III. THE NATURE OF THE MORAL EMOTIONS (continued)…

III. THE NATURE OF THE MORAL EMOTIONS (continued)

IT was said in the last chapter that moral disapproval is a sub-species of resentment, and that resentment is, in its essence, an aggressive attitude of mind towards an assumed cause of pain. It was shown that, in the course of mental evolution, the true direction of the hostile reaction involved in moral disapproval has become more apparent. We shall now see that, at the same time, its aggressive character has become more disguised.

This is evidenced by the changed opinion about anger and revenge which we meet at the higher stages of moral development. Retaliation is condemned, and forgiveness of injuries is laid down as a duty.

The rule that a person should be forbearing and kind to his enemy has no place in early ethics.

"Let those that speak evil of us perish. Let the enemy be clubbed, swept away, utterly destroyed, piled in heaps. Let their teeth be broken. May they fall headlong into a pit. Let us live, and let our enemies perish." Such were the requests which generally concluded the prayers of the Fijians.[1] A savage would find nothing objectionable in them. On the contrary, he regards revenge as a duty,[2] and forgiveness of enemies as a sign of weakness, or cowardice, or want of honour.[3] Nor {74} is this opinion restricted to the savage world. In the Old Testament the spirit of vindictiveness pervades both the men and their god. The last thing with which David on his death-bed charged Solomon was to destroy an enemy whom he himself had spared.[4] Sirach counts among the nine causes of a man's happiness to see the fall of his enemy.[5] The enemies of Yahveh can expect no mercy from him, but utter destruction is their lot.[6] To do good to a friend and to do harm to an enemy was a maxim of the ancient Scandinavians.[7] It was taken for a matter of course by popular opinion in Greece[8] and Rome. According to Aristotle, "it belongs to the courageous man never to be worsted"; to take revenge on a foe rather than to be reconciled is just, and therefore honourable.[9] Cicero defines a good man as a person "who serves whom he can, and injures none except when provoked by injury."[10] Except in domestic life and in the case of friends, Professor Seeley observes, "people not only did not forgive their enemies, but did not wish to do so, nor think better of themselves for having done so. That man considered himself fortunate who on his deathbed could say, in reviewing his past life, that no one had done more good to his friends or more mischief to his enemies. This was the celebrated felicity of Sulla; this the crown of Xenophon's panegyric on Cyrus the Younger."[11]

[Footnote 1: Fison, quoted by Codrington, Melanesians, p. 147, n. 1.]

[Footnote 2: See infra, on Blood-revenge.]

[Footnote 3: Cf. Domenech, Great Deserts of North America, ii. 97, 338, 438 (Dacotahs); Boas, first General Report on the Indians of British Columbia, p. 38; Baker, Albert N'yanza i. 240 sq. (Latukas).]

[Footnote 4: 1 Kings, ii. 8 sq.]

[Footnote 5: Ecclesiasticus, xxv. 7.]

[Footnote 6: Cf. Montefiore, Hibbert Lectures, p. 40.]

[Footnote 7: Maurer, Bekehrung des Norwegischen Stammes, ii. 154 sq.]

[Footnote 8: Maury, Histoire des religions de la Grèce antique, i. 383. Schmidt, Ethik der alten Griechen, ii. 309 sqq.]

[Footnote 9: Aristotle, Rhetorica, i. 9. 24. Cf. Aeschylus, Choeophori, 309 sqq.; Plato, Meno, p. 71; Xenophon, Memorabilia, ii. 6. 35.]

[Footnote 10: Cicero, De officiis, iii. 19. iii. 19. Cf. ibid. ii. 14; but cf. also ibid. i. 25, where it is said that nothing is more worthy of a great and a good man than placability and moderation.]

[Footnote 11: Seeley, Ecce Homo, p. 273.]

But side by side with the doctrine of resentment, we meet, among peoples of culture, the doctrine of forgiveness.

"Recompense injury with kindness," says Lao-Tsze.[12] According to Mencius, "a benevolent man does not lay up anger, nor cherish resentment against his brother, but only regards him with affection and love."[13] In the laws of Manu the following rule is laid down for the twice-born man:--"Against an angry man let him not in return show anger, let him bless {75} when he is cursed."[14] It is said in the Buddhistic Dhammapada: "Hatred does not cease by hatred at any time; hatred ceases by love, this is an old rule . . . . Among men who hate us we dwell free from hatred. . . . Let a man overcome anger by love, let him overcome evil by good; let him overcome the greedy by liberality, the liar by truth."[15] According to one of the Pahlavi texts, we ought not to indulge in wrathfulness; wrath is one of the fiends besetting man, and "goodness is little in the mind of a man of wrath."[16]

[Footnote 12: Tâo Teh King, ii. 63. 1. According to Thâi-Shang, 4, a bad man "broods over resentment without ceasing."]

[Footnote 13: Mencius, v. 1. 3. 2.]

[Footnote 14: Laws of Manu, vi. 48. Cf. ibid. viii. 313; Monier-Williams, Indian Wisdom, pp. 444, 446; Muir, Additional Moral and Religious Passages, rendered from the Sanskrit, p. 30.]

[Footnote 15: Dhammapada, i. 5; xv. 197; xvii. 223. Cf. J[=a]taka Tales, i. 22; Oldenberg, Buddha, p. 298.]

[Footnote 16: Dînâ-î-Maînôg-î Khirad, ii. 16; xli. 11; xxxix. 26.]

In Leviticus hatred is condemned:--"Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart. . . . Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people."[17] Sirach, whom I have already quoted, says in another passage, "Forgive thy neighbour the hurt that he has done unto thee, so shall thy sins also be forgiven when thou prayest."[18] According to the Talmud, "whosoever does not persecute them that persecute him, whosoever takes an offence in silence, he who does good because of love, he who is cheerful under his sufferings they are the friends of God, and of them the Scripture says, And they shall shine forth as does the sun at noon-day."[19] The Koran, whilst repeating the old rule, "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,"[20] at the same time teaches that Paradise is "for those who repress their rage, and those who pardon men; God loves the kind."[21] Muhammedan tradition puts the following words in the mouth of the Prophet:--"Say not, if people do good to us, we will do good to them, and if people oppress us, we will oppress them: but resolve that if people do good to you, you will do good to them, and if they oppress you, oppress them not again."[22] Professor Goldziher emphasises Muhammed's opposition to the traditional rule of the Arabs that an enemy is a proper object of hatred;[23] and Syed Ameer Ali has collected various passages from the writings of Muhammedan scholars, which prove that, {76} in spite of what has often been said to the contrary, forgiveness of injuries is by no means foreign to the spirit of Islam.[24] Thus the author of the Kashshâf prescribes, "Seek again him who drives you away; give to him who takes away from you; pardon him who injures you: for God loveth that you should cast into the depth of your souls the roots of His perfections."[25] That "the sandal-tree perfumes the axe that fells it," is a saying in everyday use among the Muhammedans of India.[26] And Lane often heard Egyptians forgivingly say, on receiving a blow from an equal, "God bless thee," "God requite thee good," "Beat me again."[27]

[Footnote 17: Leviticus, xix. 17 sq. Cf. Exodus, xxiii. 4.]

[Footnote 18: Ecclesiasticus, xxviii. 2. Cf. ibid. x, 6; Proverbs, xxv. 21.]

[Footnote 19: Deutsch, Literary Remains, p. 58. Cf. Katz, Der wahre Talmudjude, p. 11, sq.]

[Footnote 20: Koran, ii. 190: "Whoso transgresses against you, transgress against him like as he transgressed against you."]

[Footnote 21: Ibid. iii. 125. Cf. ibid. xxiii. 98; xxiv. 22; xli. 34.]

[Footnote 22: Lane-Poole, Speeches and Table-Talk of Mohammad, p. 147.]

[Footnote 23: Goldziher, Mohammedanische Studien, i. 15 sq.]

[Footnote 24: Ameer Ali, Ethics of Islam, p. 26 sqq.]

[Footnote 25: Ibid. p. 7. Idem, Life and Teachings of Mohammed, p. 280.]

[Footnote 26: Poole, Studies in Mohammedanism, p. 226.]

[Footnote 27: Lane, Modern Egyptians, p. 314 sq.]

The principles of forgiveness had also advocates in Greece and Rome. In one of the Platonic dialogues, Socrates says, "We ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him"; though he wisely adds that "this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons."[28] The Stoics strongly condemned anger as unnatural and unreasonable. "Mankind is born for mutual assistance, anger for mutual ruin."[29] "Anger is a crime of the mind; . . . it often is even more criminal than the faults with which it is angry."[30] He is the best and purest "who pardons others as if he sinned himself daily, but avoids sinning as if he never pardoned."[31] "If any one is angry with you, meet his anger by returning benefits for it."[32] "The cynic loves those who beat him."[33]

[Footnote 28: Plato, Crito, p. 49.]

[Footnote 29: Seneca, De ira, i. 5.]

[Footnote 30: Ibid. i. 16; ii. 6.]

[Footnote 31: Pliny, Epistolæ, ix. 22 (viii. 22).]

[Footnote 32: Seneca, op. cit. ii. 34.]

[Footnote 33: Epictetus, Dissertationes, iii. 22, 54.]

Forgiveness of enemies is thus by no means an exclusively Christian tenet, although it has never before or after been inculcated with the same emphasis as it was by Jesus. "Love your enemies; bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you."[34] When St. Peter asked, "Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times?" Jesus replied, "I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven,"[35]--that is, as often as he repeats the offence. It would seem that Jesus by these sentences expressly forbade men to avenge themselves, or even {77} to feel resentment on their own behalf; and so also he was understood by St. Paul.[36]

[Footnote 34: St. Matthew, v. 44. Cf. ibid. v. 39 sq.; vi. 14 sq.; St. Luke, vi. 27 sqq.; xvii. 3 sq.; St. Mark, xi. 25 sq.]

[Footnote 35: St. Matthew, xviii. 21 sq.]

[Footnote 36: Romans, xii. 19 sqq.; 1 Thessalonians, v. 14 sq.; Colossians, iii. 12 sq.]

The rule of retaliation and the rule of forgiveness, however, are not so radically opposed to each other as they appear to be. What the latter condemns is, in reality, not every kind of resentment, but non-moral resentment; not impartial indignation, but personal hatred. It prohibits revenge, but not punishment. According to the Laws of Manu, crime was so indispensably to be followed by punishment, that if the king pardoned a thief or a perpetrator of violence, instead of slaying or striking him, the guilt fell on the king;[37] and if Lao-tsze was an enemy to the infliction of any kind of suffering, it was because he held that in a well-governed State the necessity for punishment could not arise, as crime would cease to exist.[38] The Chinese book, Merits and Errors Scrutinised, which regards it as a merit to refrain from avenging an injury, adds that, "if a man should omit to avenge the injuries of his parents, it would become an error."[39] Jesus was certainly not free from righteous indignation. It does not appear that he ever forgave the legalists who sinned against the kingdom of God, and he told his disciples that, if a brother who had trespassed against his brother neglected to hear the church, he should be looked upon as a heathen and a publican.[40] Christian writers have laid much stress upon the circumstance that Jesus enjoined men to forgive their own enemies, but not to abstain from resenting injuries done to others. According to Thomas Aquinas, "the good bear with the wicked to this extent, that, so far as it is proper to do so, they patiently endure at their hands the injuries done to themselves; but they do not bear with them to the extent of enduring the injuries done to God and their neighbours. For Chrysostom says, 'For it {78} is praiseworthy to be patient under one's own wrongs, but the height of impiety to dissemble injuries done to God.'"[41] Practically, at least, Christianity has not altered the validity of the Aristotelian rule that anger admits not only of an excess, but of a defect, and that we ought to feel angry at certain things.[42] As Plutarch says, we even think those worthy of hatred who are not vexed at hateful individuals; and we can sympathise with the man who, hearing somebody praise Charillus, king of Sparta, for his gentleness, replied, "How can Charillus be good, who is not harsh even to the bad?"[43] Moreover, the belief in a transcendental retributive justice, in an ultimate punishment of badness, which we meet with in Taouism,[44] Brahmanism, Buddhism,[45] Christianity,[46] side by side with the doctrine of forgiveness, is based upon the demand that wrong should be resented.

[Footnote 37: Laws of Manu, viii. 316, 346 sq. Cf. Gautama, xii. 45; Âpastamba, i. 9. 25. 5.]

[Footnote 38: Douglas, Confucianism and Taouism, p. 204.]

[Footnote 39: 'Merits and Errors scrutinised,' in Indo-Chinese Gleaner, iii. 153.]

[Footnote 40: St. Matthew, xviii. 15 sqq.]

[Footnote 41: Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologia, ii.-ii. 108. 1. 2. Cf. Lactantius, De ira Dei, 17.]

[Footnote 42: Aristotle, Ethica Nicomachea, ii. 7. 10; iii. 1. 24; iv. 5. 3 sqq.]

[Footnote 43: Plutarch, De invidia et odio, 5.]

[Footnote 44: Douglas, op. cit. p. 257.]

[Footnote 45: Dhammapada, i. 15, 17; x. 137 sqq.]

[Footnote 46: Cf. Romans, xii. 19: "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."]

It is easy to see why enlightened and sympathetic minds disapprove of resentment and retaliation springing from personal motives. Such resentment is apt to be partial. It is too often directed against persons whom impartial reflection finds to be no proper objects of indignation, and still more frequently it is unduly excessive. As Butler ays, "we are in such a peculiar situation, with respect to injuries done to ourselves, that we can scarce any more see them as they really are, than our eye can see itself."[47] "As bodies seem greater in a mist, so do little matters in a rage"; hence the old rule that we ought not to punish whilst angry.[48] The more the moral consciousness is influenced by sympathy, the more severely it condemns any retributive infliction of pain which it regards as undeserved; and it seems to be in the first place with a {79} view to preventing such injustice that teachers of morality have enjoined upon men to love their enemies. It would, indeed, be absurd to blame a person for expressing moral indignation at an act simply because he himself happens to be the offended party; practically we allow him to be even more indignant than the impartial spectator would be, whereas excessive placability often meets with censure. Like Aristotle, we maintain that "to submit to insult, or to overlook an insult offered to our friends, shows a slavish spirit"[49]; and we agree with the Confucian maxims, that injuries should be recompensed, not with kindness, but with justice, and that nobody but he who deserves it should be an object of hatred.[50]

[Footnote 47: Butler, 'Sermon IX.--Upon Forgiveness of Injuries,' in Analogy of Religion, &c., p. 469.]

[Footnote 48: Plutarch, De cohibenda ira, 11. Montaigne, Essais, ii. 31 (Oeuvres, p. 396).]

[Footnote 49: Aristotle, Ethica Nicomachea, 5. 6.]

[Footnote 50: Lun Yü xiv. 36. 3; xvii. 9. 1, 5; xvii. 24. 1. Douglas, Confucianism and Taouism, p. 9. Cf. Chung Yung, x. 3; xxxi. 1; xxxiii. 4.]

At the same time, the injunctions of moralists that unjust resentment should be suppressed, are far from introducing any absolutely new element into the estimation of conduct. They only represent a higher stage of a process of moral development the early phases of which are found already in primitive societies. Even the savage who enjoins revenge as a duty, regards revenge under certain circumstances as wrong.[51] The restraining rule of like for like, as we shall see, is an instance of this.

[Footnote 51: Concerning the Dacotahs, Prescott observes, "There are cases where the Indians say retaliation is wrong, and they try to prevent it" (Schoolcraft, Indian Tribes, ii. 197).]

The aggressive character of moral disapproval has become more disguised, not only by the more scrutinising attitude towards the resentment and retaliation which distinguishes the moral consciousness of a higher type, but by the different way in which the aggressiveness displays itself. The infliction of suffering merely for the sake of retribution is condemned, and the rule is laid down that we should hate, not the sinner, but only the sin.

Punishment, which expresses more or less faithfully the moral indignation of the society which inflicts it, is externally similar to an act of revenge; it causes, or is intended {80} to cause, pain in return for inflicted pain. For ages it was looked upon as a matter of course that if a person had committed an offence he should have to suffer for it. This is still the notion of the multitude, as also of a host of theorisers, who, by calling punishment an expiation, or a reparation, or a restoration of the disturbed equilibrium of justice, only endeavour to give a philosophical sanction to a very simple fact, the true nature of which they too often have failed to grasp. The infliction of pain, however, is not an act which the moral consciousness regards with indifference, even in the case of a criminal; and to many enlightened minds with keen sympathy for human suffering, it has appeared both unreasonable and cruel that the State should wilfully torment him to no purpose. But whilst retributive punishment has been condemned, punishment itself has been defended; it is only looked upon in a different light, not as an end by itself, but as a means of attaining an end. It is to be inflicted, not because wrong has been done, but in order that wrong be not done. Its object is held to be, either to deter from crime, or to reform the criminal, or by means of elimination or seclusion, to make it physically impossible for him to commit fresh crimes.

These views were expressed already in Greek and Roman antiquity.[52] According to Plato, a reasonable man punishes for the sake of deterring from wickedness, or with a view to correcting the offender.[53] Aristotle looks upon punishment as a moral medicine.[54] Seneca maintains that the law, in punishing wrong, aims at three ends: "either that it may correct him whom it punishes, or that his punishment may render other men better, or that, by bad men being put out of the way, the rest may live without fear."[55] In modern times all these theories have had, and still have, their numerous adherents. According to Hugo Grotius, "men are so bound together by their common {81} nature, that they ought not to do each other harm, except for the sake of some good to be attained"; hence "man is not rightly punished by man merely for the sake of punishing"; advantage alone makes punishment right--"either the advantage of the offender, or of him who suffers by the offence, or of persons in general."[56] For a long time the view taken by Hobbes, that "the aym of Punishment is not a revenge, but terrour,"[57] remained the leading doctrine on the subject, among philosophers, as well as legislators. It was shared by Montesquieu,[58] Beccaria,[59] and filangieri,[60] by Anselm von Feuerbach[61] and Schopenhauer,[62] and, in the main, by Bentham.[63] During the nineteenth century the principle of determent was largely superseded by the principle of reformation; whilst certain contemporary criminologists--like some previous ones[64]--are of opinion that punishment should aim to repress crime by an "absolute" or "relative elimination" of the criminal, that is, in extreme cases by killing him, but generally by incarcerating him in a criminal lunatic asylum, or by banishing him for ever or for a certain period, or by interdicting him from a particular neighbourhood.[65]

[Footnote 52: Cf. Laistner, Das Recht in der Strafe, p. 9 sqq.; Thonissen, Le droit pénal de la république Athénienne, p. 418 sqq.]

[Footnote 53: Plato, Protagoras, p. 324. Idem, Politicus, p. 293. Idem, Gorgias, p. 479. Idem, Leges, ix. 854; xi. 934; xii. 944.]

[Footnote 54: Aristotle, Ethica Nicomachea, ii. 3. 4.]

[Footnote 55: Seneca, De clementia, i. 22. Cf. Idem, De ira, i. 19.]

[Footnote 56: Grotius, De iure belli et pacis, ii. 20. 4 sqq.]

[Footnote 57: Hobbes, Leviathan, ii. 28, p. 243.]

[Footnote 58: Montesquieu, Lettres Persanes, 81.]

[Footnote 59: Beccaria, Dei delitti e delle pene, passim.]

[Footnote 60: filangieri, La scienza della legislazione, iii. 2. 27, vol. iv. 13 sq.]

[Footnote 61: von Feuerbach-Mittermaier, Lehrbuch des gemeinen in Deutschland gültigen Peinlichen Rechts, p. 38 sqq.]

[Footnote 62: Schopenhauer, Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, ii. 683 sqq.]

[Footnote 63: Bentham, Principles of Morals and Legislation, p. 170 sq. n. 1: ". . . Example is the most important end of all." Idem, Rationale of Punishment, p. 19 sqq.]

[Footnote 64: See von Feuerbach-Mittermaier, op. cit. p. 40.]

[Footnote 65: Garofalo, Criminologie, p. 251 sqq. Ferri, Criminal Sociology, p. 204 sqq.]

The advocates of these various theories are unanimous in condemning retributive punishment as wrong. Without the grounds of social defence, says M. Guyau, "the punishment would be as blameworthy as the crime, and . . . the lawgivers and the judges, by deliberately condemning the guilty to punishment, would become their fellows."[66] For my own part I believe, on the contrary, that those who would venture to carry out all the consequences to which the theories of social defence or of reformation might lead, would be regarded even as more criminal than those they punished, not only by the {82} opponents, but probably by the very supporters of the theories in question. A brief statement of some of those consequences will, I hope, suffice to prove that punishment can hardly be guided exclusively by utilitarian considerations, but requires the sanction of the retributive emotion of moral disapproval.

[Footnote 66: Guyau, Esquisse d'une morale sans obligation ni sanction, p. 148.]

The principle of repressing crime by eliminating the criminal may at once be put aside, because it has no reference to the punishment of criminals, although it contains a suggestion--and a most excellent one indeed--as to the proper mode of treating them. Their exclusion from the company of their fellow-men--not to speak of their elimination by death--certainly entails suffering, but, according to the principle with which we are dealing, this suffering is not intended. On the other hand, punishment, in the ordinary sense of the word, always involves an express intention to inflict pain, whatever be the object for which pain is inflicted. We do not punish an ill-natured dog when we tie him up so as to prevent him from doing harm, nor do we punish a lunatic by confining him in a madhouse.

According to the principle of determent, the infliction of suffering in consequence of an offence is justified as a means of increasing public safety. The offender is sacrificed for the common weal. But why the offender only? It is quite probable that a more effective way of deterring from crime would be to punish his children as well; and if the notion of justice derived all its import from the result achieved by the punishment, there would be nothing unjust in doing so. The only objection which, from this point of view, might ever be raised against the practice of visiting the wrongs of the fathers upon the children, is that it is needlessly severe; the innocence of the children could count for nothing. Nor do I see why the law should not allow our own judges now and then to follow the example of their Egyptian colleague who in an intricate lawsuit caused a person avowedly innocent to be bastinadoed with the hope that whoever was the real {83} culprit might be induced to confess out of compassion.[67] Moreover, if the object of punishment is merely preventive, the heaviest punishment should be threatened where the strongest motive is needed to restrain. Consequently, an injury committed under great temptation, or in a passion, should be punished with particular severity; whereas a crime like parricide might be treated with more indulgence than other kinds of homicide, owing to the restraining influence of filial affection. Could the moral consciousness approve of this?

[Footnote 67: Burckhardt, Arabic Proverbs, p. 103 sq.]

Again, if punishment were to be regulated by the principle of reforming the criminal, the result would in some cases be very astonishing. There is no more incorrigible set of offenders than habitual vagrants and drunkards, whereas experience has shown that the most easily reformed of all offenders is often some person who has committed a serious crime. According to the reformation theory, the latter should soon be set free, whilst the petty offender might have to be shut up for all his life. Nay more, if the criminal proves absolutely incorrigible, and not the slightest hope of his reformation is left, there would no longer be any reason for punishing him at all.[68] The reformationist may also be asked why he does not try some more humane method of improving people's characters than by the infliction of suffering.

[Footnote 68: Cf. Morrison, Crime and its Causes, p. 203; Durkheim, Division du travail social, p. 94.]

It may seem strange that theories which are open to such objections should have been able to attract so many intelligent partisans. These theories must at least possess a certain plausibility. If punishment on the one hand springs from moral indignation, and on the other hand is frequently interpreted as a means either of deterring from crime or of reforming the criminal, there must obviously be some connection between these ends and the retributive aim of moral resentment. There must be certain facts which, to some extent, fill up the gap between the theory of retribution and the other theories of punishment.

{84} The doctrine of determent regards punishment as a means of preventing crime. A crime always involves the infliction of pain; and the one thing which men try to prevent for its own sake is pain. The one thing which arouses resentment is likewise pain. There must consequently be a general coincidence between the acts which people resent and the acts which the law would punish if it were framed on the principle of determent. But the resemblance between the desire to deter and resentment is greater still. Resentment is not only aroused by pain, but is a hostile attitude towards its cause, and its intrinsic object is to remove this cause, that is, to prevent pain. An act of moral resentment is therefore apt to resemble a punishment inflicted with a view to deterring from crime, provided that the punishment is directed against the cause of crime--the criminal himself--and is not unduly severe.

The doctrine of reformation aims at the removal of a criminal disposition of mind by improving the offender. Moral resentment likewise aims at the removal of a volitional cause of pain, by bringing about repentance in the offender. That repentance ought to be followed by forgiveness, partial or total, is a widely recognised moral claim.

According to the Chinese Penal Code, whoever, having committed an injury which can be repaired by restitution or compensation, surrenders himself voluntarily, and acknowledges his guilt to a magistrate, before it is otherwise discovered, shall be freely pardoned, though all claims upon his property shall be duly liquidated.[69] In Madagascar, according to a law made in 1828, "all the fines shall be reduced one-half, according to the nature of the fines, if the persons guilty accuse themselves."[70] According to Zoroastrianism, one element of atonement consists in repentance, as manifested by avowal of the guilt and by the recital of a formula, the Patet.[71] It is said in the Laws of Manu:--"In proportion as a man who has done wrong, himself {85} confesses it, even so far he is freed from guilt, as a snake from its slough. . . . He who has committed a sin and has repented, is freed from that sin, but he is purified only by the resolution of ceasing to sin and thinking 'I will do so no more.'"[72] According to the Rig-Veda, Varuna inflicts terrible punishments on the hardened criminal, but is merciful to him who repents; to Varuna the cry of anguish from remorse ascends, and before him the sinner comes to discharge himself of the burden of his guilt by confession.[73] So, also, Zeus pardons the repentant.[74] The main doctrine of Judaism on the subject of atonement is comprised in the single word Repentance. No teachers, says Mr. Montefiore, "exalted the place and power of repentance more than the Rabbis. There was no sin for which in their eyes a true repentance could not obtain forgiveness from God."[75] According to the Talmud, a space of only two fingers' breadth lies between Hell and Heaven: the sinner has only to repent sincerely, and the gates to everlasting bliss will spring open.[76] Jesus commanded his disciples to forgive injuries if followed by repentance:--"If thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and if he repent, forgive him. And if he trespass against thee seven times in a day, and seven times in a day turn again to thee, saying, I repent; thou shalt forgive him."[77]

[Footnote 69: Ta Tsing Leu Lee, sec. xxv. p. 27 sq.]

[Footnote 70: Ellis, History of Madagascar, i. 386.]

[Footnote 71: Darmesteter, in Sacred Books of the East, iv. p. lxxxvi.]

[Footnote 72: Laws of Manu, xi. 229, 231. Cf. ibid. xi. 228, 230.]

[Footnote 73: Rig-Veda, i. 25. 1 sq.; ii. 28. 5 sqq.; v. 85. 7 sq.; vii. 87. 7, 88. 6 sq., 89. 1 sqq. Barth, Religions of India, p. 17.]

[Footnote 74: Ilias, ix. 502 sqq.]

[Footnote 75: Montefiore, op. cit. pp. 524, 335 n.]

[Footnote 76: Deutsch, Literary Remains, p. 53. Cf. ibid. p. 56; Katz, Der wahre Talmudjude, p. 87 sq.; Kohler, 'Atonement,' in Jewish Encyclopedia, ii. 279; Moore, 'Sacrifice' in Cheyne and Black, Encyclopædia Biblica, iv. 4224 sq.]

[Footnote 77: St. Luke, xvii. 3 sq.]

But repentance not only blunts the edge of moral indignation and recommends the offender to the mercy of men and gods: it is the sole ground on which pardon can be given by a scrupulous judge. When sufficiently guided by deliberation and left to itself, without being unduly checked by other emotions, the feeling of moral resentment is apt to last as long as its cause remains unaltered, that is until the will of the offender has ceased to be offensive; and it ceases to be offensive only when he acknowledges his guilt and repents. It is true that the mere performance of certain ceremonies is frequently supposed to relieve the performer of his sins,[78] and that the {86} same end is thought to be attained by pleasing God in some way or other, by sacrifice, or alms-giving, or the like. Men even lay claim to divine forgiveness as a right belonging to them in virtue of some meritorious deeds of theirs, according to the doctrine of opera supererogativa--a doctrine which, in substance, is not restricted to Roman Catholicism, but is found, in a more or less developed form, in Judaism,[79] Muhammedanism,[80] Brahmanism,[81] and degenerated Buddhism.[82] But all such ideas are objectionable to the moral consciousness of a higher type. They are based on the crude notion that sin is a material substance which may be removed by material means; or on the belief that an offender may compound with the deity for sinning against him, in the same way as he pacifies his injured neighbour, by bribery or flattery; or on the assumptions that by a good or meritorious deed a man has done more than his duty, that a good deed stands in the same relation to a bad deed as a claim to a debt, that the claim is made on the same person to whom the debt is due, namely, God--even though it beinclihedinclihed only by his mercy--and that the debt consequently may be compensated by the claim in the same way as the payment of a certain sum may compensate for a loss inflicted. This doctrine attaches badness and goodness to external acts rather than to mental facts. Reparation implies compensation for a loss. The loss may be compensated by the bestowal of a corresponding advantage; but no reparation can be given for badness. Badness can only be forgiven, and moral forgiveness can be granted only on condition that the agent's mind has undergone a radical alteration for the better, that the badness of the will has given way to repentance.[83] Hence the Reformation {87} proscribed offerings for the redemption of sins, together with the trade in indulgences; and we meet with an analogous movement in other comparatively advanced forms of religion. In reformed Brahmanism, repentance is declared to be the only means of redeeming trespasses.[84] The idea expressed in the Psalms, that God delights not in burnt offerings, but that the sacrifices of God are a broken and a contrite heart,[85] became the prevailing opinion among the Rabbis, most of whom regarded repentance as the conditio sine quâ non of expiation and the forgiveness of sins.[86] Let us also remember that he who commanded his followers to forgive a brother for his sin, at the same time pronounced the qualification: "if he repent."[87]

[Footnote 78: Supra, p. 53 sqq. Heriot, Travels through the Canadas, p. 378 (ancient Mexicans). Adair, History of the American Indians, p. 150. Krasheninnikoff, History of Kamchatka, p. 178. Williams and Calvert, Fiji, p. 24.]

[Footnote 79: Montefiore, op. cit. p. 525 sqq.]

[Footnote 80: Koran, xi. 116. Sell, Faith of Islám, p. 220 sq. According to Muhammadanism, however, it is only "little sins" that are forgiven if some good actions are done, whereas "great sins" can only be forgiven after due repentance (ibid. p. 214).]

[Footnote 81: Wheeler, History of India, ii. 475.]

[Footnote 82: Indo-Chinese Gleaner, iii. 150, 161, 164. Davis, China, ii. 48.]

[Footnote 83: This point was certainly not overlooked by the Catholic moralists, but even the most ardent apology cannot explain away the idea of reparation in the Catholic doctrine of the justification of man (cf. Manzoni, Osservazioni sulla Morale Cattolica, p. 100). Penance consists of contrition, confession, and satisfaction, and contrition itself is chiefly "a willingness to compensate" (Catechism of the Council of Trent, ii. 5. 22).]

[Footnote 84: Goblet d'Alviella, Hibbert Lectures on the Origin and Growth of the Conception of God, p. 263.]

[Footnote 85: Psalms, li. 16 sq.]

[Footnote 86: Moore, loc. cit. col. 4225.]

[Footnote 87: Cf. Martineau, Types of Ethical Theory, ii. 203.]

That moral indignation is appeased by repentance, and that repentance is the only proper ground for forgiveness, is thus due, not to the specifically moral character of such indignation, but to its being a form of resentment. This is confirmed by the fact that an angry and revengeful man is apt to be in a similar way influenced by the sincere apologies of the offender. As Aristotle said, men are placable in regard to those who acknowledge and repent their guilt: "there is proof of this in the case of chastising servants; for we chastise more violently those who contradict us, and deny their guilt; but towards such as acknowledge themselves to be justly punished, we cease from our wrath."[88] To take an instance from the savage world. The Caroline Islander, according to Mr. Christian, "is inclined to be revengeful, and will bide his time patiently until his opportunity comes. Yet he is not implacable, and counts reconciliation a noble and a princely thing. There is a form of etiquette to be observed on {88} these occasions--a present (katom) is made, an apology offered--a piece of sugar-cane accepted by the aggrieved party--honour is satisfied and the matter ends."[89] In the case of revenge, external satisfaction or material compensation is often allowed to take the place of genuine repentance, and the humiliation of the adversary may be sufficient to quiet the angry passion. But the revenge felt by a reflecting mind is not so readily satisfied. It wants to remove the cause which aroused it. The object which resentment is chiefly intent upon, Adam Smith observes, "is not so much to make our enemy feel pain in his turn, as to make him conscious that he feels it upon account of his past conduct, to make him repent of that conduct, and to make him sensible, that the person whom he injured did not deserve to be treated in that manner."[90] The delight of revenge, says Bacon, "seemeth to be not so much in doing the hurt, as in making the party repent."[91]

[Footnote 88: Aristotle, Rhetorica, ii. 3. 5.]

[Footnote 89: Christian, Caroline Islands, p. 72.]

[Footnote 90: Adam Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, p. 138 sq.]

[Footnote 91: Bacon, 'Essay IV. Of Revenge,' in Essays, p. 45. Cf. Montaigne, Essais, ii. 27 (Oeuvres, p. 384).]

We can now see the origin of the idea that the true end of punishment is the reformation of the criminal. This idea merely emphasises the most humane element in resentment, the demand that the offender's will shall cease to be offensive. The principle of reformation has thus itself a retributive origin. This explains the fact, otherwise inexplicable, that the amendment which it has in view is to be effected by the infliction of pain. It also accounts for the inconsistent attitude of the reformationist towards incorrigible offenders, already commented upon. Resentment gives way to forgiveness only in the case of repentance, not in the case of incorrigibility. Hence, not even the reformationist regards incorrigibility as a legitimate ground for exempting a person from punishment, although this flatly contradicts his theory about the true aim of all punishment.

Thus the theories both of determent and of reformation are ultimately offspring of the same emotion that first {89} induced men to inflict punishment on their fellow-creatures. It escaped the advocates of these theories that they themselves were under the influence of the very principle they fought against, because they failed to grasp its true import. Rightly understood, resentment is preventive in its nature, and, when sufficiently deliberate, regards the infliction of suffering as a means rather than as an end. It not only gives rise to punishment, but readily suggests, as a proper end of punishment, either determent or amendment or both. But, first of all, moral resentment wants to raise a protest against wrong. And the immediate aim of punishment has always been to give expression to the righteous indignation of the society which inflicts it.

Now it may be thought that men have no right to give vent to their moral resentment in a way which hurts their neighbours unless some benefit may be expected from it. In the case of many other emotions, we hold that the conative element in the emotion ought not to be allowed to develop into a distinct volition or act; and it would seem that a similar view might be taken with reference to the aggressiveness inherent in moral disapproval. It is a notion of this kind that lies at the bottom of the utilitarian theories of punishment. They are protests against purposeless infliction of pain, against crude ideas of retributive justice, against theories hardly in advance of the low feelings of the popular mind. Therefore, they mark a stage of higher refinement in the evolution of the moral consciousness; and if the principles of determent and reformation are open to objections which will be shared by almost everyone, that is due to other circumstances than their demand that punishment should serve a useful end. As we have seen, they ignore the fact that a punishment, in order to be recognised as just, must not transgress the limits set down by moral disapproval, that it must not be inflicted on innocent persons, that it must be proportioned to the guilt, that offenders who are amenable to discipline must not be treated more severely {90} than incorrigible criminals. These theories also seem to exaggerate the deterring or reforming influence which punishments exercise upon criminals,[92] whilst, in another respect, they take too narrow a view of its social usefulness. Whether its voice inspire fear or not, whether it wake up a sleeping conscience or not, punishment, at all events, tells people in plain terms what, in the opinion of the society, they ought not to do. It gives the multitude a severe lesson in public morality; and it is difficult to see how quite the same effect could be attained by any other method. Retaliation is such a spontaneous expression of indignation, that people would hardly realise the offensiveness of an act which evokes no signs of resentment. Of course, punishment, in the legal sense of the term, is only one form--the most concrete form--of public retaliation; it is, indeed, probable that public opinion exercises a greater influence on men than punishment would do without its aid.[93] But punishment, in combination with public opinion, has no doubt to some extent an educating, and not merely a deterring, influence upon the members of a society. As Sir James Stephen observes, "the sentence of the law is to the moral sentiment of the public in relation to any offence what a seal is to hot wax. It converts into a permanent final judgment what might otherwise be a transient sentiment."[94] finally, it must not be overlooked that the infliction of punishment upon the perpetrator of a grave offence gratifies a strong general desire, and, even though the pain which always accompanies an unsatisfied desire would by itself afford no sufficient justification for subjecting the offence to such intense {91} suffering, other more serious consequences might easily result from leaving him unpunished. The public indignation might find a vent in some less regular and less discriminating mode of retaliation, like lynching; or, on the other hand, by remaining unsatisfied, the desire might dwindle away from want of nourishment, and the moral standard suffer a corresponding loss.

[Footnote 92: On the limited efficiency of punishment as a deterrent, see Ferri, op. cit. p. 82 sq. On the moral insensibility of the instinctive and habitual criminal, and absence of remorse, see Havelock Ellis, The Criminal, p. 124 sqq.]

[Footnote 93: Cf. Locke, Essay concerning Human Understanding, ii. 28. 12 (Philosophical Works, p. 283); Shaftesbury, 'Inquiry concerning Virtue and Merit,' i. 3. 3, in Characteristicks, ii. 64.]

[Footnote 94: Stephen, History of the Criminal Law of England, ii. 81. Cf. Shaftesbury, op. cit. ii. 64: "As to punishments and rewards, their efficacy is not so much from the fear or expectation which they raise, as from a natural esteem of virtue, and detestation of villainy, which is awaken'd and excited by these publick expressions of the approbation and hatred of mankind in each case."]

However, it is not to be believed that, in practice, the infliction of punishment is, or ever will be, regulated merely by considerations of social utility, even within the limits of what is recognised as legitimate by the moral sentiment. The retributive desire is so strong, and appears so natural, that we can neither help obeying it, nor seriously disapprove of its being obeyed. The theory that we have a right to punish an offender only in so far as, by doing so, we promote the general happiness, really serves in the main as a justification for gratifying such a desire, rather than as a foundation for penal practice. Moreover, this theory refers, and pretends to refer, only to outward behaviour--to punishment, not to the emotion from which punishment springs. It condemns the retributive act, not the retributive desire.

But at the same time the aggressive element in the emotion itself has undergone a change, which tends to conceal its true nature by partly leading it into a new channel, or, rather, by narrowing the channel in which it discharges itself. Resentment is directed against the cause of the offence by which it was aroused--broadly speaking, the offender. But when duly reflecting upon the matter, we cannot fail to admit that the real cause was not the offender as a whole, but his will. Deliberate and discriminating resentment is therefore apt to turn against the will rather than against the willer; as we have seen, it is desirous to inflict pain on the offender chiefly as a means of removing the cause of pain suffered, i.e., the existence of the bad will. If this is the case with deliberate resentment in general, it must particularly be the case with moral indignation, which is more likely to be {92} influenced by sympathy, and hence more discriminate, than non-moral resentment. This fact gives rise to the moral commandment that we should hate, not the sinner, but the sin. The hostile reaction should be focussed on the will of the offender, and his sensibility should be regarded merely as an instrument through which the will is worked upon. But there is little hope that such a demand can ever be strictly enforced. Professor Sidgwick justly remarks that, though moralists try to distinguish between anger directed "against the act" and anger directed "against the agent," it may be fairly doubted whether it is within the capacity of ordinary human nature to maintain this distinction in practice.[95] The will which offends, and the sensibility which suffers, cannot seriously be looked upon as two different entities the one of which should not be punished for the fault of the other. The person himself is held responsible for the offence. The hostile reaction turns against his will because only by acting upon the will can the cause of pain be removed. But since the remotest ages the aggressive attitude towards this cause has been connected with an instinctive desire to produce counter-pain; and, though we may recognise that such a desire, or rather the volition into which it tends to develop, may be morally justifiable only if it is intended to remove the cause of pain, we can hardly help being indulgent to the gratification of a human instinct which seems to be well nigh ineradicable. It is the instinctive desire to inflict counter-pain that gives to moral indignation its most important characteristic. Without it, moral condemnation and the ideas of right and wrong would never have come into existence. Without it, we should no more condemn a bad man than a poisonous plant. The reason why moral judgments are passed on volitional beings, or their acts, is not merely that they are volitional, but that they are sensitive as well; and however much we try to concentrate our indignation on the act, it derives its peculiar flavour from being directed {93} against a sensitive agent. I have heard persons of a highly sympathetic cast of mind assert that a wrong act awakens in them only sorrow, not indignation; but though sorrow be the predominant element in their state of mind, I believe that, on a close inspection, they would find there another emotion as well, one in which there is immanent an element of hostility, however slight. It is true that the intensity of moral indignation cannot always be measured by the actual desire to cause pain to the offender; but its intensity seems nevertheless to be connected with the amount of suffering which the indignant man is willing to let the offender undergo in consequence of the offence. Which of us could ever, quite apart from any utilitarian considerations, feel the same sympathy with a person who suffers on account of his badness as with one who suffers innocently? It is one of the most interesting facts related to the moral consciousness of a higher type, that it in vain condemns the gratification of the very desire from which it sprang. It is like a man of low extraction, who, in spite of all acquired refinement, bears his origin stamped on his face.

[Footnote 95: Sidgwick, Methods of Ethics, p. 364.]

* * * * *

Whilst resentment is a hostile attitude of mind towards a cause of pain, retributive kindly emotion is a friendly attitude of mind towards a cause of pleasure. Just as in the lower forms of anger there is hardly any definite desire to produce suffering, only a vehement desire to remove the cause of pain, so in the lower form of retributive kindly emotion there is hardly any definite desire to produce pleasure, only a friendly endeavour to retain the cause of the pleasure experienced. When the emotion contains a definite desire to give pleasure in return for pleasure received, and at the same time is felt by the favoured party in his capacity of being himself the object of the benefit, it is called gratitude. We often find intermingled with gratitude a feeling of indebtedness; he upon whom a benefit has been conferred feels himself as a debtor, and regards the benefactor as his creditor. This feeling has {94} even been represented as essential to, or as a condition of, gratitude;[96] but it is not implied in what I here understand by gratitude. It is one thing to be grateful, and another thing to feel that it is one's duty to be grateful. A depression of the "self-feeling," a feeling of humiliation, also frequently accompanies gratitude as a motive for requiting the benefit; but it is certainly not an element in gratitude itself.

[Footnote 96: Horwicz, Psychologische Analysen, ii. 333: "Ohne dieses Gefühl des Verbundenseins . . . . kann keine Dankbarkeit auskommen." Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost, iv. 52 sqq.]

Retributive kindly emotion is a much less frequent phenomenon in the animal kingdom than is the emotion of resentment. In many animal species not even the germ of it is found, and where it occurs it is generally restricted within narrow limits. Anybody may provoke an animal's anger, but only towards certain individuals it is apt to feel retributive kindliness. The limits for this emotion are marked off by the conditions under which altruistic sentiments in general tend to arise--a subject which will be discussed in another connection. Indeed, social affection is itself essentially retributive. Gregarious animals take pleasure in each other's company, and with this pleasure is intimately associated kindly feeling towards its cause, the companion himself. Social affection presupposes reciprocity; it is not only a friendly sentiment towards another individual, but towards an individual who is conceived of as a friend.

The intrinsic object of retributive kindliness being to retain a cause of pleasure, we may assume that the definite desire to produce pleasure in return for pleasure received is due to the fact that such a desire materially promotes the object in question--exactly in the same way as the definite desire to inflict pain in return for pain inflicted has become an element in resentment because such a desire promotes the intrinsic object of resentment, the removal of the cause of pain. And as natural selection accounts for the origin of resentment, so it also accounts for the {95} origin of retributive kindly emotion. Both of these emotions are useful states of mind; by resentment evils are averted, by retributive kindliness benefits are secured. That there is such a wide difference in their prevalence is explicable from the simple facts that gregariousness--which is the root of social affection, and, largely at least, a condition of the rise of retributive kindly emotions--is an advantage only to some species, not to all, and that even gregarious animals have many enemies, but few friends.

In some cases the friendly reaction in retributive kindliness is directed towards individuals who have in no way been the cause of the pleasure which gave rise to the emotion. So intimate is the connection between the stimulus and the reaction, that he who is made happy often feels a general desire to make others happy.[97] But such an indiscriminate reaction is only an offset of the emotion with which we are here concerned. Moreover, retributive kindly emotion often confers benefits upon somebody nearly related to the benefactor, if he himself be out of reach, or in addition to benefits conferred on him. But in such cases the gratitude towards the benefactor is the real motive.

[Footnote 97: That a happy man wants to see glad faces around him, is also due to another cause, which has been pointed out by Dr. Hirn (Origins of Art, p. 83): from their expression he wants to derive further nourishment and increase for his own feeling.]

That moral approval--by which I understand that emotion of which moral praise or reward is the outward manifestation--is a kind of retributive kindly emotion and as such allied to gratitude, will probably be admitted without much hesitation.[98] Its friendly character is not, like the hostile character of moral disapproval, disguised by any apparently contradictory facts. To confer a benefit upon a person is not generally regarded as wrong, unless, indeed, it involves an encroachment on somebody's rights or is contrary to the feeling of justice. And that moral approval sometimes bestows its favours upon undeserving {96} individuals for the merits of others, can no more invalidate the fact that it is essentially directed towards the cause of pleasure, than the occasional infliction of punishments upon innocent individuals invalidates the fact that moral disapproval is essentially directed against the cause of pain. Unmerited rewards are explicable on grounds analogous to those to which we have traced unmerited punishments.

[Footnote 98: The relationship between gratitude and moral approval has been recognised by Hartley (Observations on Man, i. 520) and Adam Smith (Theory of Moral Sentiments, passim).]

The doctrine of family solidarity leads, not only to common responsibility for crimes, but to common enjoyment of merits.

In Madagascar, exemption from punishment was claimed by the descendants of persons who had rendered any particular service to the sovereign or the State, as also by other branches of the family, on the same plea.[99] According to Chinese ideas, the virtuous conduct of any individual will result, not only in prosperity to himself, but in a certain quantity of happiness to his posterity, unless indeed the personal wickedness of some of the descendants neutralise the benefits which would otherwise accrue from the virtue of the ancestor;[100] and, conversely, the Chinese Government confers titles of nobility upon the dead parents of a distinguished son.[101] The idea that the dead share in punya or pâpa, that is, the merit or demerit of the living, and that the happiness of a man in the next life depends on the good works of his descendants, was early familiar to the civilised natives of India; almost all legal deeds of gift contain the formula that the gift is made "for the increase of the punya of the donor and that of his father and mother."[102]

[Footnote 99: Ellis, History of Madagascar, 376.]

[Footnote 100: Giles, Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, i. 426, n. 3; ii. 384, n. 63. Doolittle, Social Life of the Chinese, ii. 398.]

[Footnote 101: Giles, op. cit. i. 305, n. 6. Wells Williams, Middle Kingdom, i. 422.]

[Footnote 102: Barth, Religions of India, p. 52, n. 4.]

But the vicarious efficacy of good deeds is not necessarily restricted to the members of the same family.

In a hymn of the Rig-Veda we find the idea that the merits or the pious may benefit their neighbours.[103] According to one of the Pahlavi texts, persons who are wholly unable to perform good works are supposed to be entitled to a share of any supererogatory good works performed by others.[104] The Chinese believe that {97} whole kingdoms are blessed by benevolent spirits for the virtuous conduct of their rulers.[105] Yahveh promised not to destroy Sodom for the sake of ten righteous, provided that so many righteous could be found in the town.[106] The doctrine of vicarious reward or satisfaction through good works is, in fact, more prevalent than the doctrine of vicarious punishment. Jewish theology has a great deal more to say about the acceptance of the merits of the righteous on behalf of the wicked, than about atonement through sacrifice.[107] The Muhammedans, who know nothing of vicarious suffering as a means of expiation, confer merits upon their dead by reciting chapters of the Koran and almsgiving, and some of them allow the pilgrimage to Mecca to be done by proxy.[108] Christian theology itself maintains that salvation depends on the merit of the passion of Christ; and from early times the merits of martyrs and saints were believed to benefit other members of the Church.[109]

[Footnote 103: Rig-Veda, vii. 35. 4.]

[Footnote 104: Dînâ-î-Maînôg-î Khirad xv. 3.]

[Footnote 105: de Groot, Religious System of China (vol. iv. book) ii. 435.]

[Footnote 106: Genesis, xviii. 32.]

[Footnote 107: Robertson Smith, Religion of the Semites, p. 424, n. 1.]

[Footnote 108: Lane, Modern Egyptians, pp. 247, 248, 532. Sell, op. cit. pp. 242, 278, 287, 288, 298. Cf. Wallin, Fórsta Resa från Cairo till Arabiska öknen, p. 103.]

[Footnote 109: Harnack, History of Dogma, ii. 133, n. 3.]

For the explanation of these and similar facts various circumstances have to be considered. Good deeds may be so pleasing to a god as to induce him to forgive the sins of the wicked in accordance with the rule that anger yields to joy. There is solidarity not only between members of the same family, but between members of the same social unit; hence the virtues of individuals may benefit the whole community to which they belong. The Catholic theologian argues that, since we are all regenerated unto Christ by being washed in the same baptism, made partakers of the same sacraments, and, especially, of the same meat and drink, the body and blood of Christ, we are all members of the same body. "As, then, the foot does not perform its functions solely for itself, but also for the benefit of the eyes; and as the eyes exercise their sight, not for their own, but for the common benefit of all the members; so should works of satisfaction be deemed common to all the members of the {98} Church."[110] Moreover, virtues, like sins, are believed to be in a material way transferable. In Upper Bavaria, when a dead person is laid out, a cake of flour is placed on his breast in order to absorb the virtues of the deceased, whereupon the cake is eaten by the nearest relatives.[111] And we are told that, in a certain district in the north of England, if a child is brought to the font at the same time as a body is committed to the ground, whatever was "good" in the deceased person is supposed to be transferred to the little child, since God does not allow any "goodness" to be buried and lost to the world, and such "goodness" is most likely to enter a little child coming to the sacrament of Baptism.[112] A blessing, also, no less than a curse, is looked upon in the light of material energy; goodness is not required for the acquisition of it, mere contact will do. Blessings are hereditary:--"The just man walketh in his integrity: his children are blessed after him."[113]

[Footnote 110: Catechism of the Council of Trent, ii. 5. 72.]

[Footnote 111: Am Urquell, ii. 101.]

[Footnote 112: Peacock, 'Executed Criminals and Folk-Medicine,' in Folk-Lore, vii. 280.]

[Footnote 113: Proverbs, xx. 7.]

It is no doubt more becoming for a god to pardon the sinner on account of the merits of the virtuous, than to punish the innocent for the sins of the wicked. It shows that his compassion overcomes his wrath; and the mercy of the deity is, among all divine attributes, that on which the higher monotheistic religions lay most stress. Allah said, "Whoso doth one good act, for him are ten rewards, and I also give more to whomsoever I will; and whoso doth ill, its retaliation is equal to it, or else I forgive him."[114] Nevertheless, the moral consciousness of a higher type can hardly approve that the wicked should be pardoned for the sake of the virtuous, or that the reward for an act should be bestowed upon anybody else than the agent. The doctrine of vicarious merit or recompense is not just; it involves that badness is unduly ignored; it is based on crude ideas of goodness and merit. The theory of opera supererogativa, as we have seen, attaches badness {99} and goodness to external acts rather than to mental facts, and assumes that reparation can be given for badness, whereas the scrutinising moral judge only forgives badness in case it is superseded by repentance. If thus a bad act cannot be compensated by a good one, even though both be performed by one and the same person, it can still less be compensated by the good act of another man. From various quarters we hear protests against the notion of vicarious merit--protests which emphasise the true direction of moral reward. Ezekiel, who reproved the old idea that the children's teeth are set on edge because the fathers have eaten sour grapes, also taught that a wicked son is to reap no benefit from the blessings bestowed upon a righteous father.[115] "Fear the day," says the Koran, "wherein no soul shall pay any recompense for another soul."[116] The Buddhistic Dhammapada contains the following passage, which sums up our whole argument:--"By oneself the evil is done, by oneself one suffers; by oneself evil is left undone, by oneself one is purified. The pure and the impure stand and fall by themselves, no one can purify another."[117]

[Footnote 114: Lane-Poole, Speeches and Table-Talk of Mohammad, p. 147.]

[Footnote 115: Ezekiel, xviii. 5 sqq.]

[Footnote 116: Koran, ii. 44.]

[Footnote 117: Dhammapada, xii. 165.]

IV. THE NATURE OF THE MORAL EMOTIONS (concluded)

WE have seen that moral disapproval is a form of resentment, and that moral approval is a form of retributive kindly emotion. It still remains for us to examine in what respects these emotions differ from kindred non-moral emotions--disapproval from anger and revenge, approval from gratitude--in other words, what characterises them as specifically moral emotions.

It is a common opinion, held by all who regard the intellect as the source of moral concepts, that moral emotions only arise in consequence of moral judgments, and that, in each case, the character of the emotion is determined by the predicate of the judgment. We are told that, when the intellectual process is completed, when the act in question is definitely classed under such or such a moral category, then, and only then, there follows instantaneously a feeling of either approbation or disapprobation as the case may be.[1] When we hear of a murder, for instance, we must discern the wrongness of the act before we can feel moral indignation at it.

[Footnote 1: Fleming, Manual of Moral Philosophy, p. 97 sqq. Fowler, Principles of Morals, ii. 198 sqq.]

It is true that a moral judgment may be followed by a moral emotion, that the finding out the tendency of a certain mode of conduct to evoke indignation or approval is apt to call forth such an emotion, if there was none before, or otherwise to increase the one existing. It is, moreover, true that the predicate of a moral judgment, as {101} well as the generalisation leading up to such a predicate, may give a specific colouring to the approval or disapproval which it produces, quite apart from the general characteristics belonging to that emotion in its capacity of a moral emotion; the concepts of duty and justice, for instance, no doubt have a peculiar flavour of their own. But for all this, moral emotions cannot be described as resentment or retributive kindliness called forth by moral judgments. Such a definition would be a meaningless play with words. Whatever emotions may follow moral judgments, such judgments could never have been pronounced unless there had been moral emotions antecedent to them. Their predicates, as was pointed out above, are essentially based on generalisations of tendencies in certain phenomena to arouse moral emotions; hence the criterion of a moral emotion can in no case depend upon its proceeding from a moral judgment. But at the same time moral judgments, being definite expressions of moral emotions, naturally help us to discover the true nature of these emotions.

The predicate of a moral judgment always involves a notion of disinterestedness. When pronouncing an act to be good or bad, I mean that it is so, quite independently of any reference it might have to my own interests. A moral judgment may certainly have a selfish motive; but then it, nevertheless, pretends to be disinterested, which shows that disinterestedness is a characteristic of moral concepts as such. This is admitted even by the egoistic hedonist, who maintains that we approve and condemn acts from self-love. According to Helvetius, it is the love of consideration that a virtuous man takes to be in him the love of virtue; and yet everybody pretends to love virtue for its own sake, "this phrase is in every one's mouth and in no one's heart."[2]

[Footnote 2: Helvetius, De l'Homme, i. 263.]

If the moral concepts are essentially generalisations of tendencies in certain phenomena to call forth moral emotions, and, at the same time, contain the notion of {102} disinterestedness, we must conclude that the emotions from which they spring are felt disinterestedly. Of this fact we find an echo--more or less faithful--in the maxims of various ethical theorisers, as well as practical moralists. We find it in the utilitarian demand that, in regard to his own happiness and that of others, an agent should be "as strictly impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator";[3] in the "rule of righteousness" laid down by Samuel Clarke, that "We so deal with every man, as in like circumstances we could reasonably expect he should with us";[4] in Kant's formula, "Act only on that maxim which thou canst at the same time will to become a universal law";[5] in Professor Sidgwick's so-called axiom, "I ought not to prefer my own lesser good to the greater good of another";[6] in the biblical sayings, "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself,"[7] and, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."[8] The same fact is expressed in the Indian Mahabharata, where it is said:--"Let no man do to another that which would be repugnant to himself; this is the sum of righteousness; the rest is according to inclination. In refusing, in bestowing, in regard to pleasure and to pain, to what is agreeable and disagreeable, a man obtains the proper rule by regarding the case as like his own."[9] Similar words are ascribed to Confucius.[10] When Tsze-kung asked if there is any one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one's life, the Master answered, "Is not Reciprocity such a word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to {103} others." And in another utterance Confucius showed that the rule had for him not only a negative, but a positive form. He said that, in the way of the superior man, there are four things to none of which he himself had as yet attained; to serve his father as he would require his son to serve him, to serve his prince as he would require his minister to serve him, to serve his elder brother as he would require his younger brother to serve him, and to set the example in behaving to a friend as he would require the friend to behave to him.[11]

[Footnote 3: Stuart Mill, Utilitarianism, p. 24.]

[Footnote 4: Clarke, Discourse concerning the Unchangeable Obligations of Natural Religion, p. 201.]

[Footnote 5: Kant, Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten, sec. 2 (Sämmtliche Werke, iv. 269).]

[Footnote 6: Sidgwick, Methods of Ethics, p. 383. However, as we have seen above, this so-called "axiom" is not a correct representation of the disinterestedness of moral emotions.]

[Footnote 7: Leviticus, xix. 18. St. Matthew, xxii. 39.]

[Footnote 8: St. Matthew, vii. 12. Cf. St. Luke, vi. 31.]

[Footnote 9: Mahabharata, xiii. 5571 sq., in Muir, Religious and Moral Sentiments, rendered from Sanskrit Writers, p. 107. Cf. Panchatantra, iii. (Benfey's translation, ii. 235).]

[Footnote 10: Lun Yü, xv. 23. Cf. ibid. xii. 2; Chung Yung, xiii. 3.]

[Footnote 11: Chung Yung, xiii. 4.]

This "golden rule" is not, as has been sometimes argued, a rule of retaliation.[12] It does not say, "Do to others what they wish to do to you"; it says, "Do to others what you wish, or require, them to do to you." It brings home to us the fact that moral rules are general rules, which ought to be obeyed irrespectively of any selfish considerations. If formulated as an injunction that we should treat our neighbour in the same manner as we consider that he, under exactly similar circumstances, ought to treat us, it is simply identical with the sentence, "Do your duty," with emphasis laid on the disinterestedness which is involved in the very conception of duty. So far, St. Augustine was right in saying that "Do as thou wouldst be done by" is a sentence which all nations under heaven are agreed upon.[13]

[Footnote 12: Letourneau, L'évolution religieuse dans les diverses races humaines, p. 553.]

[Footnote 13: St. Augustine, quoted by Lilly, Right and Wrong, p. 106.]

Disinterestedness, however, is not the only characteristic by which moral indignation and approval are distinguished from other, non-moral, kinds of resentment or retributive kindly emotion. It is, indeed, itself a form of a more comprehensive quality which characterises moral emotions--apparent impartiality. If I pronounce an act done to a friend or to an enemy to be either good or bad, that implies that I assume it to be so independently of the fact that the person to whom the act is done is my friend or my enemy. Conversely, if I pronounce an {104} act done by a friend or by an enemy to be good or bad, that implies that I assume the act to be either good or bad independently of my friendly or hostile feelings towards the agent. All this means that resentment and retributive kindly emotion are moral emotions in so far as they are assumed by those who feel them to be uninfluenced by the particular relationship in which they stand, both to those who are immediately affected by the acts in question, and to those who perform those acts. A moral emotion, then, is tested by an imaginary change of the relationship between him who approves or disapproves of the mode of conduct by which the emotion was evoked and the parties immediately concerned, whilst the relationship between the parties themselves is left unaltered. At the same time it is not necessary that the moral emotion should be really impartial. It is sufficient that it is tacitly assumed to be so, nay, even that it is not knowingly partial. In attributing different rights to different individuals, or classes of individuals, we are often, in reality, influenced by the relationship in which we stand to them, by personal sympathies and antipathies; and yet those rights may be moral rights, in the strict sense of the term, not mere preferences, namely, if we assume that any impartial judge would recognise our attribution of rights as just, or even if we are unaware of its partiality. Similarly, when the savage censures a homicide committed upon a member of his own tribe, but praises one committed upon a member of another tribe, his censure and praise are certainly influenced by his relations to the victim, or to the agent, or to both. He does not reason thus: it is blamable to kill a member of one's own tribe, and it is praiseworthy to kill a member of a foreign tribe--whether the tribe be mine or not. Nevertheless, his blame and his praise must be regarded as expressions of moral emotions.

Finally, a moral emotion has a certain flavour of generality. We have previously noticed that a moral judgment very frequently implies some vague assumption {105} that it must be shared by everybody who possesses both a sufficient knowledge of the case and a "sufficiently developed" moral consciousness. We have seen, however, that this assumption is illusory. It cannot, consequently, be regarded as a conditio sine quâ non for a moral judgment, unless, indeed, it be maintained that such a judgment, owing to its very nature, is necessarily a chimera--an opinion which, to my mind, would be simply absurd. But, though moral judgments cannot lay claim to universality or "objectivity," it does not follow that they are merely individual estimates. Even he who fully sees their limitations must admit that, when he pronounces an act to be good or bad, he gives expression to something more than a personal opinion, that his judgment has reference, not only to his own feelings, but to the feelings of others as well. And this is true even though he be aware that his own conviction is not shared by those around him, nor by anybody else. He then feels that it would be shared if other people knew the act and all its attendant circumstances as well as he does himself, and if, at the same time, their emotions were as refined as are his own. This feeling gives to his approval or indignation a touch of generality, which belongs to public approval and public indignation, but which is never found in any merely individual emotion of gratitude or revenge.

* * * * *

The analysis of the moral emotions which has been attempted in this and the two preceding chapters, holds good, not only for such emotions as we feel on account of the conduct of others, but for such emotions as we feel on account of our own conduct as well. Moral self-condemnation is a hostile attitude of mind towards one's self as the cause of pain, moral self-approval is a kindly attitude of mind towards one's self as a cause of pleasure. Genuine remorse, though focussed on the will of the person who feels it, involves, vaguely or distinctly, some desire to suffer. The repentant man wants to think of the wrong he has committed, he wants clearly to realise {106} its wickedness; and he wants to do this, not merely because he desires to become a better man, but because it gives him some relief to feel the sting in his heart. If punished for his deed, he willingly submits to the punishment. The Philippine Islander, says Mr. Foreman, if he recognises a fault by his own conscience, will receive a flogging without resentment or complaint, although, "if he is not so convinced of the misdeed, he will await his chance to give vent to his rancour."[14] We may feel actual hatred towards ourselves, we may desire to inflict bodily suffering upon ourselves as a punishment for what we have done;[15] nay, there are instances of criminals, guilty of capital offences, having given themselves up to the authorities in order to appease their consciences by suffering the penalty of the law.[16] Yet the desire to punish ourselves has a natural antagonist in our general aversion to pain, and this often blunts the sting of the conscience. Suicide prompted by remorse, which sometimes occurs even among savages,[17] is to be regarded rather as a method of putting an end to agonies, than as a kind of self-execution; and behind the self-torments of the sinner frequently lurks the hopeful prospect of heavenly bliss. Self-approval, again, is not merely joy at one's own conduct, but is a kindly emotion, a friendly attitude towards one's self. Such an attitude, for instance, lies at the bottom of the feeling that one's own conduct merits praise or reward.

[Footnote 14: Foreman, Philippine Islands, p. 185. Cf. Hinde, The Last of the Masai, p. 34; Zöller, Das Togoland, p. 37.]

[Footnote 15: Cf. Jodl, Lehrbuch der Psychologie, p. 675.]

[Footnote 16: von Feuerbach, Aktenmässige Darstellung merkwürdiger Verbrechen, i. 249; ii. 473, 479 sq. von Lasaulx, Sühnopfer der Griechen und Römer, p. 6.]

[Footnote 17: See infra, on Suicide.]

Not every form of self-reproach or of self-approval is a moral emotion--no more than is every form of resentment or retributive kindly emotion towards other persons. We may be angry with ourselves on account of some act of ours which is injurious to our own interests. He who has lost at play may be as vexed at himself as he who has {107} cheated at play, and the egoist may bitterly reproach himself for having yielded to a momentary impulse of benevolence, or even to conscience itself. In order to be moral emotions, our self-condemnation and self-approval must present the same characteristics as make resentment and retributive kindliness moral emotions when they are felt with reference to the conduct of other people. A person does not feel remorse when he reproaches himself from an egoistic motive, or when he afterwards regrets that he has sacrificed the interests of his children to the impartial claim of justice. Nor does a person feel moral self-approval when he is pleased with himself for having committed an act which he recognises as selfish or unjust. And besides being disinterested and apparently impartial, remorse and moral self-approval have a flavour of generality. As Professor Baldwin remarks, moral approval or disapproval, not only of other people, but of one's self, "is never at its best except when it is accompanied, in the consciousness which has it, with the knowledge or belief that it is also socially shared."[18] Indeed, almost inseparable from the moral judgments which we pass on our own conduct seems to be the image of an impartial outsider who acts as our judge.

[Footnote 18: Baldwin, Social and Ethical Interpretation in Mental Development, p. 314.]

V. THE ORIGIN OF THE MORAL EMOTIONS

WE have found that resentment and retributive kindly emotion are easily explicable from their usefulness, both of them having a tendency to promote the interests of the individuals who feel them. This explanation also holds good for the moral emotions, in so far as they are retributive emotions: it accounts for the hostile attitude of moral disapproval towards the cause of pain, and for the friendly attitude of moral approval towards the cause of pleasure. But it still remains for us to discover the origin of those elements in the moral emotions by which they are distinguished from other, non-moral, retributive emotions. First, how shall we explain their disinterestedness?

We have to distinguish between different classes of conditions under which disinterested retributive emotions arise. In the first place, we may feel disinterested resentment, or disinterested retributive kindly emotion, on account of an injury inflicted, or a benefit conferred, upon another person with whose pain, or pleasure, we sympathise, and in whose welfare we take a kindly interest. Our retributive emotions are, of course, always reactions against pain, or pleasure, felt by ourselves; this holds true for the moral emotions as well as for revenge and gratitude. The question to be answered, then, is, Why should we, quite disinterestedly, feel pain calling forth indignation because our neighbour is hurt, and pleasure calling forth approval because he is benefited?

{109} That a certain act causes pleasure or pain to the by-stander is partly due to the close association which exists between these feelings and their outward expressions. The sight of a happy face tends to produce some degree of pleasure in him who sees it; the sight of the bodily signs of suffering tends to produce a feeling of pain. In either case the feeling of the spectator is the result of a process of reproduction, the perception of the physical manifestation of the feeling recalling the feeling itself on account of the established association between them.

Sympathetic pain or pleasure may also be the result of an association between cause and effect, between the cognition of a certain act or situation and the feeling generally produced by this act or situation. A blow may cause pain to the spectator before he has witnessed its effect on the victim. The sympathetic feeling is of course stronger when both kinds of association concur in producing it, than when it is the result of only one. As Adam Smith observes, "general lamentations which express nothing but the anguish of the sufferer, create rather a curiosity to inquire into his situation, along with some disposition to sympathise with him, than any actual sympathy that is very sensible."[1] On the other hand, the sympathy which springs from an association between cause and effect is much enhanced by the perception of outward signs of pleasure or pain in the individual with whom we sympathise.

[Footnote 1: Adam Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, p. 7.]

But the sympathetic feeling which results from association alone is not what is generally understood by sympathy. Arising merely from the habitual connection of certain cognitions with certain feelings in the experience of the spectator, it is, strictly speaking, not at all concerned with the feelings of the other person. It is not a reflex of what he feels--which, indeed, is a matter of complete indifference--and the activity which it calls forth is thoroughly selfish. If it is a feeling of pain, the spectator naturally, for his own sake, tries to get rid of it; but this {110} may be done by turning the back upon the sufferer, and looking out for some diversion. The sympathetic feeling which springs from association alone, may also produce a benevolent or hostile reaction against its immediate cause: the smiling face often evokes a kindly feeling towards the smiler, and "the sight of suffering often directs irritation against the sufferer."[2] In such cases it is the other person himself, rather than his benefactor or his tormentor, that is regarded as cause by the sympathiser. When based on association alone, the sympathetic feeling thus lacks the most vital characteristic of sympathy, in the popular sense of the term: it lacks kindliness.[3]

[Footnote 2: Leslie Stephen, Science of Ethics, p. 243.]

[Footnote 3: The difference between sympathy and kindly ("tender") emotion has been commented upon by Professor Ribot (Psychology of the Emotions, p. 233), and by Mr. Shand, in his excellent chapter on the 'Sources of Tender Emotion,' in Stout's Groundwork of Psychology, p. 198 sqq.]

Sympathy, in the ordinary use of the word, requires the co-operation of the altruistic sentiment or affection--a disposition of mind which is particularly apt to display itself as kindly emotion towards other beings. This sentiment,[4] only, induces us to take a kindly interest in the feelings of our neighbours. It involves a tendency, or willingness, and, when strongly developed, gives rise to an eager desire, to sympathise with their pains and pleasures. Under its influence, our sympathetic feeling is no longer a mere matter of association; we take an active part in its production, we direct our attention to any circumstance which we believe may affect the feelings of the person whom we love, to any external manifestation of his emotions. We are anxious to find out his joys and sorrows, so as to be able to rejoice with him and to suffer with him, and, especially, when he stands in need of it, to console or to help him. For the altruistic sentiment is not merely willingness to sympathise; it is above all a conative {111} disposition to do good. The latter aptitude must be regarded rather as the cause than as the result of the former; affection is not, as Adam Smith maintained,[5] merely habitual sympathy, or its necessary consequence. It is true that sympathetic pain, unaided by kindliness, may induce a person to relieve the suffering of his neighbour, instead of shutting his eyes to it; but then he does so, not out of regard to the feelings of the sufferer, but simply to free himself of a painful cognition. Nor must it be supposed that the altruistic sentiment prompts to assistance only by strengthening the sympathetic feeling. The sight of the wounded traveller may have caused no less pain to the Pharisee than to the good Samaritan; yet it would have been impossible for the Samaritan to dismiss his pain by going away, since he felt a desire to assist the wounded, and his desire would have been left ungratified if he had not stopped by the wayside. To the egoist, the relief offered to the sufferer is a means of suppressing the sympathetic pain; to the altruist, the sympathetic pain is, so to say, a means of giving relief. The altruist wants to know, to feel the pain of his neighbour, because he desires to help him. Why are the most kind-hearted people often the most cheerful, if not because they think of alleviating the misery of their fellow-creatures, instead of indulging in the sympathetic pain which it evokes?

[Footnote 4: I use the word "sentiment" in the sense proposed by Mr. Shand, in his article, 'Character and the Emotions,' in Mind, N.S. v. 203 sqq., and adopted by Professor Stout, op. cit. p. 221 sqq. Sentiments cannot be actually felt at any one moment; "they are complex mental dispositions, and may, as divers occasions arise, give birth to the whole gamut of the emotions" (ibid. p. 223 sq.).]

[Footnote 5: Adam Smith, op. cit. p. 323.]

It is obvious, then, that sympathy aided by the altruistic sentiment--sympathy in the common sense--tends to produce disinterested retributive emotions. When we to some extent identify, as it were, our feelings with those of our neighbour, we naturally look upon any person who causes him pleasure or pain as the cause of our sympathetic pleasure or pain, and are apt to experience towards that person a retributive emotion similar in kind, if not always in degree, to the emotion which we feel when we are ourselves benefited or injured. In all animal species which possess altruistic sentiments in some form or other, we may be sure to find sympathetic resentment as their accompaniment. {112} A mammalian mother is as hostile to the enemy of her young as to her own enemy. Among social animals whose gregarious instinct has developed into social affection,[6] sympathetic resentment is felt towards the enemy of any member of the group; they mutually defend each other, and this undoubtedly involves some degree of sympathetic anger. With reference to animals in confinement and domesticated animals, many striking instances of this emotion might be quoted, even in cases when injuries have been inflicted on members of different species to which they have become attached. Professor Romanes' terrier, "whenever or wherever he saw a man striking a dog, whether in the house, or outside, near at hand or at a distance, . . . . used to rush in to interfere, snarling and snapping in a most threatening way."[7] Darwin makes mention of a little American monkey in the Zoological Gardens of London which, when seeing a great baboon attack his friend, the keeper, rushed to the rescue and by screams and bites so distracted the baboon, that the man was able to escape.[8] The dog who flies at any one who strikes, or even touches, his master, is a very familiar instance of sympathetic resentment. The Rev. Charles Williams mentions a dog at Liverpool who saved a cat from the hands of some young ruffians who were maltreating it: he rushed in among the boys, barked furiously at them, terrified them into flight, and carried the cat off in his mouth, bleeding and almost senseless, to his kennel, where he laid it on the straw, and nursed it.[9] In man, sympathetic resentment begins at an early age. Professor Sully mentions a little boy under four who was indignant at any picture where an animal suffered.[10]

[Footnote 6: The connection between social affection and the gregarious instinct will be discussed in a subsequent chapter.]

[Footnote 7: Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 440.]

[Footnote 8: Darwin, Descent of Man, p. 103. Cf. Fisher, in Revue Scientifique, xxxiii. 618. A curious instance of a terrier "avenging" the death of another terrier, his inseparable friend, is mentioned by Captain Medwin (Angler in Wales, ii. 162-164, 197, 216 sq.).]

[Footnote 9: Williams, Dogs and their Ways, p. 43.]

[Footnote 10: Sully, Studies of Childhood, p. 250.]

The altruistic sentiments of mankind will be treated at {113} length in subsequent chapters. We shall find reason to believe that not only maternal, but to some extent, paternal and conjugal affection, prevailed in the human race from ancient times, and that social affection arose in those days when the conditions of life became favourable to an expansion of the early family, when the chief obstacle to a gregarious life--scarcity of food--was overcome, and sociality, being an advantage to man, became his habit. There are still savages who live in families rather than in tribes, but we know of no people among whom social organisation outside the family is totally wanting. Later discoveries only tend to confirm Darwin's statement that, though single families or only two or three together, roam the solitudes of some savage lands, they always hold friendly relations with other families inhabiting the same district; such families occasionally meeting in council and uniting for their common defence.[11] But as a general rule, to which there are few exceptions, the lower races live in communities larger than family groups, and all the members of the community are united with one another by common interests and common feelings. Of the harmony, mutual good-will, and sense of solidarity, which under normal conditions prevail in these societies, much evidence will be adduced in following pages. Mr. Melville's remark with reference to some Marquesas cannibals may be quoted as to some extent typical. "With them," he says, "there hardly appeared to be any difference of opinion upon any subject whatever. . . . They showed this spirit of unanimity in every action of life: everything was done in concert and good fellowship."[12] When a member of the group is hurt, the feeling of unanimity takes the form of public resentment. As Robertson observed long ago, "in small communities, every man is touched with the injury or affront offered to the body of which he is a member, as if it were a personal attack upon his own honour or safety. The desire of revenge is communicated from breast to breast, {114} and soon kindles into rage."[13] Speaking of some Australian savages, Mr. Fison remarks:--"To the savage, the whole gens is the individual, and he is full of regard for it. Strike the gens anywhere, and every member of it considers himself struck, and the whole body corporate rises up in arms against the striker."[14] Nobody will deny that there is a disinterested element in this public resentment, even though every member of the group consider the enemy of any other member to be actually his own enemy as well, and, partly, hate him as such.

[Footnote 11: Darwin, op. cit. p. 108.]

[Footnote 12: Melville, Typee, p. 297 sq.]

[Footnote 13: Robertson, History of America, i. 350. Cf. Clifford's theory of the "tribal self" (Lectures and Essays, p. 290 sqq.). He says (ibid. p. 291), "The savage is not only hurt when anybody treads on his foot, but when anybody treads on his tribe."]

[Footnote 14: Fison and Howitt, Kamilaroi and Kurnai, p. 170.]

Our explanation of what has here been called "sympathetic resentment," however, is not yet complete. This emotion, as we have seen, may be a reaction against sympathetic pain; but it may also be directly produced by the cognition of the signs of anger. In the former case it is, strictly speaking, independent of the emotion of the injured individual; we may feel resentment on his behalf though he himself feels none. In the latter case it is a reflected emotion, felt independently of the cause of the original emotion of which it is a reflection--as when the yells and shrieks of a street dog-fight are heard, and dogs from all sides rush to the spot, each dog being apparently ready to bite any of the others. In the former case, it is, by the medium of sympathetic pain, closely connected with the inflicted injury; in the latter case it may even be the reflection of an emotion which is itself sympathetic, and the origin of which is perhaps out of sight. In an infuriated crowd the one gets angry because the other is angry, and very often the question, Why? is hardly asked. This form of sympathetic resentment is of considerable importance both as an originator and as a communicator of moral ideas. To teach that a certain act is wrong is to teach that it is an object, and a proper object, of moral indignation, and the aim of the instructor {115} is to inspire a similar indignation in the mind of the pupil. An intelligent teacher tries to attain this end by representing the act in such a light as to evoke disapproval independently of any appeal to authority; but, unfortunately, in many cases where the duties of current morality are to be enjoined, he cannot do so--for a very obvious reason. Of various acts which, though inoffensive by themselves, are considered wrong, he can say little more than that they are forbidden by God and man; and if, nevertheless, such acts are not only professed, but actually felt, to be wrong, that is due to the fact that men are inclined to sympathise with the resentment of persons for whom they feel regard. It is this fact that accounts for the connection between the punishment of an act and the consequent idea that it deserves to be punished. We shall see that the punishment which society inflicts is, as a rule, an expression of its moral indignation; but there are instances in which the order is reversed, and in which human, or, as it may be supposed, divine, punishment or anger is the cause, and moral disapproval the effect. Children, as everybody knows, grow up with their ideas of right and wrong graduated, to a great extent, according to the temper of the father or mother;[15] and men are not seldom, as Hobbes said, "like little children, that have no other rule of good and evill manners, but the correction they receive from their Parents, and Masters."[16] The case is the same with any outbreak of public resentment, with any punishment inflicted by society at large. However selfish it may be in its origin, to whatever extent it may spring from personal motives, it always has a tendency to become in some degree disinterested, each individual not only being angry on his own behalf, but at the same time reflecting the anger of everybody else.

[Footnote 15: Cf. Baring-Gould, Origin and Developwent of Religious Belief, i. 212.]

[Footnote 16: Hobbes, Leviathan, i. 2, p. 76.]

Any means of expressing resentment may serve as a communicator of the emotion. Besides punishment, language deserves special mention. Moral disapproval may {116} be evoked by the very sounds of certain words, like "murder," "theft," "cowardice," and others, which not merely indicate the commission of certain acts, but also express the opprobrium attached to them. By being called a "liar," a person is more disgraced than by any plain statement of his untruthfulness; and by the use of some strong word the orator raises the indignation of a sympathetic audience to its pitch.

All the cases of disinterested resentment which we have hitherto considered fall under the heading of sympathetic resentment. But there are other cases into which sympathy does not enter at all. Resentment is not always caused by the infliction of an injury; it may be called forth by any feeling of pain traceable to a living being as its direct or indirect cause. Quite apart from our sympathy with the sufferings of others, there are many cases in which we feel hostile towards a person on account of some act of his which in no way interferes with our interests, which conflicts with no self-regarding feeling of ours. There are in the human mind what Professor Bain calls "disinterested antipathies," sentimental aversions "of which our fellow-beings are the subjects, and on account of which we overlook our own interest quite as much as in displaying our sympathies and affections."[17] Differences of taste, habit, and opinion, are particularly apt to create similar dislikes, which, as will be seen, have played a very prominent part in the moulding of the moral consciousness. When a certain act, though harmless by itself (apart from the painful impression it makes upon the spectator), fills us with disgust or horror, we may feel no less inclined to inflict harm upon the agent, than if he had committed an offence against person, property, or good name. And here, again, our resentment is sympathetically increased by our observing a similar disgust in others. We are easily affected by the aversions and likings of our neighbours. As Tucker said, "we grow to love things we perceive {117} them fond of, and contract aversions from their dislikes."[18]

[Footnote 17: Bain, Emotions and the Will, p. 268.]

[Footnote 18: Tucker, Light of Nature Pursued, i. 154.]

We have already seen that sympathy springing from an altruistic sentiment may produce, not only disinterested resentment, but disinterested retributive kindly emotion as well. When taking a pleasure in the benefit bestowed on our neighbour, we naturally look with kindness upon the benefactor; and just as sympathetic resentment may be produced by the cognition of the outward signs of resentment, so sympathetic retributive kindly emotion may be produced by the signs of retributive kindliness. Language communicates emotions by terms of praise, as well as by terms of condemnation; and a reward, like a punishment, tends to reproduce the emotion from which it sprang. Moreover, men have disinterested likings, as they have disinterested dislikes. As an instance of such likings may be mentioned the common admiration of courage when felt irrespectively of the object for which it is displayed.

Having thus found the origin of disinterested retributive emotions, we have at the same time partly explained the origin of the moral emotions. But, as we have seen, disinterestedness is not the sole characteristic by which moral indignation and approval are distinguished from other retributive emotions: a moral emotion is assumed to be impartial, or, at least, is not knowingly partial, and it is coloured by the feeling of being publicly shared. However, the real problem which we have now to solve is not how retributive emotions may become apparently impartial and be coloured by a feeling of generality, but why disinterestedness, apparent impartiality, and the flavour of generality have become characteristics by which so-called moral emotions are distinguished from other retributive emotions. The solution of this problem lies in the fact that society is the birthplace of the moral consciousness; that the first moral judgments expressed, not the private emotions of isolated individuals, but emotions which were {118} felt by the society at large; that tribal custom was the earliest rule of duty.

Customs have been defined as public habits, as the habits of a certain circle, a racial or national community, a rank or class of society. But whilst being a habit, custom is at the same time something else as well. It not merely involves a frequent repetition of a certain mode of conduct, it is also a rule of conduct. As Cicero observes, the customs of a people "are precepts in themselves."[19] We say that "custom commands," or "custom demands," and speak of it as "strict" and "inexorable"; and even when custom simply allows the commission of a certain class of actions, it implicitly lays down the rule that such actions are not to be interfered with.

[Footnote 19: Cicero, De Officiis, i. 41.]

The rule of custom is conceived of as a moral rule, which decides what is right and wrong.[20] "Les loix de la conscience," says Montaigne, "que nous disons naistre de nature, naissent de la coustume."[21] Mr. Howitt once said to a young Australian native with whom he was speaking about the food prohibited during initiation, "But if you were hungry and caught a female opossum, you might eat it if the old men were not there." The youth replied, "I could not do that; it would not be right"; and he could give no other reason than that it would be wrong to disregard the customs of his people.[22] Mr. Bernau says of the British Guiana Indians:--"Their moral sense of good and evil is entirely regulated by the customs and practices inherited from their forefathers. What their predecessors believed and did must have been right, and they deem it the height of presumption to suppose that any could think and act otherwise."[23] The moral evil of the pagan Greenlanders "was all that was contrary to laws and customs, as {119} regulated by the angakoks," and when the Danish missionaries tried to make them acquainted with their own moral conceptions, the result was that they "conceived the idea of virtue and sin as what was pleasing or displeasing to Europeans, as according or disaccording with their customs and laws."[24] "The Africans, like most heathens," Mr. Rowley observes, "do not regard sin, according to their idea of sin, as an offence against God, but simply as a transgression of the laws and customs of their country."[25] The Ba-Ronga call derogations of universally recognised custom yila, prohibited, tabooed.[26] The Bedouins of the Euphrates "make no appeal to conscience or the will of God in their distinctions between right and wrong, but appeal only to custom."[27] According to the laws of Manu, the custom handed down in regular succession since time immemorial "is called the conduct of virtuous men."[28] The Greek idea of the customary, [Greek: to\ no/mimon], shows the close connection between morality and custom; and so do the words [Greek: e)/thos, ê)/thos], and [Greek: e)thika/], the Latin mos and moralis, the German Sitte and Sittlichkeit.[29] Moreover, in early society, customs are not only moral rules, but the only moral rules ever thought of. The savage strictly complies with the Hegelian command that no man must have a private conscience. The following statement, which refers to the Tinnevelly Shanars, may be quoted as a typical example:--"Solitary individuals amongst them rarely adopt any new opinions, or any new course of procedure. They follow the multitude to do evil, and they follow the multitude to do good. They think in herds."[30]

[Footnote 20: Cf. Austin, Lectures on Jurisprudence, i. 104; Tönnies, 'Philosophical Terminology,' in Mind, N.S., viii. 304. Von Jhering (Zweck im Recht, ii. 23) defines the German Sitte as "die im Leben des Volks sich bildende verpflichtende Gewohnheit"; and a similar view is expressed by Wundt (Ethik, p. 128 sq.).]

[Footnote 21: Montaigne, Essais, i. 22 ([OE]uvres, p. 48).]

[Footnote 22: Fison and Howitt, op. cit. p. 256 sq.]

[Footnote 23: Bernau, Missionary Labours in British Guiana, p. 60.]

[Footnote 24: Rink, Greenland, p. 201 sq.]

[Footnote 25: Rowley, Religion of the Africans, p. 44.]

[Footnote 26: Junod, Ba-Ronga, p. 477.]

[Footnote 27: Blunt, Bedouin Tribes of the Euphrates, ii. 224.]

[Footnote 28: Laws of Manu, ii. 18.]

[Footnote 29: For the history of these words, see Wundt, op. cit. p. 19 sqq. For other instances illustrating the moral character of custom, see Maclean, Compendium of Kafir Law and Customs, p. 34 (Amaxosa); Macpherson, Memorials of Service in India, p. 94 (Kandhs); Kubary, Ethnographische Beiträge zur Kenntniss der Karolinischen Inselgruppe, i. 73 (Pelew Islanders); Smith, Chinese Characteristics, p. 119.]

[Footnote 30: Caldwell, Tinnevelly Shanars, p. 69.]

Disobedience to custom evokes public indignation. In {120} the lower stages of civilisation, especially, custom is a tyrant who binds man in iron fetters, and who threatens the transgressor, not only with general disgrace, but often with bodily suffering. "To believe that man in a savage state is endowed with freedom either of thought or action," says Sir G. Grey, "is erroneous in the highest degree";[31] and this statement is corroborated by an array of facts from all quarters of the savage world.[32] Now, as the rule of custom is a moral rule, the indignation aroused by its transgression is naturally a moral emotion. Moreover, where all the duties incumbent on a man are expressed in the customs of the society to which he belongs, it is obvious that the characteristics of moral indignation are to be sought for in its connection with custom. The most salient feature of custom is its generality. Its transgression calls forth public indignation; hence the flavour of generality which characterises moral disapproval. Custom is fixed once for all, and takes no notice of the preferences of individuals. By recognising the validity of a custom, I implicitly admit that the custom is equally binding for me and for you and for all the other members of the society. This involves disinterestedness; I admit that a breach of the custom is equally wrong whether I myself am immediately concerned in the act or not. It also involves apparent impartiality; I assume that my condemnation of the act is independent of the relationship in which the parties concerned in it stand to me personally, or, at least, I am not aware that my condemnation is influenced by any {121} such relationship. And this holds good whatever be the origin of the custom. Though customs are very frequently rooted in public sympathetic resentment or in public disinterested aversions, they may have a selfish and partial origin as well. At first the leading men of the society may have prohibited certain acts because they found them disadvantageous to themselves, or to those with whom they particularly sympathised. Where custom is an oppressor of women, this oppression may certainly be traced back to the selfishness of men. Where custom sanctions slavery, it is certainly not impartial to the slaves. Yet in the one case as in the other, I assume custom to be in the right, irrespectively of my own station, and I even expect the women and slaves themselves to be of the same opinion. Such an expectation is by no means a chimera. Under normal social conditions, largely owing to men's tendency to share sympathetically the resentment of their superiors, the customs of a society are willingly submitted to, and recognised as right, by the large majority of its members, whatever may be their station. Among the Rejangs of Sumatra, says Marsden, "a man without property, family, or connections, never, in the partiality of self-love, considers his own life as being of equal value with that of a man of substance."[33] However selfish, however partial a certain rule may be, it becomes a true custom, a moral rule, as soon as the selfishness or the partiality of its makers is lost sight of.

[Footnote 31: Grey, Journals of Expeditions in North-West and Western Australia, ii. 217.]

[Footnote 32: Tylor, 'Primitive Society,' in Contemporary Review, xxi. 706. Idem, Anthropology, p. 408 sq. Avebury, Origin of Civilisation, p. 466 sqq. Eyre, Journals of Expeditions into Central Australia, ii. 384, 385, 388. Curr, The Australian Race, i. 51. Mathew, 'Australian Aborigines,' in Jour. and Proceed. Roy. Soc. N.S. Wales, xxiii. 398. Idem, Eaglehawk and Crow, p. 93. Taplin, 'Narrinyeri,' in Woods, Native Tribes of South Australia, pp. 35, 136 sq. Hawtrey, 'Lengua Indians of the Paraguayan Chaco,' in Jour. Anthr. Inst. xxxi. 292. Murdoch, 'Ethnological Results of the Point Barrow Expedition,' in Ann. Rep. Bur. Ethn. ix. 427 sq. (Point Barrow Eskimo). Holm, 'Ethnologisk Skizze af Angmagsalikerne,' in Meddelelser om Grönland, x. 85. Nansen, First Crossing of Greenland, ii. 295. Johnston, British Central Africa, p. 452. New, Life, Wanderings, and Labours in Eastern Africa, p. 110 (Wanika). Scott Robertson, Káfirs of the Hindu-Kush, p. 183 sq.]

[Footnote 33: Marsden, History of Sumatra, p. 247.]

It will perhaps be argued that, by deriving the characteristics of moral indignation from its connection with custom, we implicitly contradict our initial assumption that moral emotions lie at the bottom of all moral judgments. But it is not so. Custom is a moral rule only on account of the indignation called forth by its transgression. In its ethical aspect it is nothing but a generalisation of emotional tendencies, applied to certain modes of conduct, and transmitted from generation to generation. Public indignation lies at the bottom of it. In its capacity {122} of a rule of duty, custom, mos, is derived from the emotion to which it gave its name.

As public indignation is the prototype of moral disapproval, so public approval, expressed in public praise, is the prototype of moral approval. Like public indignation, public approval is characterised by a flavour of generality, by disinterestedness, by apparent impartiality. But of these two emotions public indignation, being at the root of custom and leading to the infliction of punishment, is by far the more impressive. Hence it is not surprising that the term "moral" is etymologically connected with mos, which always implies the existence of a social rule the transgression of which evokes public indignation. Only by analogy it has come to be applied to the emotion of approval as well.

Though taking their place in the system of human emotions as public emotions felt by the society at large, moral disapproval and approval have not always remained inseparably connected with the feelings of any special society. The unanimity of opinion which originally characterised the members of the same social unit was disturbed by its advancement in civilisation. Individuals arose who found fault with the moral ideas prevalent in the community to which they belonged, criticising those ideas on the basis of their own individual feelings. Such rebels are certainly no less justified in speaking in the name of morality true and proper, than is society itself. The emotions from which their opposition against public opinion springs may be, in nature, exactly similar to the approval or disapproval felt by the society at large, though they are called forth by different facts or, otherwise, differ from these emotions in degree. They may present the same disinterestedness and apparent impartiality--indeed, dissent from the established moral ideas largely rises from the conviction that the apparent impartiality of public feelings is an illusion. As will be seen, the evolution of the moral consciousness involves a progress in impartiality and justice; it tends towards an equalisation {123} of rights, towards an expansion of the circle within which the same moral rules are held applicable; and this process is in no small degree effected by the efforts made by high-minded individuals to raise public opinion to their own standard of right. Nay, as we have already noticed, individual moral feelings do not even lack that flavour of generality which characterises the resentment and approval felt unanimously by a body of men. Though, perhaps, persecuted by his own people as an outcast, the moral dissenter does not regard himself as the advocate of a mere private opinion.[34] Even when standing alone, he feels that his conviction is shared at least by an ideal society, by all those who see the matter as clearly as he does himself, and who are animated with equally wide sympathies, an equally broad sense of justice. Thus the moral emotions remain to the last public emotions--if not in reality, then as an ideal.

[Footnote 34: Cf. Pollock, Essays in Jurisprudence and Ethics, p. 309.]

The fact that the earliest moral emotions were public emotions implies that the original form of the moral consciousness cannot, as is often asserted, have been the individual's own conscience. Dr. Martineau's observation, that the inner springs of other men's actions may be read off only by inference from our own experience, by no means warrants his conclusion that the moral consciousness is at its origin engaged in self-estimation, instead of circuitously reaching this end through a prior critique upon our fellow-men.[35] The moral element which may be contained in the emotion of self-reproach or self-approval, is generally to such an extent mixed up with other and non-moral elements, that it can be disentangled only by a careful process of abstraction, guided by the feelings of other people with reference to our conduct or by our own feelings with reference to the conduct of others. The moral emotion of remorse presupposes some notion of right and wrong, and the application of this notion to one's own conduct. Hence it could never have {124} been distinguished as a special form of, or element in, the wider emotion of self-reproach, unless the idea of morality had been previously derived from another source. The similarity between regret and remorse is so close, that in certain European languages there is only one word for both.[36]

[Footnote 35: Martineau, Types of Ethical Theory, ii. 29 sqq.]

[Footnote 36: As, in Swedish, the word ånger.]

* * * * *

From what has been said above it is obvious that moral resentment is of extreme antiquity in the human race, nay, that the germ of it is found even in the lower animal world, among social animals capable of feeling sympathetic resentment. The origin of custom as a moral rule no doubt lies in a very remote period of human history. We have no knowledge of a savage people without customs, and, as will be seen subsequently, savages often express their indignation in a very unmistakable manner when their customs are transgressed. Various data prove that the lower races have some feeling of justice, the flower of all moral feelings. And the supposition that remorse is unknown among them,[37] is not only unfounded, but contradicted by facts. Indeed, genuine remorse is so hidden an emotion even among ourselves, that it cannot be expected to be very conspicuous among savages. As we have seen, it requires a certain power of abstraction, as well as great impartiality of feeling, and must therefore be sought for at the highest reaches of the moral consciousness rather than at its lowest degrees. But to suppose that savages are entirely without a conscience is quite contrary to what we may infer from the great regard in which they hold their customs, as also contrary to the direct statements of travellers who have taken some pains to examine the matter. The answer given by the young Australian when asked by Mr. Howitt whether he might not eat a female opossum if the old men were not present,[38] certainly indicates conscientious respect for a moral rule, and is, as Mr. Fison observes, "a striking instance of that 'moral {125} feeling' which Sir John Lubbock denies to savages."[39] Dr. Hübbe-Schleiden asserts that, among the people whom he had in his service, he found the Negroes, in their sense of duty, not inferior, but rather superior to the Europeans.[40] Mr. New says of the Wanika:--"Conscience lives in them as the vicegerent of Almighty God, and is ever excusing or else accusing them. It may be blunted, hardened, resisted, and largely suppressed, but there it is."[41] M. Arbousset once desired some Bechuanas to tell him whether the blacks had a conscience. "Yes, all have one," they said in reply. "And what does it say to them?" "It is quiet when they do well and torments them when they sin." "What do you call sin?" "The theft, which is committed trembling, and the murder from which a man purifies and re-purifies himself, but which always leaves remorse."[42] Mr. Washington Matthews refers to a passage in a Navaho story which "shows us that he who composed this tale knew what the pangs of remorse might be, even for an act not criminal, as we consider it, but merely ungenerous and unfilial."[43]

[Footnote 37: Avebury, Origin of Civilisation, pp. 421, 426.]

[Footnote 38: See supra, p. 118.]

[Footnote 39: Fison and Howitt, op. cit. p. 257 n.]

[Footnote 40: Hübbe-Schleiden, Ethiopien, p. 184 sq.]

[Footnote 41: New, op. cit. p. 96.]

[Footnote 42: Arbousset and Daumas, Exploratory Tour to the North-East of the Colony of the Cape of Good Hope, p. 322.]

[Footnote 43: Matthews, 'Study of Ethics among the Lower Races,' in Journal of American Folk-Lore, xii. 7.]

A different opinion as to the existence of moral feelings among savages has been expressed by Lord Avebury. To him even modern savages seem to be "almost entirely wanting in moral feeling"; and he says that he has "been forced to this conclusion, not only by the direct statements of travelers but by the general tenor of their remarks, and especially by the remarkable absence of repentance and remorse among the lower races of men."[44] The importance of the subject renders {126} it necessary to scrutinise the facts which Lord Avebury has adduced in support of his conclusion.

[Footnote 44: Avebury, op. cit. pp. 414, 426. Lord Avebury quotes Burton's statement that in Eastern Africa, as also among the Yoruba negroes, conscience does not exist, and that "repentance" expresses regret for missed opportunities of mortal crime. Speaking of the stage of savagery represented by the Bakaïri, Dr. von den Steinen likewise observes (Unter den Naturvölkern Zentral-Brasiliens, p. 351), "Goodness and badness exist only in the crude sense of doing to others what is agreeable or disagreeable, but the moral consciousness, and the ideal initiative, influenced neither by prospect of reward nor fear of punishment, are entirely lacking." Lippert maintains (Kulturgeschichte der Menschheit, i. 27) "dass sich das Gewissen beim Naturmenschen nicht als 'Selbsttadel,' sondern nur als Furcht zeigt."]

Mr. Neighbors states that, among the Comanches of Texas, "no individual action is considered a crime, but every man acts for himself according to his own judgment, unless some superior power--for instance, that of a popular chief--should exercise authority over him." Another writer says, "The Redskin has no moral sense whatever." Among the Basutos, according to Casalis, morality "depends so entirely upon social order that all political disorganisation is immediately followed by a state of degeneracy, which the re-establishment of order alone can rectify." Similar accounts are given as regards Central Africa and some other places. Thus at Jenna, and in the surrounding districts, "whenever a town is deprived of its chief, the inhabitants acknowledge no law--anarchy, troubles, and confusion immediately prevail, and till a successor is appointed all labour is at an end." The Damaras "seem to have no perceptible notion of right or wrong." The Tasmanians were "without any moral views and impressions." Eyre says of the Australians that they have "no moral sense of what is just and equitable in the abstract"; and a missionary had very great difficulty in conveying to those natives any idea of sin. The Kacharis had "in their own language no words for sin, for piety, for prayer, for repentance"; and of another of the aboriginal tribes of India Mr. Campbell remarks that they "are . . . said to be without moral sense." Lord Avebury in this connection even quotes a statement to the effect that the expressions which the Tonga Islanders have for ideas like vice and injustice "are equally applicable to other things." The South American Indians of the Gran Chaco are said by the missionaries to "make no distinction between right and wrong, and have therefore neither fear nor hope of any present or future punishment or reward, nor any mysterious terror of some supernatural power." Finally, Lord Avebury observes that religion, except in the more advanced races, has no moral aspect or influence, that the deities are almost invariably regarded as evil, and that the belief in a future state is not at first associated with reward or punishment.[45]

[Footnote 45: Avebury, op. cit. p. 417 sqq.]

Many of the facts referred to by Lord Avebury do not at all presuppose the absence of moral feelings. It is difficult to see why the malevolence of gods should prevent men from having notions of right and wrong, and we know from the Old Testament itself that there may be a moral law without Paradise {127} and Hell. The statement concerning the Comanches only implies that, among them, individual freedom is great; whilst the social disorder which prevails among various peoples at times of political disorganisation indicates that the cohesiveness of the political aggregate is weak, as well as a certain discrepancy between moral ideas and moral practice. In Morocco, also, the death of a Sultan is immediately followed by almost perfect anarchy, and yet the people recognise both the moral tenets of the Koran and the still more stringent tenets of their ancient customs. As to the Basutos, Casalis expressly states that they have the idea of moral evil, and represent it in their language by words which mean ugliness, or damage, or debt, or incapacity;[46] and M. Arbousset once heard a Basuto say, on an unjust judgment being pronounced, "The judge is powerful, therefore we must be silent; if he were weak, we should all cry out about his injustice."[47] Moreover, a people may be unconscious of what is just "in the abstract," and of moral "notions," in the strict sense of the term, and at the same time, in concrete cases, distinguish between right and wrong, just and unjust. Of the Western Australians, Mr. Chauncy expressly says that they have a keen sense of justice, and mentions an instance of it;[48] whilst our latest authorities on the Central Australians observe that, though their moral code differs radically from ours, "it cannot be denied that their conduct is governed by it, and that any known breaches are dealt with both surely and severely."[49] As regards the Tonga Islanders, Mariner states that "their ideas of honour and justice do not very much differ from ours except in degree, they considering some things more honourable than we should, and others much less so"; and in another place he says that "the notions of the Tonga people, in respect to honour and justice . . . are tolerably well defined, steady and universal," though not always acted upon.[50] The statement that the American Indians have "no moral sense whatever," sounds very strange when compared with what is known about their social and moral life; Buchanan, for instance, asserts that they "have a strong innate sense of justice."[51] Of course, there may be diversity of opinion as to what constitutes the "moral sense"; if the conception of sin or other theological notions are regarded as essential to it, it is probably {128} wanting in a large portion of mankind, and not only in the least civilised. When missionaries or travellers deny to certain savages moral feelings and ideas, they seem chiefly to mean feelings or ideas similar to their own.

[Footnote 46: Casalis, Basutos, p. 304.]

[Footnote 47: Arbousset and Daumas, op. cit. p. 389.]

[Footnote 48: Brough Smyth, Aborigines of Victoria, ii. 228.]

[Footnote 49: Spencer and Gillen, Native Tribes of Central Australia, p. 46.]

[Footnote 50: Mariner, Natives of the Tonga Islands, ii. 159, 163.]

[Footnote 51: Buchanan, Sketches of the History, &c., of the North American Indians, p. 158.]

Of many savage and barbarous peoples it is directly affirmed that they have a sense of justice. Mr. Man says concerning the Andaman Islanders, "Certain traits which have been noticeable in their dealings with us would give colour to the belief that they are not altogether lacking in the sense of honour, and have some faint idea of the meaning of justice."[52] Colonel Dalton states that, among the Korwás on the highlands of Sirgúja, when several persons are implicated in one offence, he has found them "most anxious that to each should be ascribed his fair share of it, and no more, the oldest of the party invariably taking on himself the chief responsibility as leader or instigator, and doing his utmost to exculpate as unaccountable agents the young members of the gang."[53] The Aleuts, according to Veniaminof, are "naturally inclined to be just," and feel deeply undeserved injuries.[54] Kolben, who is nowadays recognised as a good authority,[55] wrote of the Hottentots, "The strictness and celerity of the Hottentot justice are things in which they outshine all Christendom."[56] Missionaries have wondered that, among the Zulus, "in the absence for ages of all revealed truth and all proper religious instruction, there should still remain so much of mental integrity, so much ability to discern truth and justice, and withal so much regard for these principles in their daily intercourse with one another."[57] Zöller ascribes to the Negro a well-developed feeling of justice. "No European," he says, "at least no European child, could discriminate so keenly between just and unjust punishment."[58] Mr. Hinde observes:--"One of the most marked characteristics of black people is their keen perception of justice. They do not resent merited punishment where it is coupled with justice upon other matters. The Masai have their sense of justice particularly strongly developed."[59] Dieffenbach writes of the Maoris, "There is a high natural sense of justice amongst them; {129} and it is from us that they have learnt that many forbidden things can be done with impunity, if they can only be kept secret."[60] Justice is a virtue which always commands respect among the Bedouins, and "injustice on the part of those in power is almost impossible. Public opinion at once asserts itself; and the Sheykh, who should attempt to override the law, would speedily find himself deserted."[61]

[Footnote 52: Man, in Jour. Anthr. Inst. xii. 92.]

[Footnote 53: Dalton, Descriptive Ethnology of Bengal, p. 230.]

[Footnote 54: Veniaminof, quoted by Dall, Alaska, p. 398.]

[Footnote 55: Theophilus Hahn remarks (The Supreme Being of the Khoi-Khoi, p. 40) that Kolben's reports have been doubted by European writers without any good reason.]

[Footnote 56: Kolben, Present State of the Cape of Good Hope, i. 301. Cf. ibid. i. 339.]

[Footnote 57: Quoted by Tyler, Forty Years among the Zulus, p. 197.]

[Footnote 58: Zöller, Kamerun, ii. 92. Cf. Idem, Das Togoland, p. 37.]

[Footnote 59: Hinde, The Last of the Masai, p. 34. Cf. Foreman, Philippine Islands, p. 185.]

[Footnote 60: Dieffenbach, Travels in New Zealand, ii. 106.]

[Footnote 61: Blunt, Bedouin Tribes of the Euphrates, ii. 224 sqq.]

Much less conspicuous than the emotion of public resentment is the emotion of public approval. These public emotions are largely of a sympathetic character, and, whilst a tendency to sympathetic resentment is always involved in the sentiment of social affection, a tendency to sympathetic retributive kindly emotion is not. Among the lower animals this latter emotion seems hardly to occur at all, and in men it is often deplorably defective. Resentment towards an enemy is itself, as a rule, a much stronger emotion than retributive kindly emotion towards a friend. And, as for the sympathetic forms of these emotions, it is not surprising that the altruistic sentiment is more readily moved by the sight of pain than by the sight of pleasure,[62] considering that its fundamental object is to be a means of protection for the species. Moreover, sympathetic retributive kindliness has powerful rivals in the feelings of jealousy and envy, which tend to make the individual hostile both towards him who is the object of a benefit and towards him who bestows it. As an ancient writer observes, "many suffer with their friends when the friends are in distress, but are envious of them when they prosper."[63] But though these circumstances are a hindrance to the rise of retributive kindly emotions of a sympathetic kind, they do not prevent public approval in a case when the whole society profits by a benefit, nor have they any bearing on those disinterested instinctive likings of which I have spoken above. I think, then, we may {130} safely conclude that public praise and moral approval occurred, to some degree, even in the infancy of human society. It will appear from numerous facts recorded in following chapters, that the moral consciousness of modern savages contains not only condemnation, but praise.

[Footnote 62: Cf. Jodl, Lehrbuch der Psychologie, p. 686.]

[Footnote 63: Schmidt, Ethik der alten Griechen, i. 259.]

VI. ANALYSIS OF THE PRINCIPAL MORAL CONCEPTS

WE have assumed that the moral concepts are essentially generalisations of tendencies in certain phenomena to call forth moral emotions. We have further assumed that there are two kinds of moral emotions: indignation and approval. If these assumptions hold good, either indignation or approval must be at the bottom of every moral concept. That such is really the case will, I think, become evident from the present chapter, in which the principal of those concepts will be analysed.

Our analysis will be concerned with moral concepts formed by the civilised mind. Whilst the most representative of English terms for moral estimates have equivalents in the other European languages, I do not take upon myself to decide to what extent they have equivalents in non-European tongues. That all existing peoples, even the very lowest, have moral emotions is as certain as that they have customs, and there can be no doubt that they give expression to those emotions in their speech. But it is another question how far their emotions have led to such generalisations as are implied in moral concepts. Concerning the Fuegians M. Hyades observes, "Les idées abstraites sont chez eux à peu près nulles. Il est difficile de définir exactement ce qu'ils appellent un homme bon et un homme méchant; mais à coup sûr ils n'ont pas la notion de ce qui est bon ou mauvais, abstraction faite de l'individu ou de l'objet auquel ils appliqueraient l'un ou l'autre {132} de ces attributs."[1] The language of the Californian Karok, though rich in its vocabulary, is said to possess no equivalent for "virtue."[2] In the aboriginal tongues of the highlanders of Central India "there seem to be no expressions for abstract ideas, the few such which they possess being derived from the Hindí. . . . . The nomenclature of religious ceremony, of moral qualities, and of nearly all the arts of life they possess, are all Hindí."[3] On a strict examination of the language of the Tonga Islanders, Mariner could discover "no words essentially expressive of some of the higher qualities of human merit, as virtue, justice, humanity; nor of the contrary, as vice, injustice, cruelty, &c. They have indeed expressions for these ideas," he adds, but these expressions "are equally applicable to other things. To express a virtuous or good man, they would say, tangata lillé, a good man, or tangata loto lillé, a man with a good mind; but the word lillé, good (unlike our word virtuous), is equally applicable to an axe, canoe, or anything else."[4] Of the Australian natives about Botany Bay and Port Jackson Collins wrote, "That they have ideas of a distinction between good and bad is evident from their having terms in their language significant of these qualities." A fish of which they never ate, was wee-re, or bad, whereas the kangaroo was bood-yer-re, or good; and these expressions were used not only for qualities which they perceived by their senses, but for all kinds of badness and goodness, and were the only terms they had for wrong and right. "Their enemies were wee-re; their friends bood-yer-re. On our speaking of cannibalism, they expressed great horror at the mention, and said it was wee-re. On seeing any of our people punished or reproved for ill-treating them, they expressed their approbation, and said it was bood-yer-re, it was right."[5]

[Footnote 1: Hyades and Deniker, Mission scientifique du Cap Horn, vii. 251.]

[Footnote 2: Powers, Tribes of California, p. 22.]

[Footnote 3: Forsyth, Highlands of Central India, p. 139.]

[Footnote 4: Mariner, Natives of the Tonga Islands, ii. 147 sq.]

[Footnote 5: Collins, English Colony in New South Wales, i. 548 sq.]

{133} Considering, moreover, that even the European languages make use of such general terms as "good" and "bad" for the purpose of expressing moral qualities, it seems likely that, originally, moral concepts were not clearly differentiated from other more comprehensive generalisations, and that they assumed a more definite shape only by slow degrees. At the same time we must not expect to find the beginning of this process reflected in the vocabularies of languages. There is every reason to believe that a savage practically distinguishes between the "badness" of a man and the "badness" of a piece of food, although he may form no clear idea of the distinction. As Professor Wundt observes, "the phenomena of language do not admit of direct translation back again into ethical processes: the ideas themselves are different from their vehicles of expression, and here as everywhere the external mark is later than the internal act for which it stands."[6] Language is a rough generaliser; even superficial resemblance between different phenomena often suffices to establish linguistic identity between them. Compare the rightness of a line with the rightness of conduct, the wrongness of an opinion with the wrongness of an act. And notice the different significations given to the verb "ought" in the following sentences:--"They ought to be in town by this time, as the train left Paris last night"; "If you wish to be healthy you ought to rise early"; "You ought always to speak the truth." Though it may be shown that in these statements the predicate "ought" signifies something which they all have in common--the reference to a rule,[7]--we must by no means assume that this constitutes the essence of the moral "ought," or gives us the clue to its origin.

[Footnote 6: Wundt, Ethik, p. 36 (English translation, p. 44).]

[Footnote 7: Cf. Stephen, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, p. 343 sq.]

Discarding all questions of etymology as irrelevant to our subject,[8] we shall, in our analysis of moral concepts, {134} endeavour to fix the true import of each concept by examining how, and under what circumstances, the term expressing it is generally applied. We shall restrict ourselves to the principal, typical terms which are used as predicates in moral judgments. If we succeed in proving that they are all fundamentally derived from either moral indignation or moral approval, there can be no reasonable doubt as to the origin of the rest.

[Footnote 8: The attempt to apply the philological method to an examination of moral concepts has, in my opinion, proved a failure--which may be seen from Mr. Baynes' book on The Idea of God and the Moral Sense in the Light of Language.]

The tendency in a phenomenon to arouse moral indignation is directly expressed by the term bad, and a disposition of mind which is characterised by some special kind of badness is called vice. Closely allied to the term "bad" is the term wrong. But there is a difference in the use of these words. Whilst "bad" may be applied both to a person's character and to his conduct, only his conduct may be said to be "wrong." The reason for this is that the concept of moral wrongness is modelled on the idea of a moral law, the breach of which is regarded as "wrong." And, by laying down a moral law, we only enjoin a certain mode of conduct; we do not command a person to have a certain character.

The moral law is expressed by the term ought, a term which, in modern ethics, generally occupies a central position among moral predicates. The notion which it embodies is frequently looked upon as ultimate and incapable of analysis--"too elementary" (to quote Professor Sidgwick) "to admit of any formal definition."[9] This view, I think, instead of simplifying the matter, has been one of the chief causes of the prevailing confusion in ethical thought.

[Footnote 9: Sidgwick, Methods of Ethics, p. 33.]

Far from being a simple notion, "ought" appears to me clearly decomposable, even though it have a special flavour of its own. First of all, it expresses a conation. When I feel that I ought to do a thing, I experience an impulse to do it, even though some opposite impulse may finally determine my action. And when I say to another man, "You ought to do this, or that," there is certainly implied {135} a purpose to influence his action in a certain direction. In the notion of duty, the ethical import of which is identical with that of "ought," this conative element is not so obvious.

Closely connected with the conative nature of "ought" is the imperative character it is apt to assume. But, though frequently used imperatively, "ought" is not necessarily and essentially imperative. Even if the "ought" which I address to myself, in a figurative sense, may be styled a command, it is hardly appropriate to speak of a present command with reference to past actions. The common phrase, "You ought to have done this, or that," cannot be called a command.

The conation expressed in "ought" is determined by the idea that the mode of conduct which ought to be performed is not, or will possibly not be, performed. It is also this idea of its not being performed that determines the emotion which gives to "ought" the character of a moral predicate. The doing of what ought not to be done, or the omission of what ought not to be omitted, is apt to call forth moral indignation--this is the most essential fact involved in the notion of "ought." Every "ought"-judgment contains implicitly a negation. Nobody would ever have dreamt of laying down a moral rule if the idea of its transgression had not presented itself to his mind. We may reverse the words of the Apostle,[10] and say that where no transgression is, there is no law. When Solon was asked why he had specified no punishment for one who had murdered a father, he replied that he supposed it could not occur to any man to commit such a crime.[11] Similarly, the modern Shintoist concludes that the primæval Japanese were pure and holy from the fact that they are represented as a people who had no moral commandments.[12] It is this prohibitive character of "ought" that has imparted to duty that idea of antagonism to inclination which has found its most famous expression {136} in the Kantian ethics, and which made Bentham look upon the word itself as having in it "something disagreeable and repulsive."[13] It is the intrinsic connection between "ought" and "wrong" that has given to duty the most prominent place in ethical speculation whenever moral pessimism has been predominant. Whilst the ancient Greeks, with whom happiness was the state of nature, never spoke of duty, but held virtue to be the Supreme Good, Christianity, on the other hand, which looked upon man as a being born and bred in sin, regarded morals pre-eminently as the science of duty. Then, again, in modern times, Kant's categorical imperative came as a reaction against that moral optimism which once more had given the preference to virtue, considering everything in the world or in humanity as beautiful and good from the very beginning.[14] It is also worth noting that the feeling of self-complacency connected with the consciousness of having acted in accordance with the law of duty, has no distinctively expressive name in ordinary language, while the opposite feeling is known by so familiar and distinctive a term as "remorse." This is not, as has been said,[15] "a significant indication of the moral condition of mankind," but a significant indication of the true import of the notion of duty itself.

[Footnote 10: Romans, iv. 15.]

[Footnote 11: Diogenes Laërtius, Solon, 10. Cicero, Pro S. Roscio Amerino, 25.]

[Footnote 12: Griffis, Religions of Japan, p. 72.]

[Footnote 13: Bentham, Deontoiogy, i. 10.]

[Footnote 14: Ziegler, Social Ethics, pp. 22, 75 sq.]

[Footnote 15: Murray, Introduction to Ethics, p. 108.]

It is not, then, in the emotion of approval that we must seek for the origin of this concept. We may undoubtedly applaud him who is faithful to his duty, but the idea of duty involves no applause. There is no contradiction in the omission of an act being disapproved of and the performance of it being praised. "Ought" and "duty" express only the tendency of an omission to call forth disapproval, and say nothing about the consequences of the act's performance. The conscientious man refuses the homage paid to him, by saying, "I have only done my duty." Duty is a "stern {137} lawgiver," who threatens with punishment, but promises no reward.[16]

[Footnote 16: The intrinsic connection between duty and disapproval has previously been noticed by Stuart Mill (in a note to James Mill's Analysis of the Human Mind, ii. 325), according to whom "no case can be pointed out in which we consider anything as a duty, and any act or omission as immoral or wrong, without regarding the person who commits the wrong and violates the duty as a fit object of punishment." Cf. also Bain, Emotions and the Will, ch. 15, and Gizycki, Introduction to the Study of Ethics, English adaptation by Stanton Coit, p. 102 sq.]

The ideas of "ought" and "duty" thus spring from the same source as the ideas of "bad" and "wrong." To say that a man ought to do a thing is, so far as the morality of his action is concerned, the very same thing as to say that it is bad, or wrong, of him not to do it--in other words, that the not-doing of it has a tendency to call forth moral disapproval.

"Wrong" is popularly regarded as the opposite of right, and they are really contradictories, but only within the sphere of positive moral valuation. We do not call the actions of irresponsible beings, like animals or infants, "right," although they are not wrong; nor do we pronounce morally indifferent actions of responsible beings to be "right," unless we wish thereby especially to mark their moral value as not being wrong. An act which is permissible is of course not wrong, and so far it may be said to be right; but it would be more accurate to say that people have a right to do it. The adjective "right," in its strict sense, refers to cases from which the indifferent is excluded. A right action is, on a given occasion, the right action, and other alternatives are wrong. "Right" is thus closely related to "ought," but at the same time "right" and "obligatory" are not identical. I cannot quite subscribe to the view of Professor Sidgwick, that "in the recognition of conduct as 'right' is involved an authoritative prescription to do it."[17] What is right is in accordance with the moral law; the adjective "right" means that duty is fulfilled. It is true that the super-obligatory also is right. But "right" takes no notice of the super-obligatory as distinct from the obligatory, and what goes {138} beyond duty always involves the fulfilment of some duty. It may be admitted to be "not only right," but not to be more right. Right has no comparative. A duty is either fulfilled or not, and unless it be perfectly fulfilled the conduct is wrong. There are degrees of wrongness and of goodness, as the moral indignation and the moral approval may be stronger or weaker, but there are no degrees of rightness.

[Footnote 17: Sidgwick, op. cit. p. 106.]

The fact that the right action is a duty fulfilled accounts for the erroneous opinion so generally held by ethical writers that "right" is intrinsically connected with moral approval.[18] The choice of the right alternative may give us satisfaction and call forth in us an emotion of approval. This emotion may be the motive for our pointing out the rightness of the act, and the judgment in which we do so may even intrinsically contain applause. The manner in which the judgment "That is right," is pronounced, often shows that it is meant to be an expression of praise. But this does not imply that the concept "right" by itself has reference to moral approval and involves praise. It only means that in one word is expressed a certain concept--the concept that a duty is fulfilled--plus an emotion of approval. That "right" per se involves no praise is obvious from the fact that we regard it as perfectly right to pay a debt and to keep a promise, or to abstain from killing, robbing, or lying, although such acts or omissions generally have no tendency whatever to evoke in us an emotion of moral approval.

[Footnote 18: Hutcheson, Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections, with Illustrations on the Moral Sense, p. 279. Clifford, Lectures and Essays, pp. 294, 304 sq. Fowler and Wilson, Principles of Morals, ii. 199. Alexander, Moral Order and Progress, p. 399.]

The concept of "right," then, as implying that the opposite mode of conduct would have been wrong, ultimately derives its moral significance from moral disapproval. This may seem strange considering that "right" is commonly looked upon as positive and "wrong" as its negation. But we must remember that language and popular conceptions in these matters start {139} from the notion of a moral rule or command. It is a matter of paramount importance that such modes of conduct as are apt to arouse moral indignation should be avoided. People try to prevent them by prohibitions and injunctions, often emphasised by threats of penalties for the transgressors. The whole moral and social discipline is based upon commands; customs are rules of conduct, and so are laws. It is natural, then, that the notion of a command should figure uppermost in popular conceptions of morality. Obedience to the command is right, a breach of it is wrong. But the fact which gives birth to the command itself is the indignation called forth by the act which the command forbids, or by the omission of that which it enjoins.

I have spoken here of "right" as an adjective. Used as a substantive, to denote a right, it also, in whatever sense it be used, expresses a concept which is rooted in the emotion of moral disapproval. To have a right to do a thing is to be allowed to do it, either by positive law, in the case of a legal right, or by the moral law, in the case of a moral right; in other words, to have a moral right to do a thing means that it is not wrong to do it. But generally the concept of "a right" means something more than this. From the fact that an act is allowable, that it is not wrong, it follows, as a rule, that it ought not to be prevented, that no hindrance ought to be put in the way of its performance; and this character of inviolability is largely included in the very concepts of rights. That a man has a right to live does not merely mean that he commits no wrong by supporting his life, but it chiefly means that it would be wrong of other people to prevent him from living, that it is their duty not to kill him, or even, as the case may be, that it is their duty to help him to live. And in order to constitute a right in him, the duty in question must be a duty to him. That a right belonging to A is not merely a duty incumbent on B, but a duty to A incumbent on B, will become evident from an example. To kill another {140} person's slave may be condemned as an injury done to the slave himself, in which case it is a duty to the slave not to kill him; or to kill another person's slave may be condemned on account of the loss it causes to the master, in which case it is deemed a duty to the master not to kill the slave. In the latter case we can hardly say that the duty of not killing the slave constitutes a right to live in the slave--it only constitutes a right in the master to retain his slave alive, not to be deprived of him by an act causing his death.

So commonly does the conception of a right belonging to a person contain the idea of a duty which other persons owe him, that it seems necessary to point out the existence of rights in which no such idea is involved. A man's right to defend his country, for instance, does not intrinsically imply that it is wrong of the enemy to disable him from doing so. But, on the other hand, there are rights which are nothing else than duties towards those who have the rights. A right is not always a person's right to a certain activity, or to abstaining from a certain activity; it may have exclusive reference to other people's acts or omissions. That a man has the right to be rewarded by his country only means that his country is under an obligation to reward him. That a father has a right to be obeyed by his children only means that it is a duty incumbent on his children to obey him. That a person has the right of bodily integrity only means that it is wrong to inflict on him a bodily injury. These rights may, no doubt, if violated, give rise to certain rights of activity: a man may have a right to claim the reward which is due to him, a father to exact from his children the obedience which they owe him, a person who is wronged to defend himself. But the rights of claiming a reward, of exacting obedience, of resisting wrong, are certainly not identical with the rights of being rewarded, of being obeyed, of not being wronged.

It is commonly said that rights have their corresponding duties. But if this expression is to be used, it must be {141} remembered that the duty which "corresponds" to a right, as a matter of fact, is either included in that right or simply identical with it. The identity between the right and the duty, then, consists in this, that the notion of a right belonging to a person is identical with the notion of a duty towards him. Rights and duties are not identical in the sense that it is always a duty to insist on a right, though this has been urged.[19] If anybody prevents me from making use of my right it may no doubt be deemed a duty on my part not to tolerate the wrong committed against me, but nothing of the kind is involved in the concept of a right. And the same may be said with reference to the assertion that a right to do a thing is always, at the same time, a duty to do it--an assertion which is a consequence of the doctrine that there is nothing morally indifferent and nothing that goes beyond duty; in other words, that all conduct of responsible beings is either wrong or obligatory. Even if this doctrine were psychologically correct--which it is not--even if there were a constant coincidence between the acts which a person has a right to perform and acts which it is his duty to perform, that would not constitute identity between the concepts of rights and duties. According to the meaning of a right, A's right may be B's duty towards A, but A's right cannot be A's duty towards B or anybody else.

[Footnote 19: Alexander, op. cit. p. 146 sq.]

Closely connected with the notions of wrongness and rightness are the notions of injustice and justice. Injustice, indeed, is a kind of wrongness. To be unjust is always to be unjust to somebody, and this implies a doing of wrong to somebody, a violation of somebody's right. "Justice," again, is a kind of rightness. It involves the notion that a duty to somebody, a duty corresponding to a right, is fulfilled;[20] we say that justice "demands" that it should be fulfilled. As an act is "right" if its omission {142} is wrong, so an act is "just," in the strict sense of the word, if its omission is unjust. But, like the adjective "right," the adjective "just" is also sometimes used in a wider sense, to denote that something is "not unjust." As non-obligatory acts that are "not wrong" can hardly be denied to be "right," so non-obligatory acts that are "not unjust" can hardly be denied to be "just," although they are not demanded by justice.

[Footnote 20: According to the Institutiones of Justinian (i. 1. 1) "justice is the constant and perpetual will to render to each one his right,"--"justitia est constans et perpetua voluntas jus suum cuique tribuens."]

At the same time, "injustice" and "justice" are not simply other names for violating or respecting rights. Whenever we style an act "unjust," we emphasise that it involves partiality. We do not denominate murder and robbery unjust, but wrong or criminal, because the partiality involved in their commission is quite obscured by their general wrongness or criminality; but we at once admit their gross injustice when we consider that the murderer and robber indulged their own inclinations with utter disregard of their neighbours' rights. And we look upon "unjust" as an exceedingly appropriate term for a judge who condemns an innocent man with the intention to save the culprit, and for an employer who keeps for himself a profit which he ought to share with his employees. Again, when we style an act "just," in the strict sense of the term, we point out that an undue preference would have been shown to somebody by its omission. It is true that, as Adam Smith observes, "we may often fulfil all the rules of justice by sitting still and doing nothing,"[21] and that the man who barely abstains from violating either the person or the estate or the reputation of his neighbours so far does justice to them; but in such a case we hardly apply the epithet "just," simply because there is no reason for emphasising the partiality involved in the opposite mode of conduct. On the other hand, we say it is just, or, more emphatically, that justice demands, that the innocent should not suffer in the place of the guilty, or that the employer should give his employees all their dues.

[Footnote 21: Adam Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, p. 117.]

It is necessary to note that the impartiality which justice {143} demands is impartiality within the recognised order of rights, whether these rights themselves have a partial origin or not. A father is unjust if he gives away property to one of his children in preference to others, in case all of them are recognised to have a right to an equal share in his property, even though it be only a conditional right; and a man is unjust if he keeps for himself a profit to which another man has an equal right. But in a society which regards slavery as a morally permissible institution, a man is not necessarily deemed unjust if he beats a slave in a case where it would have been wrong to beat a freeman. However, in the case of unequal rights, justice admits of no greater difference of treatment than what the difference in rights implies. It may be just to punish a man who by a crime has forfeited that right to be protected from wilfully inflicted pain which every law-abiding citizen possesses, but it is unjust to extend the inequality between his condition and the condition of others beyond the inequality of their rights by inflicting upon him a punishment which is unduly severe.

It is the emphasis laid on the duty of impartiality that gives justice a special prominence in connection with punishments and rewards. A man's rights depend to a great extent upon his actions. Other things being equal, the criminal has not the same rights to inviolability as regards reputation, or freedom, or property, or life, as the innocent man; the miser and egoist have not the same rights as the benefactor and the philanthropist. On these differences in rights due to differences in conduct, the terms "just" and "unjust" lay stress; for in such cases an injustice would have been committed if the rights had been equal. When we say of a criminal that he has been "justly" imprisoned we point out that he was no victim of undue partiality, as he had forfeited the general right to freedom on account of his crime. When we say of a benefactor that he has been "justly" rewarded, we point out that no favour was partially bestowed upon him in preference to others, as he had acquired the special right of being rewarded. But the {144} "justice" of a punishment or a reward, strictly speaking, involves something more than this; as we have seen, what is strictly "just" is always the discharge of a duty corresponding to a right which would have been in a partial manner disregarded by a transgression of the duty. If it is just that a person should be rewarded, he ought to be rewarded, and to fulfil this duty is to do him justice. Again, if it is just that a person should be punished, he ought to be punished, and his not being punished is an injustice to other persons. It is an injustice towards all those whose condemnation of the wrong act finds its recognised expression in the punishment, inasmuch as their rightful claim that the criminal should be punished, their right of resisting wrong, is thereby violated in favour of the wrong-doer. Moreover, his not being punished is an injustice towards other criminals, who have been punished for similar acts, in so far as they have a right to demand that no undue preference should be shown to anybody whose guilt is equal to theirs. Retributive justice may admit of a certain latitude as to the retribution. It may be a matter of small concern from the community's point of view whether men are fined or imprisoned for the commission of a certain crime. But it may be a demand of justice that, under equal circumstances, all of them should be punished with the same severity, since the crime has equally affected their rights.

The emphasis which "injustice" lays on the partiality of a certain mode of conduct always involves a condemnation of that partiality. Like every other kind of wrongness, "injustice" is thus a concept which is obviously based on the emotion of moral disapproval. And so is the concept of "justice," whether it involves the notion that an injustice would be committed if a certain duty were not fulfilled, or it is simply used to denote that a certain mode of conduct is "not unjust." But there is yet another sense in which the word "just" is applied. It may emphasise the impartiality of an act in a tone of praise. Considering how difficult it is to be perfectly impartial and to give every man his due, especially when one's own interests are {145} concerned, it is only natural that men should be applauded for being just, and consequently that to call a person just should often be to praise him. So, also, "justice" is used as the name for a virtue, "the mistress and queen of all virtues."[22] But all this does not imply that an emotion of moral approval enters into the concept of justice. It only means that one word is used to express a certain concept--a concept which, as we have seen, ultimately derives its import from moral disapproval--plus an emotion of approval. That the concept of justice by itself involves no reference to the emotion of moral approval appears from the fact that it is no praise to say of an act that it is "only just."

[Footnote 22: Cicero, De officiis, iii. 6.]

* * * * *

From the concepts springing from moral disapproval we pass to those springing from moral approval. Foremost among these ranks the concept good.[23]

[Footnote 23: Professor Bain, who takes a very legal view of the moral consciousness, maintains (Emotions and the Will, p. 292) that "positive good deeds and self-sacrifice . . . transcend the region of morality proper, and occupy a sphere of their own." A similar opinion has been expressed by Prof. Durkheim (Division du travail social), and, more recently, by Dr. Lagerborg, in his interesting essay, 'La nature de la morale' (Revue internationale de Sociologie, xi. 466). Prof. Durkheim argues (p. 30) that it would be "contraire à toute méthode" to include under the same heading acts which are obligatory and acts which are objects of admiration, and at the same time exempt from all regulation. "Si donc, pour rester fidèle à l'usage, on réserve aux premiers la qualification de moraux, on ne saurait la donner également aux seconds." But I fail to see that ordinary usage recognises regulation as the test of morality. On the contrary, terms like "goodness" and "virtue," though having no reference whatever to any moral rule, have always hitherto been applied to qualities avowedly moral.]

Though "good," being affixed to a great variety of objects, takes different shades of meaning in different cases, there is one characteristic common to everything called "good." This is hardly, as Mr. Spencer maintains,[24] its quality of being well adapted to a given end. It is true that the good knife is one which will cut, the good gun one which carries far and true. But I fail to see that "good" in a moral sense involves any idea of an adaptation to a given purpose, and, by calling conduct {146} "good," we certainly do not mean that it "conduces to life in each and all." "Good" simply expresses approval or praise of something on account of some quality which it possesses. A house is praised as "good" because it fulfils the end desired, a wine because it has an agreeable taste, a man on account of his moral worth. "Good," as a moral epithet, involves a praise which is the outward expression of the emotion of moral approval, and is affixed to a subject of moral valuation on account of its tendency to call forth such an emotion.

[Footnote 24: Spencer, Principles of Ethics, i. 21 sqq.]

"Good" has commonly been identified with "right," but such an identification is incorrect. A father does right in supporting his young children, inasmuch as he, by supporting them, discharges a duty incumbent upon him, but we do not say that he does a good deed by supporting them, or that it is good of him to do so. Nor do we call it good of a man not to kill or rob his neighbours, although his conduct is so far right. The antithesis between right and wrong is, in a certain sense at least, contradictory, the antithesis between good and bad is only contrary. Every act--provided that it falls within the sphere of positive moral valuation--that is not wrong is right, but every act that is not bad is not necessarily good. Just as we may say of a thing that it is "not bad," and yet refuse to call it "good," so we may object to calling the simple discharge of a duty "good," although the opposite mode of conduct would be bad. On the other hand, no confusion of ethical concepts is involved in attributing goodness to the performance of a duty, or, in other words, praising a man for an act the omission of which would have incurred blame. To say of one and the same act that it is right and that it is good, really means that we look upon it from different points of view. Since moral praise expresses a benevolent attitude of mind, it is commendable for a man not to be niggard in his acknowledgment of other people's right conduct; whereas, self-praise being objectionable, only the other point of view is deemed proper when he passes a {147} judgment upon himself. He may say, without incurring censure, "I have done my duty, I have done what is right," but hardly, "I have done a good deed"; and it would be particularly obnoxious to say, "I am a good man." The best man even refuses to be called good by others:--"Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God."[25]

[Footnote 25: St. Matthew, xix. 17.]

Whilst "goodness" is the general expression for moral praise, virtue denotes a disposition of mind which is characterised by some special kind of goodness. He who is habitually temperate possesses the virtue of temperance, he who is habitually just the virtue of justice. And even when a man is simply said to be "virtuous," this epithet is given to him, more or less distinctly, with reference to some branch of goodness which constitutes his virtue. A Supreme Being, to whom is attributed perfect goodness, is not called virtuous, but good.

It was the opinion of Aristotle that virtue is imperfect so long as the agent cannot do the virtuous action without a conflict of impulses. Others maintain, on the contrary, that virtue essentially expresses effort, resistance, and conquest. It has been represented as "mediation through pain";[26] according to Kant, it is "the moral disposition in struggle."[27] But I do not see that virtue presupposes struggle, nor that it is lessened by being exercised with little or no effort. A virtue consists in the disposition to will or not to will acts of a certain kind, and is by no means reduced by the fact that no rival impulses make themselves felt. It is true that by struggle and conquest a man may display more virtue, namely, the virtue of self-restraint in addition to the virtue gained by it. The vigorous and successful contest against temptation constitutes a virtue by itself. For instance, the quality of mind which is exhibited in a habitual and victorious effort to conquer strong sexual passions is a virtue distinguishable from that of chastity. But even this virtue of {148} resisting seductive impulses is not greater, ceteris paribus, in proportion as the victory is more difficult. Take two men with equally strong passions and equally exposed to temptations, who earnestly endeavour to lead a chaste life. He who succeeds with less struggle, thanks to his greater power of will, is surely inferior neither in chastity nor in self-restraint. Suppose, again, that the two men were exposed to different degrees of temptation. He who overcomes the greater temptation displays more self-restraint; yet the other man may possess this virtue in an equal degree, and his chastity is certainly not made greater thereby. He may have more merit, but merit is not necessarily proportionate to virtue.

[Footnote 26: Laurie, Ethica, p. 253 sqq.]

[Footnote 27: Kant, Kritik der praktischen Vernunft, i. 1. 3 (Sämmtliche Werke, v. 89).]

The virtues are broad generalisations of mental dispositions which, on the whole, are regarded as laudable. Owing to their stereotyped character, it easily happens, in individual cases, that the possession of a virtue confers no merit upon the possessor; and, at least from the point of view of the enlightened moral consciousness, a man's virtues are no exact gauge of his moral worth. In order to form a just opinion of the value of a person's character, we must take into account the strength of his instinctive desires and the motives of his conduct. There are virtues that pay no regard to this. A sober man, who has no taste for intoxicants, possesses the virtue of sobriety in no less degree than a man whose sobriety is the result of a difficult conquest over a strong desire. He who is brave with a view to be applauded is not, as regards the virtue of courage, inferior to him who faces dangers merely from a feeling of duty. The only thing that the possession of a virtue presupposes is that it should have been tried and tested. We cannot say that people unacquainted with intoxicants possess the virtue of sobriety, and that a man who never had anything to spend distinguishes himself for frugality. For to attribute a virtue to somebody is always to bestow upon him some degree of praise, and it is no praise, only irony, to say of a man that he "makes a virtue of necessity."

{149} Attempts have been made to reconcile the Aristotelian and the Kantian views of the relation between virtue and effort, by saying that virtue is the harmony won and merit is the winning of it.[28] This presupposes that a man to whom virtue is natural has had his fights. But, surely, it is not always so. Who could affirm that every temperate, or charitable, or just man has acquired the virtue only as a result of inward struggle? There are people to whom some virtues at least are natural from the beginning, and others who acquire them with a minimum of effort.

[Footnote 28: Dewey, Study of Ethics, p. 133 sq. Simmel, Einleitung in die Moralwissenschaft, i. 228. Cf. also Shaftesbury 'Inquiry concerning Virtue and Merit,' i. 2. 4, in Characteristicks, ii. 36 sqq.]

There has been much discussion about the relation between virtue and duty. It has been said that "they are co-extensive, the former describing conduct by the quality of the agent's mind, the latter by the nature of the act performed";[29] that they express the same ideal, virtue subjectively, duty objectively;[30] or that virtue, in its proper sense, is "the quality of character that fits for the discharge of duty," and that it "only lives in the performance of duty."[31] At the same time it is admitted that "the distinctive mark of virtue seems to lie in what is beyond duty," and that "though every virtue is a duty, and every duty a virtue, there are certain actions to which it is more natural to apply the term virtuous."[32] Prof. Sidgwick, again, in his elaborate chapter on 'Virtue and Duty,' remarks that he has "thought it best to employ the terms so that virtuous conduct may include the performance of duty as well as whatever good actions may be commonly thought to go beyond duty; though recognising that virtue in its ordinary use is most conspicuously manifested in the latter."[33]

[Footnote 29: Alexander, op. cit. p. 244.]

[Footnote 30: Grote, Treatise on the Moral Ideals, p. 22. Cf. Seth, Study of Ethical Principles, p. 239.]

[Footnote 31: Muirhead, Elements of Ethics, p. 190 n.*]

[Footnote 32: Alexander, op. cit. p. 243 sq.]

[Footnote 33: Sidgwick, op. cit. p. 221.]

It can be no matter of surprise that those who regard the notion of "duty" as incapable of being analysed, or {150} who fail to recognise its true import, are embarrassed by its relation to virtue. We do not call it a virtue if a man habitually abstains from killing or robbing, or pays his debts, or performs a great number of other duties. We do call chastity and temperance and justice virtues, although we regard it as obligatory on a man to be chaste, temperate, just. We also call hospitality, generosity, and charity virtues in cases where they go beyond the strict limits of duty. "The relation of virtue and duty is complicated," says Professor Alexander.[34] "In its common use each term seems to include something excluded from the other," observes Professor Sidgwick.[35] But, indeed, the relation is not complicated, for there is no other intrinsic relation between them than their common antagonism to "wrong." That something is a duty implies that its non-performance tends to evoke moral indignation, that it is a virtue implies that its performance tends to evoke moral approval. That the virtues actually cover a comparatively large field of the province of duty is simply owing to their being dispositions of mind. We may praise the habits of justice and gratitude, even though we find nothing praiseworthy in an isolated just or grateful act.

[Footnote 34: Alexander, op. cit. p. 244.]

[Footnote 35: Sidgwick, op. cit. p. 219.]

There has been no less confusion with regard to the relation between duty and merit. Like the notions of "good" and "virtue," the "meritorious" derives its origin from the emotion of moral approval; but while the former merely express a tendency to give rise to such an emotion, "meritorious" implies that the object to which it refers merits praise, that it has a just claim to praise, or, in other words, that it ought to be recognised as good. This makes the term "meritorious" more emphatic than the term "good," but at the same time it narrows its province in a peculiar way. Just as the expression that something ought to be done implies the idea of its not being done, so the word "meritorious" suggests the idea of goodness which may fail of due recognition. And as it is meaningless to speak of duty in a case where the {151} opposite mode of conduct is entirely out of the question, so it would be an absurdity to attribute merit to somebody for an act the goodness of which is universally admitted. Thus "meritorious" involves a restriction. It would be almost blasphemous to call the acts of a God conceived to be infinitely good meritorious, since it would suggest a limitation of his goodness.

The emphatic claim to praiseworthiness made by the "meritorious" has rendered it objectionable to a great number of moralists. It has been identified with the "super-obligatory"--a conception which is to many an abomination. From what has been said above, however, it is manifest that they are not identical. As the discharge of a duty may be regarded as a good act, so it may also be regarded as an act which ought to be recognised as good. Practically, no doubt, there is a certain antagonism between duty and merit. We praise, and, especially, we regard as deserving praise, only what is above the average,[36] and we censure what is below it. No merit is conferred upon him who performs a duty which is seldom transgressed, or the transgression of which would actually incur punishment or censure. We do not think that a man ought to be praised for what his own interest prompts him to perform; and, since the transgression of a moral command which is usually obeyed is generally censured or punished, there is under ordinary circumstances nothing meritorious in performing a duty. But though thus probably most acts which are deemed meritorious fall outside the limits of duty as roughly drawn by the popular mind, we are on the other hand often disposed to attribute merit to a man on account of an act which, from a strict point of view, is his duty, but a duty which most people, under the same circumstances, would have left undischarged. This shows that the antagonism between duty and merit is not absolute. And in the concept of merit per se no such antagonism is involved.

[Footnote 36: Merit, as Professor Alexander puts it (op. cit. p. 196), "expresses the interval which separates the meritorious from the average."]

{152} I confess that I fail to grasp what those writers really mean who identify the "meritorious" with the "super-obligatory," and at the same time deny the existence of any super-obligatory. Do they shut their eyes to the important psychical fact indicated by the term "merit," or do they look upon it as a chimera inconsistent with a sufficiently enlightened moral consciousness? For my own part, I cannot see how the moral consciousness could dispense with the idea that there are actions which merit praise or reward, which ought to be praised or rewarded. The denial of merit can be defended from a purely theological point of view, but then only with regard to man's relation to God. It is obvious that a fallen being who is sinning even when he does his best, could not be recognised as good by God and could have no merit. But it is hardly just, nor is it practically possible, that a man should measure his fellow-man by a superhuman standard of perfection, and try to suppress the natural emotion of moral approval and the claims springing from it, by persuading himself that there is no mortal being who ever does anything which ought to be recognised as good.

Quite distinct from the question of merit, then, is that of the super-obligatory. Can a man do more than his duty, or, in other words, is there anything good which is not at the same time a duty? The answer depends on the contents given to the commandments of duty, hence it may vary without affecting the concept of duty itself. If we consider that there is an obligation on every man to promote the general happiness to the very utmost of his ability, we must also maintain that nobody can ever do anything good beyond his duty. The same is the case if we regard "self-realisation," or a "normal" exercise of his natural functions, as a man's fundamental duty. In all these cases "to aim at acting beyond obligation," as Price puts it,[37] is "the same with aiming at acting contrary to obligation, and doing more than is fit to be done, the same with doing wrong." It can hardly be denied, however, {153} that those who hold similar views have actually two standards of duty, one by which they measure man and his doings in the abstract, with reference to a certain ideal of life which they please to identify with duty, and another by which they are guided in their practical moral judgments upon their own and their neighbours' conduct. The conscientious man is apt to judge himself more severely than he judges others, partly because he knows his own case better than theirs,[38] and partly because he is naturally afraid of being intolerant and unjust. He may indeed be unwilling to admit that he ever can do more than his duty, seeing how difficult it is even to do what he ought to do, and impressed, as he would be, with the feeling of his own shortcomings. Yet I do not see how he could conscientiously deny that he has omitted to do many praiseworthy or heroic deeds without holding himself blamable for such omissions.

[Footnote 37: Price, Review of the Principal Questions in Morals, p. 204 sq.]

[Footnote 38: Cf. Sidgwick, op. cit. p. 221.]

Professor Sidgwick observes that "we should not deny that it is, in some sense, a man's strict duty to do whatever action he judges most excellent, so far as it is in his power."[39] This, as it seems to me, is not a matter of course, and nothing of the kind is involved in the notion of duty itself. We must not confound the moral law with the moral ideal. Duty is the minimum of morality, the supreme moral ideal of the best man is the maximum of it. Those who sum up the whole of morality in the word "ought" identify the minimum and the maximum, but I fail to see that morality is better for this. Rather it is worse. The recognition of a "super-obligatory" does not lower the moral ideal; on the contrary it raises it, or at any rate makes it more possible to vindicate the moral law and to administer it justly. It is nowadays a recognised principle in legislation that a law loses part of its weight if it cannot be strictly enforced. If the realisation of the highest moral ideal is commanded by a moral law, such a law will always remain a dead letter, and morality will gain nothing. Far above the anxious {154} effort to fulfil the commandments of duty stands the free and lofty aspiration to live up to an ideal, which, unattainable as it may be, threatens neither with blame nor remorse him who fails to reach its summits. Does not experience show that those whose thoughts are constantly occupied with the prescriptions of duty are apt to become hard and intolerant?

[Footnote 39: Ibid. p. 219.]

Those who deny the existence of anything morally "praiseworthy" which is not a duty, are also generally liable to deny the existence of anything morally indifferent in the conduct of responsible beings. The "super-obligatory" and the "indifferent" have this in common, that they are "ultra-obligatory," and the denial of the one as well as of the other is an expression of the same tendency to look upon the moral law as the sole fact of the moral consciousness. Even Utilitarianism cannot consistently admit of anything indifferent within the province of moral valuation, since two opposite modes of conduct can hardly produce absolutely the same sum of happiness. Such a repudiation of the "indifferent" being quite contrary to the morality of common sense, which, after all, no ethical theory can afford to neglect, considerable ingenuity has been wasted on vain attempts to show that the "indifferent" is nothing but a rude popular conception unable to keep its ground against a thoroughgoing examination. Professor Ziegler ironically asks:--"Such outward matters as eating and drinking are surely morally indifferent? And yet is eating and drinking too much, is spending too much time in outdoor exercise, is lounging idly about, morally indifferent? or, on the other hand, is it morally allowable or wholesome to reduce oneself and make oneself weak and ill by fasting, or to become a hypochondriac by continually staying indoors?"[40] This argument, however, involves a confusion of different volitions. The fact that eating or drinking generally, or eating or drinking too much or too little, are no matters of indifference, surely does not prevent {155} eating or drinking on some certain occasion from being indifferent. Mr. Bradley again observes:--"It is right and a duty that the sphere of indifferent detail should exist. It is a duty that I should develop my nature by private choice therein. Therefore, because that is a duty, it is a duty not to make a duty of every detail; and thus in every detail I have done my duty."[41] This statement also shows a curious confusion of entirely different facts. It may be very true that it is a duty to recognise certain actions as indifferent. This is one thing by itself. But it is quite another thing to perform those actions. And if it is a duty to recognise certain actions as indifferent how could it possibly at the same time be held a duty to perform them?

[Footnote 40: Ziegler, op. cit. p. 85.]

[Footnote 41: Bradley, Ethical Studies, p. 195, n. 1.]

It has been maintained that the sphere of the indifferent forms the totality of "ought"; that when the same end may be reached by a variety of means, an action may be indifferent merely in relation to the choice of means, but not so far as regards the attainment of the end, and hence is only apparently indifferent.[42] "If it is my moral duty to go from one town to another," says Mr. Bradley, "and there are two roads which are equally good, it is indifferent to the proposed moral duty which road I take; it is not indifferent that I do take one or the other; and whichever road I do take, I am doing my duty on it, and hence it is far from indifferent: my walking on road A is a matter of duty in reference to the end, though not a matter of duty if you consider it against walking on road B; and so with B--but I can escape the sphere of duty neither on A nor on B." All this is true, but forms no argument against the "indifferent." The statement, "You ought to go to the town and to take either road A or B," refers to two volitions which are regarded as wrong, namely, the volition not to go to the town at all, and the volition to take any road not A or B; and it {156} refers also to two pairs of volitions in reference to which it indicates that the choice between the volitions constituting each pair is indifferent. You may choose to take road A or not to take it; you may choose to take road B or not to take it. The "indifferent" is always an alternative between contradictories. It can therefore never form part of an "ought"-totality, being itself a totality as complete as possible. This is somewhat disguised by a judgment which makes an obligation of a choice between A and B, but becomes conspicuous if we consider a simple case of indifference. Suppose that it is considered indifferent whether you speak or do not speak on a certain occasion. What is here the "ought" that forms the totality of the indifferent? Would there be any sense in saying that you ought either to speak or not to speak? or is the alternative, speaking--not speaking, only a link in an indefinite chain of alternatives, each of which is by itself indifferent, in a relative sense, but the sum of which forms the "ought"? You may be permitted--it will perhaps be argued--in a given moment to speak or to abstain from speaking, to write or to abstain from writing, to read or to abstain from reading, and so on; but however wide the province of the permissible may be, there must always be a limit inside which you ought to remain. That you do this or that may be a matter of indifference, but only of relative indifference, for it is not indifferent what you do on the whole; hence there is nothing absolutely indifferent. Such an argument, however, involves a misapprehension of the true meaning of the "indifferent." The predicate expressing indifference refers to certain definite volitions and their contradictories, not to the whole of a man's conduct in a certain moment. The whole of a man's conduct is never indifferent. But neither is the whole of a man's conduct ever wrong. In the moment when a murderer kills his victim he is fulfilling an endless number of duties: he abstains from stealing, lying, committing adultery, suicide, and so on. The predicate "wrong" only marks the moral {157} character of a special mode of conduct. Why should not the indifferent be allowed to do the same?

[Footnote 42: Simmel, op. cit. i. 35 sqq. Alexander, op. cit. p. 50 sqq. Murray, op. cit. p. 26 sq. Bradley, op. cit. p. 195 sq.]

It has, finally, been observed that the so-called "indifferent" is something "the morality of which can only be individually determined."[43] This remark calls attention to the fact that no mode of conduct can be regarded as indifferent without a careful consideration of individual circumstances, and that much which is apparently indifferent is not really so. This, however, does not involve an abolition of the indifferent. Such an abolition would be the extreme of moral intolerance. He who tried to put it into practice would be the most insupportable of beings, and to himself life would be unbearable. Fortunately, such a man has never existed. The attempts to make every action, even the most trivial, of responsible beings a matter of moral concern, are only theoretical fancies without practical bearing, a hollow and flattering tribute to the idol of Duty.

[Footnote 43: Martensen, Christian Ethics, p. 415.]