What Utilitarianism Is

A passing remark is all that needs be given to the ignorant blunder of supposing that those who stand up for utility as the test of right and wrong, use the term in that restricted and merely colloquial sense in which utility is opposed to pleasure. An apology is due to the philosophical opponents of utilitarianism, for even the momentary appearance of confounding them with any one capable of so absurd a misconception; which is the more extraordinary, inasmuch as the contrary accusation, of referring everything to pleasure, and that too in its grossest form, is another of the common charges against utilitarianism: and, as has been pointedly remarked by an able writer, the same sort of persons, and often the very same persons, denounce the theory "as impracticably dry when the word utility precedes the word pleasure, and as too practicably voluptuous when the word pleasure precedes the word utility." Those who know anything about the matter are aware that every writer, from Epicurus to Bentham, who maintained the theory of utility, meant by it, not something to be contradistinguished from pleasure, but pleasure itself, together with exemption from pain; and instead of opposing the useful to the agreeable or the ornamental, have always declared that the useful means these, among other things. Yet the common herd, including the herd of writers, not only in newspapers and periodicals, but in books of weight and pretension, are perpetually falling into this shallow mistake. Having caught up the word utilitarian, while knowing nothing whatever about it but its sound, they habitually express by it the rejection, or the neglect, of pleasure in some of its forms; of beauty, of ornament, or of amusement. Nor is the term thus ignorantly misapplied solely in disparagement, but occasionally in compliment; as though it implied superiority to frivolity and the mere pleasures of the moment. And this perverted use is the only one in which the word is popularly known, and the one from which the new generation are acquiring their sole notion of its meaning. Those who introduced the word, but who had for many years discontinued it as a distinctive appellation, may well feel themselves called upon to resume it, if by doing so they can hope to contribute anything towards rescuing it from this utter degradation.[^A]

One ignorant mistake deserves only a passing remark. Some suppose that people who use utility as the standard of right and wrong mean usefulness as opposed to pleasure. This is merely the narrow, everyday meaning of the word. I owe an apology to utilitarianism’s philosophical opponents for even briefly seeming to confuse them with anyone capable of such nonsense. The mistake is especially remarkable because utilitarianism is also commonly accused of the opposite: reducing everything to pleasure in its crudest form. As one able writer sharply observed, the same kinds of people, often the very same people, condemn the theory both ways. They call it "too dry to be practical when utility comes before pleasure, and all too indulgent when pleasure comes before utility." Anyone who knows anything about the subject knows what every supporter of the theory, from Epicurus to Bentham, meant by utility. They meant not something distinct from pleasure, but pleasure itself, together with freedom from pain. They never set the useful against the enjoyable or the decorative. Instead, they have always declared that usefulness includes these things, among others. Yet the unthinking crowd keeps making this shallow mistake. That crowd includes writers, not only in newspapers and magazines, but also in books of importance and lofty claims. They have picked up the word utilitarian without knowing anything about it beyond its sound. They habitually use the word to mean rejecting or neglecting some forms of pleasure: beauty, decoration, or amusement. Nor is this ignorant misuse always meant as criticism. Sometimes people use the word as a compliment, as though it meant rising above frivolity and passing pleasures. This distorted meaning is the only meaning the public knows. It is also the only meaning the new generation is learning. Those who introduced the word had stopped using it for many years as a label for their views. They may well feel called upon to use it again, if doing so offers any hope of rescuing it from this complete degradation.[^A]

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. To give a clear view of the moral standard set up by the theory, much more requires to be said; in particular, what things it includes in the ideas of pain and pleasure; and to what extent this is left an open question. But these supplementary explanations do not affect the theory of life on which this theory of morality is grounded—namely, that pleasure, and freedom from pain, are the only things desirable as ends; and that all desirable things (which are as numerous in the utilitarian as in any other scheme) are desirable either for the pleasure inherent in themselves, or as means to the promotion of pleasure and the prevention of pain.

The belief that makes Utility, or the Greatest Happiness Principle, the foundation of morality holds the following view. Actions are right to the extent that they tend to promote happiness. Actions are wrong to the extent that they tend to produce the opposite of happiness. Happiness means pleasure and the absence of pain. Unhappiness means pain and the lack of pleasure. Much more needs to be said to explain this theory’s moral standard clearly. In particular, we must explain what counts as pain and pleasure, and how far that question remains open. But these further explanations do not change the view of life underlying this moral theory. According to that view, pleasure and freedom from pain are the only things desirable for their own sake. All desirable things are desirable either for their own pleasure or as ways to promote pleasure and prevent pain. These desirable things are as numerous in utilitarianism as in any other system.

Now, such a theory of life excites in many minds, and among them in some of the most estimable in feeling and purpose, inveterate dislike. To suppose that life has (as they express it) no higher end than pleasure—no better and nobler object of desire and pursuit—they designate as utterly mean and grovelling; as a doctrine worthy only of swine, to whom the followers of Epicurus were, at a very early period, contemptuously likened; and modern holders of the doctrine are occasionally made the subject of equally polite comparisons by its German, French, and English assailants.

Now, this theory of life inspires a deep and lasting dislike in many people. Some of them are among the most admirable in their feelings and intentions. They describe the theory as saying that life has no higher purpose than pleasure, nothing better or nobler to pursue. They call this view utterly low and degrading, a doctrine fit only for pigs. The followers of Epicurus were contemptuously compared to pigs at a very early stage. Modern supporters of the doctrine sometimes face equally polite comparisons from its German, French, and English critics.

When thus attacked, the Epicureans have always answered, that it is not they, but their accusers, who represent human nature in a degrading light; since the accusation supposes human beings to be capable of no pleasures except those of which swine are capable. If this supposition were true, the charge could not be gainsaid, but would then be no longer an imputation; for if the sources of pleasure were precisely the same to human beings and to swine, the rule of life which is good enough for the one would be good enough for the other. The comparison of the Epicurean life to that of beasts is felt as degrading, precisely because a beast's pleasures do not satisfy a human being's conceptions of happiness. Human beings have faculties more elevated than the animal appetites, and when once made conscious of them, do not regard anything as happiness which does not include their gratification. I do not, indeed, consider the Epicureans to have been by any means faultless in drawing out their scheme of consequences from the utilitarian principle. To do this in any sufficient manner, many Stoic, as well as Christian elements require to be included. But there is no known Epicurean theory of life which does not assign to the pleasures of the intellect; of the feelings and imagination, and of the moral sentiments, a much higher value as pleasures than to those of mere sensation. It must be admitted, however, that utilitarian writers in general have placed the superiority of mental over bodily 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. It would be absurd that while, in estimating all other things, quality is considered as well as quantity, the estimation of pleasures should be supposed to depend on quantity alone.

When attacked in this way, the Epicureans have always replied that their accusers, not they themselves, degrade human nature. For the accusation assumes that human beings can enjoy only the pleasures pigs can enjoy. If this assumption were true, the charge could not be denied, but it would no longer be an insult. For if humans and pigs had exactly the same sources of pleasure, the same way of life would suit both. Comparing the Epicurean life to an animal’s feels degrading precisely because an animal’s pleasures cannot satisfy human ideas of happiness. Human beings have abilities higher than their animal appetites. Once people become aware of these abilities, they consider nothing happiness unless it includes satisfying those abilities. I certainly do not think the Epicureans worked out the implications of the utilitarian principle without fault. To do so adequately, they would need to include many Stoic as well as Christian elements. But every known Epicurean theory of life values intellectual, emotional, imaginative, and moral pleasures far above purely physical sensations. These theories value those higher pleasures more highly as pleasures. Still, utilitarian writers have generally based the superiority of mental over bodily pleasures chiefly on their practical advantages. Mental pleasures last longer, are safer, cost less, and have other such advantages. These advantages concern the circumstances of the pleasures rather than their essential nature. On all these points, utilitarians have fully proved their case. But they could have taken another, higher position without any inconsistency. The principle of utility fully allows us to recognize that some kinds of pleasure are more desirable and valuable than others. In judging everything else, we consider quality as well as quantity. It would be absurd to suppose that pleasure alone should be judged only by quantity.

If I am asked, what I mean by difference of quality in pleasures, or what makes one pleasure more valuable than another, merely as a pleasure, except its being greater in amount, there is but one possible answer. Of two pleasures, if there be one to which all or almost all who have experience of both give a decided preference, irrespective of any feeling of moral obligation to prefer it, that is the more desirable pleasure. If one of the two is, by those who are competently acquainted with both, placed so far above the other that they prefer it, even though knowing it to be attended with a greater amount of discontent, and would not resign it for any quantity of the other pleasure which their nature is capable of, we are justified in ascribing to the preferred enjoyment a superiority in quality, so far outweighing quantity as to render it, in comparison, of small account.

What do I mean by differences in the quality of pleasures? What makes one pleasure more valuable than another simply as a pleasure, apart from being greater in amount? If asked these questions, I can give only one answer. Suppose all or almost all people who have experienced two pleasures clearly prefer one over the other. If their preference does not depend on any sense of moral obligation, the preferred pleasure is more desirable. Now suppose those who know both pleasures well rank one far above the other. They prefer that pleasure even though they know it brings greater dissatisfaction. And they would not give it up for any amount of the other pleasure they are capable of experiencing. Under these conditions, we are justified in saying that the preferred pleasure is superior in quality. That superiority so greatly outweighs quantity that quantity matters little by comparison.

Now it is an unquestionable fact that those who are equally acquainted with, and equally capable of appreciating and enjoying, both, do give a most marked preference to the manner of existence which employs their higher faculties. Few human creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower animals, for a promise of the fullest allowance of a beast's pleasures; no intelligent human being would consent to be a fool, no instructed person would be an ignoramus, no person of feeling and conscience would be selfish and base, even though they should be persuaded that the fool, the dunce, or the rascal is better satisfied with his lot than they are with theirs. They would not resign what they possess more than he, for the most complete satisfaction of all the desires which they have in common with him. If they ever fancy they would, it is only in cases of unhappiness so extreme, that to escape from it they would exchange their lot for almost any other, however undesirable in their own eyes. A being of higher faculties requires more to make him happy, is capable probably of more acute suffering, and is certainly accessible to it at more points, than one of an inferior type; but in spite of these liabilities, he can never really wish to sink into what he feels to be a lower grade of existence. We may give what explanation we please of this unwillingness; we may attribute it to pride, a name which is given indiscriminately to some of the most and to some of the least estimable feelings of which mankind are capable; we may refer it to the love of liberty and personal independence, an appeal to which was with the Stoics one of the most effective means for the inculcation of it; to the love of power, or to the love of excitement, both of which do really enter into and contribute to it: but its most appropriate appellation is a sense of dignity, which all human beings possess in one form or other, and in some, though by no means in exact, proportion to their higher faculties, and which is so essential a part of the happiness of those in whom it is strong, that nothing which conflicts with it could be, otherwise than momentarily, an object of desire to them. Whoever supposes that this preference takes place at a sacrifice of happiness-that the superior being, in anything like equal circumstances, is not happier than the inferior-confounds the two very different ideas, of happiness, and content. It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly-endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect. But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify. It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.

It is an unquestionable fact that people strongly prefer a way of life that uses their higher abilities. This is true of those equally familiar with both ways of life and equally able to appreciate and enjoy both. Few human beings would agree to become lower animals, even with the promise of every pleasure an animal could enjoy. No intelligent person would agree to become a fool, and no educated person would agree to become ignorant. No person with feeling and a conscience would agree to become selfish and morally corrupt. They would refuse even if convinced that the fool, the ignorant person, or the scoundrel was more satisfied with life. They would not give up their greater abilities for complete satisfaction of every desire they shared with such a person. If they ever imagine they would, it is only when their unhappiness is so extreme that they want to escape. In those cases, they would exchange their life for almost any other, however undesirable they themselves considered it. A being with higher abilities needs more to be happy than a being with lower abilities. Such a being can probably suffer more intensely and can certainly suffer in more ways. But despite these disadvantages, that being can never truly wish to sink to what feels like a lower existence. We may explain this unwillingness however we please. We may attribute it to pride. That word is applied indiscriminately to some of humanity's most admirable feelings and some of its least admirable. We may attribute the unwillingness to a love of freedom and personal independence. Appealing to that love was one of the Stoics' most effective ways of teaching this unwillingness. We may also attribute it to a love of power or excitement. Both loves really do play a part in it. But the best name for this unwillingness is a sense of dignity. All human beings possess this sense in one form or another. Its strength bears some relation to their higher abilities, though by no means an exact one. For people with a strong sense of dignity, that sense is an essential part of happiness. They cannot desire anything that conflicts with their dignity, except momentarily. Some suppose that this preference sacrifices happiness. They suppose that, in roughly equal circumstances, a being with higher abilities is not happier than one with lower abilities. Anyone who thinks so confuses two very different ideas: happiness and contentment. Undeniably, a being with a limited capacity for enjoyment has the greatest chance of having that capacity fully satisfied. A being with greater abilities will always feel that any happiness possible in this world is imperfect. But such a being can learn to bear those imperfections, if the imperfections are at all bearable. Nor will those imperfections cause envy of a being who is unaware of them. That other being is unaware only because it cannot appreciate any of the good that those imperfections diminish. It is better to be a dissatisfied human being than a satisfied pig. It is better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool or the pig disagrees, that is because each knows only its own side of the question. The other side in the comparison knows both.

It may be objected, that many who are capable of the higher pleasures, occasionally, under the influence of temptation, postpone them to the lower. But this is quite compatible with a full appreciation of the intrinsic superiority of the higher. Men often, from infirmity of character, make their election for the nearer good, though they know it to be the less valuable; and this no less when the choice is between two bodily pleasures, than when it is between bodily and mental. They pursue sensual indulgences to the injury of health, though perfectly aware that health is the greater good. It may be further objected, that many who begin with youthful enthusiasm for everything noble, as they advance in years sink into indolence and selfishness. But I do not believe that those who undergo this very common change, voluntarily choose the lower description of pleasures in preference to the higher. I believe that before they devote themselves exclusively to the one, they have already become incapable of the other. Capacity for the nobler feelings is in most natures a very tender plant, easily killed, not only by hostile influences, but by mere want of sustenance; and in the majority of young persons it speedily dies away if the occupations to which their position in life has devoted them, and the society into which it has thrown them, are not favourable to keeping that higher capacity in exercise. Men lose their high aspirations as they lose their intellectual tastes, because they have not time or opportunity for indulging them; and they addict themselves to inferior pleasures, not because they deliberately prefer them, but because they are either the only ones to which they have access, or the only ones which they are any longer capable of enjoying. It may be questioned whether any one who has remained equally susceptible to both classes of pleasures, ever knowingly and calmly preferred the lower; though many, in all ages, have broken down in an ineffectual attempt to combine both.

Some may object that many people capable of higher pleasures sometimes give in to temptation and choose lower pleasures instead. But such choices are entirely consistent with fully recognizing that higher pleasures are more valuable in themselves. Through weakness of character, people often choose the more immediate good, though they know it is less valuable. This happens just as much when choosing between two bodily pleasures as when choosing between bodily and mental pleasures. People pursue sensual pleasures at the expense of their health, though they know perfectly well that health is more valuable. Some may also object that many people begin life with youthful enthusiasm for everything noble, but become idle and selfish. Yet I do not believe that people who undergo this very common change willingly choose lower pleasures over higher ones. I believe that before they devote themselves exclusively to lower pleasures, they have already become incapable of enjoying higher ones. In most people, the capacity for nobler feelings is a very delicate plant. It is easily killed, not only by harmful influences, but simply by a lack of nourishment. In most young people, this capacity soon dies unless their work and social surroundings help keep it active. Their position in life determines their work and places them in those surroundings. People lose their high aspirations, just as they lose their intellectual interests, because they lack time or opportunities to pursue them. They become devoted to inferior pleasures, not because they deliberately prefer them. Rather, those pleasures are either the only ones available or the only ones they can still enjoy. We may question whether anyone equally capable of enjoying both kinds of pleasure has ever knowingly and calmly preferred the lower. Yet many people, in every age, have faltered in an unsuccessful attempt to combine both.

From this verdict of the only competent judges, I apprehend there can be no appeal. On a question which is the best worth having of two pleasures, or which of two modes of existence is the most grateful to the feelings, apart from its moral attributes and from its consequences, the judgment of those who are qualified by knowledge of both, or, if they differ, that of the majority among them, must be admitted as final. And there needs be the less hesitation to accept this judgment respecting the quality of pleasures, since there is no other tribunal to be referred to even on the question of quantity. What means are there of determining which is the acutest of two pains, or the intensest of two pleasurable sensations, except the general suffrage of those who are familiar with both? Neither pains nor pleasures are homogeneous, and pain is always heterogeneous with pleasure. What is there to decide whether a particular pleasure is worth purchasing at the cost of a particular pain, except the feelings and judgment of the experienced? When, therefore, those feelings and judgment declare the pleasures derived from the higher faculties to be preferable in kind, apart from the question of intensity, to those of which the animal nature, disjoined from the higher faculties, is susceptible, they are entitled on this subject to the same regard.

I believe there can be no appeal against the verdict of the only judges qualified to decide. Which of two pleasures is more worth having? Which of two ways of life feels more satisfying, apart from its moral qualities and consequences? We must accept as final the judgment of those who know both. If those judges disagree, we must accept the judgment of the majority. We should hesitate even less to accept their judgment about pleasure’s quality because quantity also has no other judge. How can we determine which of two pains is sharper, or which of two pleasurable sensations is more intense? We can only rely on the general judgment of those familiar with both. Neither pains nor pleasures are all alike, and pain is always different in nature from pleasure. What can decide whether a particular pleasure is worth a particular pain, except experienced people’s feelings and judgment? Suppose, then, that those feelings and judgment favor the pleasures of our higher faculties. They declare these pleasures preferable in kind, regardless of intensity, to pleasures available to our animal nature alone. On this question, their feelings and judgment deserve the same respect.

I have dwelt on this point, as being a necessary part of a perfectly just conception of Utility or Happiness, considered as the directive rule of human conduct. But it is by no means an indispensable condition to the acceptance of the utilitarian standard; for that standard is not the agent's own greatest happiness, but the greatest amount of happiness altogether; and if it may possibly be doubted whether a noble character is always the happier for its nobleness, there can be no doubt that it makes other people happier, and that the world in general is immensely a gainer by it. Utilitarianism, therefore, could only attain its end by the general cultivation of nobleness of character, even if each individual were only benefited by the nobleness of others, and his own, so far as happiness is concerned, were a sheer deduction from the benefit. But the bare enunciation of such an absurdity as this last, renders refutation superfluous.

I have spent time on this point because it is necessary to fully understand Utility or Happiness as a guide to human conduct. But accepting the utilitarian standard does not depend on accepting this point. For that standard is not the greatest happiness of the person acting, but the greatest happiness overall. We may perhaps doubt whether a noble person is always happier because of their noble character. But there can be no doubt that such a character makes others happier and greatly benefits the world as a whole. Utilitarianism, therefore, could achieve its goal only by widely developing noble character. This would remain true even if each person benefited only from the noble character of others. It would remain true even if their own noble character only reduced their happiness, subtracting from that benefit. But merely stating this last absurd idea makes any attempt to refute it unnecessary.

According to the Greatest Happiness Principle, as above explained, the ultimate end, with reference to and for the sake of which all other things are desirable (whether we are considering our own good or that of other people), is an existence exempt as far as possible from pain, and as rich as possible in enjoyments, both in point of quantity and quality; the test of quality, and the rule for measuring it against quantity, being the preference felt by those who, in their opportunities of experience, to which must be added their habits of self-consciousness and self-observation, are best furnished with the means of comparison. This, being, according to the utilitarian opinion, the end of human action, is necessarily also the standard of morality; which may accordingly be defined, the rules and precepts for human conduct, by the observance of which an existence such as has been described might be, to the greatest extent possible, secured to all mankind; and not to them only, but, so far as the nature of things admits, to the whole sentient creation.

According to the Greatest Happiness Principle, explained above, the ultimate goal is a life as free from pain as possible. Such a life is also as rich as possible in enjoyment, in both quantity and quality. Everything else is desirable in relation to this goal and for its sake. This applies whether we consider our own good or the good of others. The test of quality is the preference of those best equipped to compare different enjoyments. Their preferences also determine how to weigh quality against quantity. Their ability to compare depends on their opportunities for experience, together with their habits of self-awareness and self-observation. In the utilitarian view, this kind of life is the goal of human action and therefore necessarily morality's standard. Morality can therefore be defined as the rules and principles of conduct whose observance could secure such a life. These rules could secure this life, to the greatest extent possible, for all humanity. And not only for humanity, but also, as far as the nature of things allows, for all sentient beings.

Against this doctrine, however, arises another class of objectors, who say that happiness, in any form, cannot be the rational purpose of human life and action; because, in the first place, it is unattainable: and they contemptuously ask, What right hast thou to be happy? a question which Mr. Carlyle clenches by the addition, What right, a short time ago, hadst thou even to be? Next, they say, that men can do without happiness; that all noble human beings have felt this, and could not have become noble but by learning the lesson of Entsagen, or renunciation; which lesson, thoroughly learnt and submitted to, they affirm to be the beginning and necessary condition of all virtue.

Another group of critics, however, objects to this doctrine. They say happiness in any form cannot be a rational goal for human life and action. Their first reason is that happiness is unattainable. They ask contemptuously, What right do you have to be happy? Mr. Carlyle drives the point home by adding, What right did you have, a short time ago, even to exist? Next, these critics say that people can do without happiness. They say all noble people have felt this and could not have become noble without learning Entsagen, or renunciation. These critics claim that fully learning and accepting this lesson is the beginning and necessary condition of all virtue.

The first of these objections would go to the root of the matter were it well founded; for if no happiness is to be had at all by human beings, the attainment of it cannot be the end of morality, or of any rational conduct. Though, even in that case, something might still be said for the utilitarian theory; since utility includes not solely the pursuit of happiness, but the prevention or mitigation of unhappiness; and if the former aim be chimerical, there will be all the greater scope and more imperative need for the latter, so long at least as mankind think fit to live, and do not take refuge in the simultaneous act of suicide recommended under certain conditions by Novalis. When, however, it is thus positively asserted to be impossible that human life should be happy, the assertion, if not something like a verbal quibble, is at least an exaggeration. If by happiness be meant a continuity of highly pleasurable excitement, it is evident enough that this is impossible. A state of exalted pleasure lasts only moments, or in some cases, and with some intermissions, hours or days, and is the occasional brilliant flash of enjoyment, not its permanent and steady flame. Of this the philosophers who have taught that happiness is the end of life were as fully aware as those who taunt them. The happiness which they meant was not a life of rapture, but moments of such, in an existence made up of few and transitory pains, many and various pleasures, with a decided predominance of the active over the passive, and having as the foundation of the whole, not to expect more from life than it is capable of bestowing. A life thus composed, to those who have been fortunate enough to obtain it, has always appeared worthy of the name of happiness. And such an existence is even now the lot of many, during some considerable portion of their lives. The present wretched education, and wretched social arrangements, are the only real hindrance to its being attainable by almost all.

The first of these objections would strike at the heart of the matter if it were well founded. For if human beings cannot experience any happiness, achieving happiness cannot be the goal of morality or any rational conduct. Even then, however, something could still be said for utilitarian theory. Utility includes not only pursuing happiness but also preventing or reducing unhappiness. If pursuing happiness is an impossible dream, preventing unhappiness offers even greater scope for action and becomes more urgently necessary. At least, this remains true as long as humanity chooses to live. It would cease to apply if everyone took refuge in the simultaneous suicide that Novalis recommended under certain conditions. But the firm claim that human life cannot be happy is, if not merely wordplay, at least an exaggeration. If happiness means constant, intensely pleasurable excitement, then clearly happiness is impossible. Intense pleasure lasts only moments, or sometimes hours or days, with some interruptions. Such pleasure is an occasional brilliant flash of enjoyment, not a steady, lasting flame. Philosophers who taught that happiness is life's goal understood this limitation just as fully as those who mock them. These philosophers did not mean a life of constant ecstasy, but a life with moments of ecstasy. Such a life would contain few, brief pains and many different pleasures, with far more activity than passivity. The foundation of this whole way of life would be not expecting more from life than life can give. Those fortunate enough to have such a life have always considered it worthy of the name of happiness. Even now, many people experience such a life for a considerable part of their lives. Today's miserable education and miserable social arrangements are the only real obstacles preventing almost everyone from achieving such a life.

The objectors perhaps may doubt whether human beings, if taught to consider happiness as the end of life, would be satisfied with such a moderate share of it. But great numbers of mankind have been satisfied with much less. The main constituents of a satisfied life appear to be two, either of which by itself is often found sufficient for the purpose: tranquillity, and excitement. With much tranquillity, many find that they can be content with very little pleasure: with much excitement, many can reconcile themselves to a considerable quantity of pain. There is assuredly no inherent impossibility in enabling even the mass of mankind to unite both; since the two are so far from being incompatible that they are in natural alliance, the prolongation of either being a preparation for, and exciting a wish for, the other. It is only those in whom indolence amounts to a vice, that do not desire excitement after an interval of repose; it is only those in whom the need of excitement is a disease, that feel the tranquillity which follows excitement dull and insipid, instead of pleasurable in direct proportion to the excitement which preceded it. When people who are tolerably fortunate in their outward lot do not find in life sufficient enjoyment to make it valuable to them, the cause generally is, caring for nobody but themselves. To those who have neither public nor private affections, the excitements of life are much curtailed, and in any case dwindle in value as the time approaches when all selfish interests must be terminated by death: while those who leave after them objects of personal affection, and especially those who have also cultivated a fellow-feeling with the collective interests of mankind, retain as lively an interest in life on the eve of death as in the vigour of youth and health. Next to selfishness, the principal cause which makes life unsatisfactory, is want of mental cultivation. A cultivated mind—I do not mean that of a philosopher, but any mind to which the fountains of knowledge have been opened, and which has been taught, in any tolerable degree, to exercise its faculties—finds sources of inexhaustible interest in all that surrounds it; in the objects of nature, the achievements of art, the imaginations of poetry, the incidents of history, the ways of mankind past and present, and their prospects in the future. It is possible, indeed, to become indifferent to all this, and that too without having exhausted a thousandth part of it; but only when one has had from the beginning no moral or human interest in these things, and has sought in them only the gratification of curiosity.

Critics may perhaps doubt whether people taught to see happiness as life's goal would accept such a modest share of happiness. But great numbers of people have been satisfied with much less. A satisfying life seems to have two main ingredients: peace and excitement. Either alone is often enough. With plenty of peace, many people can be content with very little pleasure. With plenty of excitement, many can accept a considerable amount of pain. There is certainly nothing inherently impossible about enabling even the great majority of people to combine both. Far from being incompatible, peace and excitement naturally support each other. A long period of either prepares people for the other and makes them want it. Only people whose laziness has become a vice fail to want excitement after a period of rest. Only people whose need for excitement has become an illness find the peace afterward dull and tasteless. Otherwise, that peace is pleasurable in direct proportion to the excitement that came before. When people with reasonably fortunate circumstances find too little enjoyment to make life valuable, the cause is generally selfishness. They care about nobody but themselves. People who care neither for particular individuals nor for the wider community have far fewer sources of excitement. In any case, those sources lose their value as death approaches and brings all selfish interests to an end. By contrast, some people will leave behind people they love. Those who have also developed a concern for humanity's shared interests have an especially strong connection to life. Such people remain as deeply interested in life near death as in the strength of youth and health. After selfishness, the main cause of dissatisfaction with life is a lack of mental development. By a developed mind, I do not mean a philosopher's mind. I mean any mind given access to knowledge and taught, to a reasonable degree, to use its abilities. Such a mind finds endless sources of interest in everything around it. These include the natural world, artistic achievements, poetic imagination, historical events, humanity's ways past and present, and humanity's future prospects. People can, indeed, become indifferent to all these things without exploring even a thousandth of them. But this happens only when they have never had any moral interest or concern for humanity in approaching these subjects. Instead, they have sought only to satisfy their curiosity.

Now there is absolutely no reason in the nature of things why an amount of mental culture sufficient to give an intelligent interest in these objects of contemplation, should not be the inheritance of every one born in a civilized country. As little is there an inherent necessity that any human being should be a selfish egotist, devoid of every feeling or care but those which centre in his own miserable individuality. Something far superior to this is sufficiently common even now, to give ample earnest of what the human species may be made. Genuine private affections, and a sincere interest in the public good, are possible, though in unequal degrees, to every rightly brought-up human being. In a world in which there is so much to interest, so much to enjoy, and so much also to correct and improve, every one who has this moderate amount of moral and intellectual requisites is capable of an existence which may be called enviable; and unless such a person, through bad laws, or subjection to the will of others, is denied the liberty to use the sources of happiness within his reach, he will not fail to find this enviable existence, if he escape the positive evils of life, the great sources of physical and mental suffering—such as indigence, disease, and the unkindness, worthlessness, or premature loss of objects of affection. The main stress of the problem lies, therefore, in the contest with these calamities, from which it is a rare good fortune entirely to escape; which, as things now are, cannot be obviated, and often cannot be in any material degree mitigated. Yet no one whose opinion deserves a moment's consideration can doubt that most of the great positive evils of the world are in themselves removable, and will, if human affairs continue to improve, be in the end reduced within narrow limits. Poverty, in any sense implying suffering, may be completely extinguished by the wisdom of society, combined with the good sense and providence of individuals. Even that most intractable of enemies, disease, may be indefinitely reduced in dimensions by good physical and moral education, and proper control of noxious influences; while the progress of science holds out a promise for the future of still more direct conquests over this detestable foe. And every advance in that direction relieves us from some, not only of the chances which cut short our own lives, but, what concerns us still more, which deprive us of those in whom our happiness is wrapt up. As for vicissitudes of fortune, and other disappointments connected with worldly circumstances, these are principally the effect either of gross imprudence, of ill-regulated desires, or of bad or imperfect social institutions. All the grand sources, in short, of human suffering are in a great degree, many of them almost entirely, conquerable by human care and effort; and though their removal is grievously slow—though a long succession of generations will perish in the breach before the conquest is completed, and this world becomes all that, if will and knowledge were not wanting, it might easily be made—yet every mind sufficiently intelligent and generous to bear a part, however small and unconspicuous, in the endeavour, will draw a noble enjoyment from the contest itself, which he would not for any bribe in the form of selfish indulgence consent to be without.

There is absolutely no reason why everyone born in a civilized country should not receive enough education to appreciate these subjects intelligently. Nor is anyone inherently bound to be selfish, caring about nothing beyond their own miserable little self. People far better than this are already common enough to show clearly what humanity can become. Genuine affection for others and sincere concern for the public good are possible for every properly raised person. These feelings may vary in strength from person to person. The world offers so much to interest us, so much to enjoy, and so much to correct and improve. Anyone with these modest moral and intellectual qualities can therefore live a life others might envy. Such a person will find that life, provided certain conditions are met. Bad laws or subjection to others must not deny them freedom to use the sources of happiness within reach. They must also escape life's direct harms, the great sources of physical and mental suffering. These include poverty, disease, and the unkindness, worthlessness, or early death of those they love. The main difficulty, then, lies in fighting these calamities. Only the exceptionally fortunate escape them entirely. As things stand, these calamities cannot be prevented, and often cannot even be significantly eased. Yet no one whose opinion deserves a moment's attention can doubt that most of the world's great harms are removable. If human affairs continue to improve, these harms will eventually be reduced to narrow limits. Poverty, wherever it involves suffering, may be completely eliminated through society's wisdom combined with individuals' good sense and foresight. Even disease, that most stubborn enemy, may be reduced without any fixed limit. Good physical and moral education, along with proper control of harmful influences, may bring about this reduction. Meanwhile, scientific progress promises still more direct victories over this hateful enemy in the future. Every advance reduces some of the risks that cut our own lives short. More importantly, every advance also reduces some of the risks that take away those on whom our happiness depends. Changes in fortune and other disappointments involving material circumstances mainly result from serious recklessness, poorly controlled desires, or flawed social institutions. In short, human care and effort can largely overcome all the great sources of human suffering. Many can be overcome almost entirely. Yet progress in removing these sources of suffering is painfully slow. Many generations will die in the struggle before the victory is complete. Only then will the world become all that sufficient will and knowledge could easily make it. Still, every sufficiently intelligent and generous person who takes part will find a noble satisfaction in the struggle itself. Their contribution may be small and unnoticed. Yet they would not give up that satisfaction for any reward of selfish pleasure.

And this leads to the true estimation of what is said by the objectors concerning the possibility, and the obligation, of learning to do without happiness. Unquestionably it is possible to do without happiness; it is done involuntarily by nineteen-twentieths of mankind, even in those parts of our present world which are least deep in barbarism; and it often has to be done voluntarily by the hero or the martyr, for the sake of something which he prizes more than his individual happiness. But this something, what is it, unless the happiness of others, or some of the requisites of happiness? It is noble to be capable of resigning entirely one's own portion of happiness, or chances of it: but, after all, this self-sacrifice must be for some end; it is not its own end; and if we are told that its end is not happiness, but virtue, which is better than happiness, I ask, would the sacrifice be made if the hero or martyr did not believe that it would earn for others immunity from similar sacrifices? Would it be made, if he thought that his renunciation of happiness for himself would produce no fruit for any of his fellow creatures, but to make their lot like his, and place them also in the condition of persons who have renounced happiness? All honour to those who can abnegate for themselves the personal enjoyment of life, when by such renunciation they contribute worthily to increase the amount of happiness in the world; but he who does it, or professes to do it, for any other purpose, is no more deserving of admiration than the ascetic mounted on his pillar. He may be an inspiriting proof of what men can do, but assuredly not an example of what they should.

This brings us to a fair assessment of the critics’ claims about learning to live without happiness. They say that doing so is both possible and a duty. Certainly, people can live without happiness. Nineteen out of twenty people do so unwillingly, even in the least barbaric parts of today’s world. And heroes or martyrs often have to give up happiness willingly for something they value more than their own happiness. But what is that something, if not other people’s happiness, or some of the conditions needed for happiness? It is noble to be capable of giving up all your own happiness, or your chances of happiness. But such self-sacrifice must serve some purpose. It is not an end in itself. Suppose we are told that its purpose is not happiness, but virtue, which is better than happiness. Then I ask: would heroes or martyrs make the sacrifice without believing it would spare others similar sacrifices? Would they give up their happiness if they thought the only result for others would be the same unhappy fate? Would they do so if others, too, would be left having given up happiness? All honor to those who can give up their own enjoyment of life when their sacrifice genuinely increases the world’s happiness. But anyone who does so, or claims to, for any other purpose deserves no more admiration than an ascetic on a pillar. Such a person may offer inspiring proof of what people can do, but certainly not an example of what they should.

Though it is only in a very imperfect state of the world's arrangements that any one can best serve the happiness of others by the absolute sacrifice of his own, yet so long as the world is in that imperfect state, I fully acknowledge that the readiness to make such a sacrifice is the highest virtue which can be found in man. I will add, that in this condition of the world, paradoxical as the assertion may be, the conscious ability to do without happiness gives the best prospect of realizing such happiness as is attainable. For nothing except that consciousness can raise a person above the chances of life, by making him feel that, let fate and fortune do their worst, they have not power to subdue him: which, once felt, frees him from excess of anxiety concerning the evils of life, and enables him, like many a Stoic in the worst times of the Roman Empire, to cultivate in tranquillity the sources of satisfaction accessible to him, without concerning himself about the uncertainty of their duration, any more than about their inevitable end.

Only in a deeply imperfect world can someone best serve others’ happiness by completely sacrificing their own. Yet as long as the world remains so imperfect, I fully acknowledge that readiness to make such a sacrifice is the highest human virtue. I would add that, in such a world, knowing you can live without happiness offers the best chance of finding whatever happiness is possible. This claim may seem paradoxical. For only that knowledge can lift a person above life’s uncertainties. It makes them feel that, however badly fate and fortune treat them, neither can overcome them. Once they feel this, they are freed from excessive anxiety about life’s troubles. Then, like many a Stoic in the worst times of the Roman Empire, they can calmly cultivate the satisfactions available to them. They need not worry about how long those satisfactions will last, any more than about their inevitable end.

Meanwhile, let utilitarians never cease to claim the morality of self-devotion as a possession which belongs by as good a right to them, as either to the Stoic or to the Transcendentalist. 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 imposed by the collective interests of mankind.

Meanwhile, utilitarians should never stop claiming that the morality of self-sacrifice belongs as much to them as to the Stoic or the Transcendentalist. Utilitarian morality does recognize that people can sacrifice their own greatest good for the good of others. It only denies that sacrifice is good in itself. Utilitarian morality considers a sacrifice wasted if it neither increases nor tends to increase overall happiness. The only self-denial it praises is devotion to others’ happiness or to some of the means of their happiness. Such devotion may serve either humanity as a whole or individuals, within the limits set by humanity’s collective interests.

I must again repeat, what the assailants of utilitarianism seldom have the justice to acknowledge, that the happiness which forms the utilitarian standard of what is right in conduct, is not the agent's own happiness, but that of all concerned. As between his own happiness and that of others, utilitarianism requires him to be as strictly impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator. In the golden rule of Jesus of Nazareth, we read the complete spirit of the ethics of utility. To do as one would be done by, and to love one's neighbour as oneself, constitute the ideal perfection of utilitarian morality. As the means of making the nearest approach to this ideal, utility would enjoin, first, that laws and social arrangements should place the happiness, or (as speaking practically it may be called) the interest, of every individual, as nearly as possible in harmony with the interest of the whole; and secondly, that education and opinion, which have so vast a power over human character, should so use that power as to establish in the mind of every individual an indissoluble association between his own happiness and the good of the whole; especially between his own happiness and the practice of such modes of conduct, negative and positive, as regard for the universal happiness prescribes: so that not only he may be unable to conceive the possibility of happiness to himself, consistently with conduct opposed to the general good, but also that a direct impulse to promote the general good may be in every individual one of the habitual motives of action, and the sentiments connected therewith may fill a large and prominent place in every human being's sentient existence. If the impugners of the utilitarian morality represented it to their own minds in this its true character, I know not what recommendation possessed by any other morality they could possibly affirm to be wanting to it: what more beautiful or more exalted developments of human nature any other ethical system can be supposed to foster, or what springs of action, not accessible to the utilitarian, such systems rely on for giving effect to their mandates.

I must repeat a point that critics of utilitarianism are seldom fair enough to acknowledge. The happiness that sets the utilitarian standard of right conduct is not the happiness of the person acting. It is the happiness of everyone concerned. In weighing one's own happiness against other people's, utilitarianism requires the strict impartiality of an unbiased and benevolent observer. The golden rule of Jesus of Nazareth expresses the full spirit of utilitarian ethics. Treating others as we would wish to be treated, and loving our neighbours as ourselves, represent utilitarian morality's ideal perfection. To come as close as possible to this ideal, the principle of utility would require two things. First, laws and social arrangements should bring each individual's happiness as nearly as possible into harmony with everyone's shared interests. In practical terms, we may call each individual's happiness their interests. Second, education and public opinion have enormous power over human character. They should use that power to create an unbreakable link in everyone's mind between personal happiness and the common good. In particular, they should link personal happiness with doing what universal happiness requires and refraining from what it forbids. The aim is that no one could imagine being happy while acting against the common good. A direct impulse to promote the common good should also become one of everyone's habitual motives for action. And the feelings associated with that impulse should occupy a large and prominent place in every person's emotional life. If critics of utilitarian morality understood its true character, I cannot see what advantage they could claim it lacks. What finer or nobler qualities of human nature could any other ethical system be thought to encourage? What motives unavailable to utilitarians do those systems rely on to put their rules into practice?

The objectors to utilitarianism cannot always be charged with representing it in a discreditable light. On the contrary, those among them who entertain anything like a just idea of its disinterested character, sometimes find fault with its standard as being too high for humanity. They say it is exacting too much to require that people shall always act from the inducement of promoting the general interests of society. But this is to mistake the very meaning of a standard of morals, and to confound the rule of action with the motive of it. It is the business of ethics to tell us what are our duties, or by what test we may know them; but no system of ethics requires that the sole motive of all we do shall be a feeling of duty; on the contrary, ninety-nine hundredths of all our actions are done from other motives, and rightly so done, if the rule of duty does not condemn them. It is the more unjust to utilitarianism that this particular misapprehension should be made a ground of objection to it, inasmuch as utilitarian moralists have gone beyond almost all others in affirming that the motive has nothing to do with the morality of the action, though much with the worth of the agent. He who saves a fellow creature from drowning does what is morally right, whether his motive be duty, or the hope of being paid for his trouble: he who betrays the friend that trusts him, is guilty of a crime, even if his object be to serve another friend to whom he is under greater obligations.[^B] But to speak only of actions done from the motive of duty, and in direct obedience to principle: it is a misapprehension of the utilitarian mode of thought, to conceive it as implying that people should fix their minds upon so wide a generality as the world, or society at large. The great majority of good actions are intended, not for the benefit of the world, but for that of individuals, of which the good of the world is made up; and the thoughts of the most virtuous man need not on these occasions travel beyond the particular persons concerned, except so far as is necessary to assure himself that in benefiting them he is not violating the rights—that is, the legitimate and authorized expectations—of any one else. The multiplication of happiness is, according to the utilitarian ethics, the object of virtue: the occasions on which any person (except one in a thousand) has it in his power to do this on an extended scale, in other words, to be a public benefactor, are but exceptional; and on these occasions alone is he called on to consider public utility; in every other case, private utility, the interest or happiness of some few persons, is all he has to attend to. Those alone the influence of whose actions extends to society in general, need concern themselves habitually about so large an object. In the case of abstinences indeed—of things which people forbear to do, from moral considerations, though the consequences in the particular case might be beneficial—it would be unworthy of an intelligent agent not to be consciously aware that the action is of a class which, if practised generally, would be generally injurious, and that this is the ground of the obligation to abstain from it. The amount of regard for the public interest implied in this recognition, is no greater than is demanded by every system of morals; for they all enjoin to abstain from whatever is manifestly pernicious to society.

Critics of utilitarianism cannot always be accused of making it look bad. On the contrary, some understand its impartial character fairly well, yet sometimes complain that its standard is too high for humanity. They say it asks too much to require people always to act from a desire to promote society’s general interests. But this objection misunderstands what a moral standard means. It confuses the rule for an action with the motive behind it. Ethics tells us what our duties are, or what test we can use to identify them. But no ethical system requires a sense of duty to be the sole motive for everything we do. On the contrary, ninety-nine out of every hundred actions come from other motives. Those actions are rightly done, provided the rule of duty does not condemn them. This misunderstanding is especially unfair as an objection to utilitarianism. Utilitarian moral thinkers have gone further than almost all others in separating motives from the morality of actions. They hold that motives have nothing to do with an action’s morality, though much to do with the person’s worth. Someone who saves another person from drowning does what is morally right. This remains true whether the motive is duty or the hope of payment for the trouble. Someone who betrays a trusting friend commits a crime, even to help another friend to whom they owe more.[^B] But consider only actions motivated by duty and guided directly by principle. Utilitarian thinking does not mean that people should focus on something as broad as the world or society at large. The great majority of good actions aim to benefit individuals, not the world. The world’s good is made up of the good of individuals. Even the most virtuous person need not think beyond the particular people involved on these occasions, except for one purpose. They must make sure that helping those people does not violate anyone else’s rights. These rights are people’s legitimate and recognized expectations. According to utilitarian ethics, the aim of virtue is to increase happiness. Except for one person in a thousand, people only rarely have the power to increase happiness on a large scale. In other words, opportunities to benefit the public are exceptional. Only on those occasions must people consider the public benefit. In every other case, they need only consider private benefit, meaning the interests or happiness of a few people. Only people whose actions influence society in general need to concern themselves regularly with such a broad aim. There are, however, actions that people avoid for moral reasons, even though the particular consequences might be beneficial. An intelligent person should consciously recognize that such an action belongs to a class that would generally cause harm if widely practiced. Failing to recognize this would be unworthy of an intelligent person. That general harm is the reason for the duty to avoid the action. Recognizing this requires no more concern for the public interest than every moral system demands. All moral systems require people to avoid whatever is clearly harmful to society.

The same considerations dispose of another reproach against the doctrine of utility, founded on a still grosser misconception of the purpose of a standard of morality, and of the very meaning of the words right and wrong. It is often affirmed that utilitarianism renders men cold and unsympathizing; that it chills their moral feelings towards individuals; that it makes them regard only the dry and hard consideration of the consequences of actions, not taking into their moral estimate the qualities from which those actions emanate. If the assertion means that they do not allow their judgment respecting the rightness or wrongness of an action to be influenced by their opinion of the qualities of the person who does it, this is a complaint not against utilitarianism, but against having any standard of morality at all; for certainly no known ethical standard decides an action to be good or bad because it is done by a good or a bad man, still less because done by an amiable, a brave, or a benevolent man or the contrary. These considerations are relevant, not to the estimation of actions, but of persons; and there is nothing in the utilitarian theory inconsistent with the fact that there are other things which interest us in persons besides the rightness and wrongness of their actions. The Stoics, indeed, with the paradoxical misuse of language which was part of their system, and by which they strove to raise themselves above all concern about anything but virtue, were fond of saying that he who has that has everything; that he, and only he, is rich, is beautiful, is a king. But no claim of this description is made for the virtuous man by the utilitarian doctrine. Utilitarians are quite aware that there are other desirable possessions and qualities besides virtue, and are perfectly willing to allow to all of them their full worth. They are also aware that a right action does not necessarily indicate a virtuous character, and that actions which are blameable often proceed from qualities entitled to praise. When this is apparent in any particular case, it modifies their estimation, not certainly of the act, but of the agent. I grant that they are, notwithstanding, of opinion, that in the long run the best proof of a good character is good actions; and resolutely refuse to consider any mental disposition as good, of which the predominant tendency is to produce bad conduct. This makes them unpopular with many people; but it is an unpopularity which they must share with every one who regards the distinction between right and wrong in a serious light; and the reproach is not one which a conscientious utilitarian need be anxious to repel.

The same considerations answer another criticism of utilitarianism. This criticism rests on an even greater misunderstanding of what a moral standard is for and what right and wrong mean. People often claim that utilitarianism makes people cold and unsympathetic. They say it weakens people’s moral feelings toward individuals. They claim it makes people consider only the bare consequences of actions, ignoring the personal qualities behind those actions. Suppose this means utilitarians judge an action’s rightness or wrongness without considering their opinion of the person’s character. Then the complaint is not against utilitarianism, but against having any moral standard at all. Certainly, no known ethical standard judges an action good or bad because a good or bad person performed it. Still less does any standard judge an action by whether the person is pleasant, brave, or kind, or the opposite. These qualities matter when judging people, not actions. Utilitarian theory fully accepts that people interest us for reasons beyond the rightness or wrongness of their actions. The Stoics did like to say that anyone who has virtue has everything. They said that such a person, and only such a person, is rich, beautiful, and a king. These paradoxical misuses of language were part of their system. Through them, the Stoics tried to rise above caring about anything but virtue. But utilitarianism makes no such claims for a virtuous person. Utilitarians know perfectly well that other possessions and qualities besides virtue are desirable. They are entirely willing to give all of them their full value. They also know that a right action does not necessarily show a virtuous character. And blameworthy actions often come from qualities that deserve praise. When this is clear in a particular case, utilitarians adjust their judgment of the person, certainly not of the action. I admit that utilitarians nevertheless believe good actions are, in the long run, the best evidence of good character. They firmly refuse to call any disposition good if its main tendency is to produce bad conduct. This refusal makes them unpopular with many people. But everyone who takes the distinction between right and wrong seriously must share that unpopularity. A conscientious utilitarian need not be anxious to defend against this criticism.

If no more be meant by the objection than that many utilitarians look on the morality of actions, as measured by the utilitarian standard, with too exclusive a regard, and do not lay sufficient stress upon the other beauties of character which go towards making a human being loveable or admirable, this may be admitted. Utilitarians who have cultivated their moral feelings, but not their sympathies nor their artistic perceptions, do fall into this mistake; and so do all other moralists under the same conditions. What can be said in excuse for other moralists is equally available for them, namely, that if there is to be any error, it is better that it should be on that side. As a matter of fact, we may affirm that among utilitarians as among adherents of other systems, there is every imaginable degree of rigidity and of laxity in the application of their standard: some are even puritanically rigorous, while others are as indulgent as can possibly be desired by sinner or by sentimentalist. But on the whole, a doctrine which brings prominently forward the interest that mankind have in the repression and prevention of conduct which violates the moral law, is likely to be inferior to no other in turning the sanctions of opinion against such violations. It is true, the question, What does violate the moral law? is one on which those who recognise different standards of morality are likely now and then to differ. But difference of opinion on moral questions was not first introduced into the world by utilitarianism, while that doctrine does supply, if not always an easy, at all events a tangible and intelligible mode of deciding such differences.

If the objection means only the following, we may accept it. Many utilitarians focus too exclusively on how moral actions are, as judged by the utilitarian standard. They give too little weight to other qualities of character that make someone lovable or admirable. Utilitarians who develop their moral feelings, but not their sympathy or appreciation of beauty, do make this mistake. So do all other moral thinkers under the same conditions. The same excuse can be made for utilitarians as for other moral thinkers. If there must be an error, it is better to err on that side. In fact, utilitarians, like followers of other systems, vary as widely as possible in how strictly they apply their standard. Some are even puritanically strict. Others are as forgiving as any sinner or sentimentalist could wish. But overall, utilitarianism emphasizes humanity's interest in stopping and preventing conduct that violates moral rules. Such a doctrine is likely to be as effective as any other at directing public disapproval against such violations. Of course, people who accept different moral standards are likely to disagree sometimes about what violates moral rules. But utilitarianism did not introduce disagreement about moral questions into the world. And utilitarianism does offer a concrete, understandable way to settle such disagreements, even if that way is not always easy.

It may not be superfluous to notice a few more of the common misapprehensions of utilitarian ethics, even those which are so obvious and gross that it might appear impossible for any person of candour and intelligence to fall into them: since persons, even of considerable mental endowments, often give themselves so little trouble to understand the bearings of any opinion against which they entertain a prejudice, and men are in general so little conscious of this voluntary ignorance as a defect, that the vulgarest misunderstandings of ethical doctrines are continually met with in the deliberate writings of persons of the greatest pretensions both to high principle and to philosophy. We not uncommonly hear the doctrine of utility inveighed against as a godless doctrine. If it be necessary to say anything at all against so mere an assumption, we may say that the question depends upon what idea we have formed of the moral character of the Deity. If it be a true belief that God desires, above all things, the happiness of his creatures, and that this was his purpose in their creation, utility is not only not a godless doctrine, but more profoundly religious than any other. If it be meant that utilitarianism does not recognise the revealed will of God as the supreme law of morals, I answer, that an utilitarian who believes in the perfect goodness and wisdom of God, necessarily believes that whatever God has thought fit to reveal on the subject of morals, must fulfil the requirements of utility in a supreme degree. But others besides utilitarians have been of opinion that the Christian revelation was intended, and is fitted, to inform the hearts and minds of mankind with a spirit which should enable them to find for themselves what is right, and incline them to do it when found, rather than to tell them, except in a very general way, what it is: and that we need a doctrine of ethics, carefully followed out, to interpret to us the will of God. Whether this opinion is correct or not, it is superfluous here to discuss; since whatever aid religion, either natural or revealed, can afford to ethical investigation, is as open to the utilitarian moralist as to any other. He can use it as the testimony of God to the usefulness or hurtfulness of any given course of action, by as good a right as others can use it for the indication of a transcendental law, having no connexion with usefulness or with happiness.

It may be worth noting a few more common misunderstandings of utilitarian ethics. Some are so obvious and crude that no fair-minded, intelligent person would seem capable of making them. Yet even highly intelligent people often make little effort to understand the implications of opinions they are prejudiced against. People generally show little awareness that this deliberate ignorance is a fault. So the crudest misunderstandings of ethical doctrines continually appear in the considered writings of supposedly principled and philosophical thinkers. We quite often hear the doctrine of utility attacked as a godless doctrine. If such a mere assumption needs any answer, we can say the question depends on our view of God's moral character. Suppose we rightly believe that God desires his creatures' happiness above all else, and created them for that purpose. If so, utility is not godless but more deeply religious than any other doctrine. Perhaps the objection is that utilitarianism does not recognize God's revealed will as the highest moral law. My answer is that a utilitarian who believes in God's perfect goodness and wisdom must also believe something else. Whatever God has chosen to reveal about morality must meet the requirements of utility to the highest degree. But utilitarians are not alone in holding another view of Christian revelation. On this view, Christian revelation was intended, and is suited, to fill human hearts and minds with a certain spirit. That spirit should enable people to discover for themselves what is right and incline them to do it once discovered. Revelation's purpose was not to tell them what is right, except in very general terms. On this view, we need a carefully developed ethical doctrine to interpret God's will for us. We need not discuss here whether this view is correct. For whatever help religion offers ethical inquiry is available to utilitarian moral thinkers as much as to anyone else. This applies both to religion based on reason and nature and to religion based on revelation. Utilitarians can use religion as God's testimony about whether a particular course of action is useful or harmful. They have as much right to do so as others have to use religion as evidence of a transcendent law. Such a law has no connection with usefulness or happiness.

Again, Utility is often summarily stigmatized as an immoral doctrine by giving it the name of Expediency, and taking advantage of the popular use of that term to contrast it with Principle. But the Expedient, in the sense in which it is opposed to the Right, generally means that which is expedient for the particular interest of the agent himself: as when a minister sacrifices the interest of his country to keep himself in place. When it means anything better than this, it means that which is expedient for some immediate object, some temporary purpose, but which violates a rule whose observance is expedient in a much higher degree. The Expedient, in this sense, instead of being the same thing with the useful, is a branch of the hurtful. Thus, it would often be expedient, for the purpose of getting over some momentary embarrassment, or attaining some object immediately useful to ourselves or others, to tell a lie. But inasmuch as the cultivation in ourselves of a sensitive feeling on the subject of veracity, is one of the most useful, and the enfeeblement of that feeling one of the most hurtful, things to which our conduct can be instrumental; and inasmuch as any, even unintentional, deviation from truth, does that much towards weakening the trustworthiness of human assertion, which is not only the principal support of all present social well-being, but the insufficiency of which does more than any one thing that can be named to keep back civilisation, virtue, everything on which human happiness on the largest scale depends; we feel that the violation, for a present advantage, of a rule of such transcendent expediency, is not expedient, and that he who, for the sake of a convenience to himself or to some other individual, does what depends on him to deprive mankind of the good, and inflict upon them the evil, involved in the greater or less reliance which they can place in each other's word, acts the part of one of their worst enemies. Yet that even this rule, sacred as it is, admits of possible exceptions, is acknowledged by all moralists; the chief of which is when the withholding of some fact (as of information from a male-factor, or of bad news from a person dangerously ill) would preserve some one (especially a person other than oneself) from great and unmerited evil, and when the withholding can only be effected by denial. But in order that the exception may not extend itself beyond the need, and may have the least possible effect in weakening reliance on veracity, it ought to be recognized, and, if possible, its limits defined; and if the principle of utility is good for anything, it must be good for weighing these conflicting utilities against one another, and marking out the region within which one or the other preponderates.

Again, Utility is often dismissed as immoral simply by calling it Expediency. Critics exploit the popular meaning of Expediency to contrast it with Principle. But when Expediency is contrasted with what is right, it generally means serving the interests of the person acting. A minister, for example, might sacrifice his country’s interests to stay in office. When Expediency means anything better, it means serving some immediate goal or temporary purpose while breaking a rule. Yet following that rule would be far more beneficial. Expediency in this sense is not the same as usefulness. Instead, it is a form of harm. For example, lying would often help us escape some passing embarrassment or achieve something immediately useful to ourselves or others. But developing a strong concern for truthfulness is among the most useful things our conduct can promote. Weakening that concern is among the most harmful. Any departure from truth, even an unintentional one, does something to weaken the trustworthiness of what people say. That trustworthiness is the main support of all our present social well-being. A lack of trustworthiness does more than anything else to hold back civilization, virtue, and everything supporting widespread human happiness. So we recognize that breaking such an overwhelmingly beneficial rule for an immediate advantage is not truly beneficial. Someone may, for their own convenience or another person’s, do their part to undermine people’s trust in one another’s word. In doing so, they deprive humanity of the benefits of that trust and inflict the harms of its loss. Such a person acts as one of humanity’s worst enemies. Yet all moral thinkers acknowledge that even this rule, sacred as it is, can admit exceptions. The main exception concerns withholding a fact to protect someone, especially someone else, from great and undeserved harm. For example, someone might withhold information from a criminal, or bad news from a dangerously ill person. The exception applies when the fact can be withheld only by denying it. But the exception must not extend beyond what is necessary. It must also weaken trust in truthfulness as little as possible. The exception should therefore be explicitly recognized and, if possible, its limits defined. If the principle of utility is good for anything, it must help us weigh these competing benefits against one another. It must also help us define the circumstances in which one outweighs the other.

Again, defenders of utility often find themselves called upon to reply to such objections as this—that there is not time, previous to action, for calculating and weighing the effects of any line of conduct on the general happiness. This is exactly as if any one were to say that it is impossible to guide our conduct by Christianity, because there is not time, on every occasion on which anything has to be done, to read through the Old and New Testaments. The answer to the objection is, that there has been ample time, namely, the whole past duration of the human species. During all that time mankind have been learning by experience the tendencies of actions; on which experience all the prudence, as well as all the morality of life, is dependent. People talk as if the commencement of this course of experience had hitherto been put off, and as if, at the moment when some man feels tempted to meddle with the property or life of another, he had to begin considering for the first time whether murder and theft are injurious to human happiness. Even then I do not think that he would find the question very puzzling; but, at all events, the matter is now done to his hand. It is truly a whimsical supposition, that if mankind were agreed in considering utility to be the test of morality, they would remain without any agreement as to what is useful, and would take no measures for having their notions on the subject taught to the young, and enforced by law and opinion. There is no difficulty in proving any ethical standard whatever to work ill, if we suppose universal idiocy to be conjoined with it, but on any hypothesis short of that, mankind must by this time have acquired positive beliefs as to the effects of some actions on their happiness; and the beliefs which have thus come down are the rules of morality for the multitude, and for the philosopher until he has succeeded in finding better. That philosophers might easily do this, even now, on many subjects; that the received code of ethics is by no means of divine right; and that mankind have still much to learn as to the effects of actions on the general happiness, I admit, or rather, earnestly maintain. The corollaries from the principle of utility, like the precepts of every practical art, admit of indefinite improvement, and, in a progressive state of the human mind, their improvement is perpetually going on. But to consider the rules of morality as improvable, is one thing; to pass over the intermediate generalizations entirely, and endeavour to test each individual action directly by the first principle, is another. It is a strange notion that the acknowledgment of a first principle is inconsistent with the admission of secondary ones. To inform a traveller respecting the place of his ultimate destination, is not to forbid the use of landmarks and direction-posts on the way. The proposition that happiness is the end and aim of morality, does not mean that no road ought to be laid down to that goal, or that persons going thither should not be advised to take one direction rather than another. Men really ought to leave off talking a kind of nonsense on this subject, which they would neither talk nor listen to on other matters of practical concernment. Nobody argues that the art of navigation is not founded on astronomy, because sailors cannot wait to calculate the Nautical Almanack. Being rational creatures, they go to sea with it ready calculated; and all rational creatures go out upon the sea of life with their minds made up on the common questions of right and wrong, as well as on many of the far more difficult questions of wise and foolish. And this, as long as foresight is a human quality, it is to be presumed they will continue to do. Whatever we adopt as the fundamental principle of morality, we require subordinate principles to apply it by: the impossibility of doing without them, being common to all systems, can afford no argument against any one in particular: but gravely to argue as if no such secondary principles could be had, and as if mankind had remained till now, and always must remain, without drawing any general conclusions from the experience of human life, is as high a pitch, I think, as absurdity has ever reached in philosophical controversy.

Again, defenders of utility often have to answer this objection: before acting, there is no time to calculate and weigh how a course of action would affect general happiness. This is just like saying that Christianity cannot guide our conduct because there is no time to read the Bible before every action. We cannot read through the Old and New Testaments every time something needs doing. The answer is that there has been plenty of time: the entire history of the human species. Throughout that time, humanity has learned from experience what effects actions tend to have. All practical judgment, as well as all morality, depends on that experience. People talk as if this process of learning had never begun. They speak as if someone tempted to interfere with another person's property or life must start from scratch. That person must supposedly consider for the first time whether murder and theft harm human happiness. Even then, I do not think the question would be very puzzling. But in any case, the work has already been done for that person. It is a truly fanciful assumption that people could agree that utility is the test of morality, yet agree on nothing useful. It is equally fanciful to suppose they would do nothing to teach their views to the young. Or that they would do nothing to enforce those views through law and public opinion. Any ethical standard can easily be shown to work badly if we assume everyone following it is an idiot. But on any less extreme assumption, humanity must by now have formed definite beliefs about how some actions affect happiness. These inherited beliefs serve as moral rules for most people, and for philosophers until they find better ones. I admit that philosophers could easily find better rules on many subjects, even now. I also admit that the accepted moral code has no divine authority. And humanity still has much to learn about how actions affect general happiness. Indeed, I do not merely admit these points. I strongly insist on them. The rules drawn from the principle of utility can be improved without limit, like the rules of every practical skill. As human understanding advances, those improvements are constantly being made. But believing that moral rules can be improved is one thing. Ignoring all the general rules between the basic principle and particular actions is another. That would mean trying to judge every individual action directly by the basic principle. It is strange to think that accepting a basic principle rules out accepting secondary ones. Telling travelers their final destination does not forbid them to use landmarks and signposts along the way. Saying that happiness is morality's ultimate goal does not mean that no route to happiness should be mapped out. Nor does it mean that travelers should receive no advice about which direction to take. People really should stop talking nonsense about this subject that they would neither speak nor tolerate on other practical matters. Nobody argues that navigation cannot rest on astronomy because sailors cannot wait to calculate the Nautical Almanack. As rational beings, sailors go to sea with those calculations already made. Likewise, all rational beings set out on the sea of life with settled views on ordinary questions of right and wrong. They also have settled views on many of the much harder questions of what is wise or foolish. As long as humans can foresee consequences, we can expect them to continue doing so. Whatever basic principle of morality we adopt, we need secondary principles to apply it. All moral systems share this need, so that need cannot count as an argument against any particular system. Yet some seriously argue as if no such secondary principles were available. They argue as if humanity had never drawn general conclusions from human experience, and could never do so. I think philosophical debate has never reached a greater height of absurdity.

The remainder of the stock arguments against utilitarianism mostly consist in laying to its charge the common infirmities of human nature, and the general difficulties which embarrass conscientious persons in shaping their course through life. We are told that an utilitarian will be apt to make his own particular case an exception to moral rules, and, when under temptation, will see an utility in the breach of a rule, greater than he will see in its observance. But is utility the only creed which is able to furnish us with excuses for evil doing, and means of cheating our own conscience? They are afforded in abundance by all doctrines which recognise as a fact in morals the existence of conflicting considerations; which all doctrines do, that have been believed by sane persons. It is not the fault of any creed, but of the complicated nature of human affairs, that rules of conduct cannot be so framed as to require no exceptions, and that hardly any kind of action can safely be laid down as either always obligatory or always condemnable. There is no ethical creed which does not temper the rigidity of its laws, by giving a certain latitude, under the moral responsibility of the agent, for accommodation to peculiarities of circumstances; and under every creed, at the opening thus made, self-deception and dishonest casuistry get in. There exists no moral system under which there do not arise unequivocal cases of conflicting obligation. These are the real difficulties, the knotty points both in the theory of ethics, and in the conscientious guidance of personal conduct. They are overcome practically with greater or with less success according to the intellect and virtue of the individual; but it can hardly be pretended that any one will be the less qualified for dealing with them, from possessing an ultimate standard to which conflicting rights and duties can be referred. If utility is the ultimate source of moral obligations, utility may be invoked to decide between them when their demands are incompatible. Though the application of the standard may be difficult, it is better than none at all: while in other systems, the moral laws all claiming independent authority, there is no common umpire entitled to interfere between them; their claims to precedence one over another rest on little better than sophistry, and unless determined, as they generally are, by the unacknowledged influence of considerations of utility, afford a free scope for the action of personal desires and partialities. We must remember that only in these cases of conflict between secondary principles is it requisite that first principles should be appealed to. There is no case of moral obligation in which some secondary principle is not involved; and if only one, there can seldom be any real doubt which one it is, in the mind of any person by whom the principle itself is recognized.

Most remaining standard arguments against utilitarianism blame it for the common weaknesses of human nature. They also blame it for the general difficulties conscientious people face in deciding how to live. We are told that utilitarians will tend to make exceptions to moral rules for their own particular cases. When tempted, they will see more utility in breaking a rule than in following it. But is utilitarianism the only belief system that offers excuses for wrongdoing and ways to deceive our own conscience? Every moral doctrine that recognizes conflicting considerations offers plenty of such excuses. And every doctrine that sane people have believed recognizes such conflicts. The problem lies not in any belief system, but in the complexity of human affairs. Rules of conduct cannot be written to allow no exceptions. And hardly any kind of action can safely be declared always required or always wrong. Every ethical system softens its strict rules by allowing some flexibility to account for particular circumstances. The person acting remains morally responsible for using that flexibility. And under every system, this opening lets in self-deception and dishonest moral reasoning. Every moral system gives rise to clear cases of conflicting obligations. These conflicts are the real difficulties, the hard problems in both ethical theory and conscientious decisions about personal conduct. In practice, people handle these difficulties more or less successfully according to their intelligence and virtue. But hardly anyone could claim that having an ultimate standard makes someone less able to handle such conflicts. Such a standard provides a basis for judging conflicting rights and duties. If utility is the ultimate source of moral obligations, utility may decide between those obligations when their demands conflict. Though applying the standard may be difficult, having a standard is better than having none. In other systems, however, all moral laws claim independent authority. So no common judge has the authority to settle conflicts between those laws. Claims that one law takes priority over another rest on little more than clever but misleading reasoning. Usually, considerations of utility settle these priorities, though their influence goes unacknowledged. Unless utility settles them, these claims leave personal desires and biases free to operate. We must remember that we need to appeal to first principles only when secondary principles conflict. Every moral obligation involves some secondary principle. If only one principle is involved, anyone who accepts that principle can seldom genuinely doubt which principle applies.

FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:

The author of this essay has reason for believing himself to be the first person who brought the word utilitarian into use. He did not invent it, but adopted it from a passing expression in Mr. Galt's Annals of the Parish. After using it as a designation for several years, he and others abandoned it from a growing dislike to anything resembling a badge or watchword of sectarian distinction. But as a name for one single opinion, not a set of opinions—to denote the recognition of utility as a standard, not any particular way of applying it—the term supplies a want in the language, and offers, in many cases, a convenient mode of avoiding tiresome circumlocution.

The author of this essay has reason to believe he was the first person to bring the word utilitarian into use. He did not invent the word, but borrowed it from a passing expression in Mr. Galt's Annals of the Parish. After using the term as a label for several years, he and others gave it up. They had grown increasingly uncomfortable with anything resembling a badge or slogan marking out a separate group. But the term fills a gap in the language when used to name a single opinion, not a whole set. That opinion recognizes utility as a standard, without specifying any particular way of applying that standard. In many cases, the term offers a convenient way to avoid tiresome, roundabout explanations.

An opponent, whose intellectual and moral fairness it is a pleasure to acknowledge (the Rev. J. Llewellyn Davis), has objected to this passage, saying, "Surely the rightness or wrongness of saving a man from drowning does depend very much upon the motive with which it is done. Suppose that a tyrant, when his enemy jumped into the sea to escape from him, saved him from drowning simply in order that he might inflict upon him more exquisite tortures, would it tend to clearness to speak of that rescue as 'a morally right action?' Or suppose again, according to one of the stock illustrations of ethical inquiries, that a man betrayed a trust received from a friend, because the discharge of it would fatally injure that friend himself or some one belonging to him, would utilitarianism compel one to call the betrayal 'a crime' as much as if it had been done from the meanest motive?"

An opponent (the Rev. J. Llewellyn Davis) has objected to this passage. I am pleased to acknowledge his intellectual and moral fairness. He writes, "Surely whether saving a man from drowning is right or wrong depends very much on the motive behind the rescue. Suppose a tyrant’s enemy jumped into the sea to escape him. The tyrant saved his enemy from drowning simply so that he could inflict more agonizing tortures on him. Would calling that rescue 'a morally right action' help make matters clearer? Or consider another example often used in discussions of ethics. Suppose a man betrayed a friend’s trust because fulfilling that trust would fatally harm the friend or someone close to him. Would utilitarianism require us to call the betrayal 'a crime' just as much as if his motive had been utterly base?"

I submit, that he who saves another from drowning in order to kill him by torture afterwards, does not differ only in motive from him who does the same thing from duty or benevolence; the act itself is different. The rescue of the man is, in the case supposed, only the necessary first step of an act far more atrocious than leaving him to drown would have been. Had Mr. Davis said, "The rightness or wrongness of saving a man from drowning does depend very much"—not upon the motive, but—"upon the intention" no utilitarian would have differed from him. Mr. Davis, by an oversight too common not to be quite venial, has in this case confounded the very different ideas of Motive and Intention. There is no point which utilitarian thinkers (and Bentham pre-eminently) have taken more pains to illustrate than this. The morality of the action depends entirely upon the intention—that is, upon what the agent wills to do. But the motive, that is, the feeling which makes him will so to do, when it makes no difference in the act, makes none in the morality: though it makes a great difference in our moral estimation of the agent, especially if it indicates a good or a bad habitual disposition—a bent of character from which useful, or from which hurtful actions are likely to arise.

I argue that someone who saves another from drowning in order to torture him to death afterwards differs in more than motive. He differs from someone who saves the man out of duty or kindness. The act itself is different. In the first case, the rescue is only the necessary first step toward a far more terrible act. That act is far worse than leaving the man to drown would have been. Suppose Mr. Davis had said, "Whether saving a man from drowning is right or wrong depends very much" not on motive, but "on the intention". No utilitarian would have disagreed with him. Mr. Davis has confused two very different ideas here: Motive and Intention. His mistake is so common that it is quite forgivable. Utilitarian thinkers, especially Bentham, have taken greater pains to explain this distinction than any other point. The morality of an action depends entirely on the intention, meaning what the person wills to do. But the motive is the feeling that makes the person choose to act that way. When the motive makes no difference to the act, it makes no difference to the act's morality. However, the motive makes a great difference to our moral judgment of the person. This is especially true if the motive reveals a good or bad habitual disposition. Such a tendency in someone's character makes helpful or harmful actions likely.