Having prepared the ground in this way, I will then try to clarify the question as a philosophical issue.