Jeffrey Wisdom, Ph.D.

Copyright ©2024 JEFFREY WISDOM

Right and Wrong: Readings in Normative Ethics and the Nature of Morality
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or trans-
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For my Students
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The idea for this book arose after many hours of teaching introductory
ethics courses to students at the University of Connecticut and at Joliet
Junior College. Over the twenty-plus years that I have taught philoso-
phy, I have used several different anthologies as textbooks. While each
was good in its own way, textbooks are notoriously expensive and the ex-
cerpts from classic works often left out sections from the original work
that I wanted to focus on with my students. So, for the past several years
I have wanted to create an anthology for use in my introduction to ethics
courses which is more affordable and more accessible to non-philosophy
majors than the books that I have previously used.
But, I would not have ‘taken the plunge’ and created this book
were it not for some of the lessons I have learned from listening to for-
mer U.S. Navy seal Jocko Willink’s Jocko Podcast, and entrepreneur
Jaspreet Singh’s Minority Mindset podcast. I do not know either of
these men personally, but I am grateful to them. In addition, I would
like to thank my wife, Angela, for reading over the manuscript and
suggesting corrections or edits. Finally, I would like to thank graphic
designer, and coloring book author Nicola Augustson for her work in
creating the layout for this book, and for helping me navigate the world
of self publishing. If at some point in reading this book you find yourself
needing a break from the rigors of moral philosophy, check out Nikki’s
artistry at [Link].
 TABLE OF CONTENT S

SECTION I: INTRODUCTORY ESSAYS

Chapter 1 What is Philosophy? 1
Chapter 2 Critical Thinking: An Overview 9
Chapter 3 What is Moral Philosophy? 35

SECTION II: NORMATIVE ETHICS 44
Chapter 4 Utilitarianism 45
Chapter 5 Duty Ethics 58
Chapter 6 Virtue Ethics 75
Chapter 7 Natural Law Ethics 90

SECTION III: THE NATURE OF MORALITY 103

Chapter 8 Human Nature and the Social Contract 104
Chapter 9 Human Nature and the Common Good 121
Chapter 10 Morality- Reason, or Emotion? 132
Chapter 11 What is a Moral Judgment? 150
Chapter 12 What is the Nature of “Good”? 160

 SECTION I
I N T R O D U C TO R Y E S S AY S
 CHAPTER ONE
WHAT IS PHILOSOPHY ?1

“Philosophy.” Reading or hearing this word might bring to mind an

image of bearded, Greco-Roman men in togas discussing the meaning
of life. But what, exactly, is philosophy? The English word itself comes
from two Greek words that together mean “love of wisdom.” But that
probably does not substantially improve your understanding of what
philosophy is, so how about this: Philosophy is the attempt to think
carefully and critically about some of life’s most important questions,
and the attempt to live out the answers to those questions. This is the
definition of philosophy that we will use in this book. In what follows,
we will explain in more detail what philosophy is, and how philosoph-
ical thinking applies even beyond the big-picture questions of life.

An Attempt to Think Carefully and Critically

It is possible to think in any number of ways. For example, one
can remember what one had for breakfast this morning. One can won-
der whether one’s favorite sports team will win the championship
next year. One can worry about an upcoming dental appointment.
While all of these can count as thinking of a sort, none of these count
as doing philosophy. Why not? Because, doing philosophy requires
an approach to thinking that is more focused and more disciplined
than the examples just given. In short, philosophy requires careful
and critical thinking.
Thinking carefully has at least two closely-related features. First,
thinking carefully requires being specific about one’s use of words or
terms. For example, many social and political debates are common-
ly portrayed as being about rights—women’s rights, gay rights, im-
migrants’ rights, etc. But what, exactly, is a right? And what does it
mean to say that a person has (or ought to have) certain rights? And

1
Adapted from Jeff Wisdom and Michael Thune, eds., Core Elements of Philosophy: An Anthology
(Kendall-Hunt Publishers, 2015).

1
where do rights come from, anyway? To give another example, sup-
pose that a marketing company states that its mission is to, “elevate
brand content for its clients and stakeholders.” What, exactly, does
the fine-sounding expression, “elevating brand content” even mean?
The bottom line is that we can’t carefully and critically assess debates
about rights, or proposals about elevating brand content (or anything
else, for that matter) unless we have specified what we are talking
about. Otherwise, we risk talking past each other or proceeding on
false or unjustified assumptions.
Second, thinking carefully often requires making distinctions be-
tween related ideas. To illustrate, consider that in a normal conversa-
tion one might use terms like “happy” and “content” interchangeably.
For example, one could just as easily say, “I am happy with my new
job” as, “I am content with my new job,” since these words typically in-
dicate pleasant feelings of some sort. However, one might sometimes
want to use these words to make a distinction, as the nineteenth-cen-
tury philosopher John Stuart Mill once did. Mill thought that certain
sorts of pleasant experiences were more valuable or worthwhile than
others. As a result, he reserved the term “happiness” to refer to what he
thought of as superior or “higher pleasures,” and he used “content” or
“contentment” to refer to the lower or inferior pleasures. At one point,
he even accused his critics of confusing happiness with contentment.2
The point is not that Mill was right about the nature of happiness; in-
deed, his elder contemporary Jeremy Bentham disagreed with Mill
about whether some pleasures are more worthy of pursuit than oth-
ers. Rather, the important thing to consider here is that in the course
of approaching life philosophically, Mill had to take ordinary words
and use them in fairly specific ways. In the course of developing our
philosophical abilities, we need to get into a similar habit.
Whereas thinking carefully involves being precise about what we
mean to say, thinking critically involves putting our (or others’) ideas
to the test. When thinking critically, we want to determine the best

2
John Stuart Mill (1901). Utilitarianism. New York: Longmans, Green and Company.

2
evidence for or against whatever claim is being considered. We want
to know not just what reasons there are for believing something, but
also whether there are good reasons for not believing it. Further, we
want to know whether our line of thinking proceeds on unwarranted
assumptions, or whether taking a particular stance on an issue would
end up contradicting something else that we take ourselves to have
good reason to believe. In short, thinking critically involves trying to
view an issue from more than one angle. Minimally, it involves con-
sidering what someone who takes the other side in the debate might
say. Ultimately, our aim in putting ideas to the test is that we want to
know which of our beliefs are based on good reasons and which are
not. Doing so can also foster intellectual humility, which means hav-
ing an accurate sense of what we know and what we don’t know. That
way, we are less likely to react defensively or with hostility when we
encounter beliefs or values that challenge our own. An intellectual-
ly humble person can focus on the issue at hand while resisting the
temptation to make personal attacks.

Four Important Skills

As noted at the beginning of this chapter, philosophy is the at-
tempt to think carefully and critically about some of life’s most im-
portant questions, and the attempt to live out the answers to those
questions. Typically, philosophy classrooms (and philosophy text-
books) will therefore focus on big-picture questions like these: Does
God exist? What is reality? What is knowledge, and how do we know
what we think we know? and What makes for a good human life? This
book is no exception; the two main questions that our readings at-
tempt to answer are: What makes right actions right and wrong actions
wrong? and What is the fundamental nature of morality? The essay,
“What is Moral Philosophy?” will explain these questions in more de-
tail, and it will also describe some of the main ways that philosophers
have answered these questions.

3
 Even so, studying philosophy can help you develop at least four
important skills which are useful just about anywhere. First, studying
philosophy develops the habit and skill of being clear about what we
or others are trying to say. For this reason, philosophically-minded
people will often ask, “What do you mean by that?” or, “What does
that term mean, exactly?” In conversation with someone, we might
pause periodically and try to reflect back what we think the other
person is saying. For example, we might say something like, “So what
you’re saying is…is that right?” A benefit of developing this skill is that
clearer, more precise thinking makes for clearer, more precise speak-
ing and writing, and many careers require someone who can think,
speak, and write clearly. Ask yourself: does working in the career field
you are pursuing ever involve writing a report or generating a chart?
Does it ever involve explaining anything to anyone? If the answer to
either of these is, “yes,” then studying philosophy can increase your
chances of success in that field.
Second, since thinking critically about important issues requires
evaluating evidence, philosophy fosters the skill of searching for and
providing reasons for or against whatever idea, policy option, or strat-
egy we are considering. Not surprisingly, then, philosophically-mind-
ed people will often ask questions like, “Why should we think that?”
or, “What is the evidence for that?” Here, also, we might pause from
time to time in a conversation and reflect back what we think the oth-
er person’s reasons are for what she is proposing. Most (if not all) ca-
reer fields involve thinking through various options at some point or
other, which means that philosophical thinking can be handy in a va-
riety of circumstances.
Putting these first two skills together (i.e., clarity of thought and
speech, and the search for evidence) reveals a third skill that philoso-
phy develops: the habit of looking for and considering new ways of do-
ing things. To illustrate, consider the job of an engineer. An engineer’s
job typically involves either creating a new product, or improving it

4
in some way; that is, making it better. But what does it mean to make
a product better? That depends on the context. It might mean mak-
ing a product that is safer or more reliable. Or, it might mean taking
an existing product and making it less expensively, or making it from
more environmentally sustainable materials. The point is that we
can’t know what making a better product involves until we have first
defined what we mean by “better.” But once we have a clearer under-
standing of what we are aiming for, we can look for and consider new
and different ways of improving a product or service. And once we
have a few options on the table, we can carefully consider the benefits
and drawbacks of each one before we make our decision. This dynam-
ic isn’t limited to engineering; in virtually every career field, as well
as in daily life, we are faced with situations in which it makes sense to
ask, “Is there a better way of doing this?” And in these circumstances,
it helps to first know what we are asking. Once we’ve done that, we can
come up with options, consider the benefits and drawbacks of each,
and then make our decision.
Fourth, philosophy develops our ability to order our thoughts and
actions in the way that makes the most sense, where most sense means
something like, “is most likely to achieve our goals.” We’ve all heard
the old expression, “Don’t put the cart in front of the horse.” Order
matters, and philosophically-minded people will often ask, “Is this
the order that makes the most sense?” of whatever it is that they are
attempting to do. Here are some examples of what this might look like
in particular contexts:

Should I loosen the pulley bolts before I remove the fan belt, or
the other way around?

Should we begin with warm-up exercises first, or should we be-

gin with some stretching?

5
 Should our report to the school board begin by stating the prob-
lems we face, or the progress we’ve made?

When should we make our proposal to this potential client?

In short, the ability to order our thoughts and actions in the way
that makes the most sense is important in virtually any career field
or life context, and thinking carefully and critically about important
questions helps us develop this skill. Note that when we are trying to
express our ideas in writing, especially when we are giving reasons
in support of our view or proposal, it helps to use what some people
call, “sign-posting terms.” Sign-posting terms are words or phrases
that help you and your audience keep track of your main points or
reasons, as well as how you got from one idea to another. For example,
if you think that there are three good reasons to believe such-and-so,
you might say, “There are three good reasons to believe such-and-so.
First… Second.. Third…” You could use also phrases like, “my main
point is….” or, “the most important thing to keep in mind here is…”)

A Life-Long, Iterative Process

Thinking carefully and critically about important questions is a
life-long, iterative process.3 This is because philosophical issues are
typically both complex and personal. Since philosophical issues are
typically complex, it takes time to sort out the different ways one
might answer a question and then consider each line of evidence for
or against each view. Since these issues are typically personal, phi-
losophy can also sometimes be frustrating or intimidating. It takes
courage to openly consider the evidence against one’s own viewpoint
on some issue, or to consider the evidence for some other view that
one rejects.
Despite these challenges, learning and doing philosophy can also
be rewarding. We have all experienced the “aha!” moment that comes
3
To say that philosophy is an iterative process means that it has steps or moves that repeat over and over,
much like the process of adding several three-digit numbers together, or playing a game of baseball.

6
with gaining new insight into a deep subject or solving a tricky prob-
lem. Honing our philosophical skills can help make these insights
come more readily and frequently. And, as noted earlier, philosoph-
ical thinking not only helps us answer the big-picture questions of
human existence; it also helps us make better decisions with respect
to the here-and-now issues that confront us in daily life. For at least
these reasons, then, the effort to develop one’s philosophical abilities
is a worthwhile one.

7
 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. What is philosophy? Be able to state and explain the definition in your

own words.

2. What does it mean to think carefully? Can you give some real-life examples
of words or phrases that could be misunderstood or misapplied if the people
using them do not first clarify what the term(s) or expression(s) mean?

3. What does it mean to think critically? What are some benefits of

thinking critically?

4. What are four skills that a person can develop by studying philosophy?

5. What are some situations in your own life where you might benefit from
developing these four skills?

6. On a scale of one to ten, how useful do you think it would be to

develop your philosophical skills? Why?

8
 CHAPTER 2
CRITIC AL THINKING: AN OVERVIEW4

In this book, we define philosophy as the attempt to think carefully

and critically about some of life’s most important questions, and the
attempt to live out the answers to those questions. This essay de-
scribes some of the mechanics involved in doing philosophy well. First
and foremost, thinking carefully and critically about important ques-
tions involves formulating and examining arguments. But what, ex-
actly, is an argument? We can begin by distinguishing between giving
an argument and getting into an argument. In ordinary conversation,
getting into an argument typically involves some sort of verbal alterca-
tion in which people get upset with each other, yell at each other, call
each other names, and so on. Importantly, getting into an argument is
not what we mean in philosophy when we talk about “arguing.” Rather,
in philosophy, arguing is a matter of giving an argument, and giving
an argument is nothing more than providing one or more reasons in
support of a viewpoint. Arguing for one’s view could be something as
simple as, “Let’s go have dinner at that new Indian restaurant; I hear
it has good reviews.” If a person says something like this, he has given
an argument.
Arguing for one’s view involves giving an argument. Fair enough.
But what, exactly, is an argument? This book will borrow from a well-
known twentieth-century logician, Irving Copi, and define an argu-
ment as a set of claims, one or more of which is used to rationally support
some other claim in the set. 5
Note that this way of defining an argument shows us that there
are two main parts of an argument. The first part of an argument con-
sists of the main claim that someone aims to defend. In a persuasive
paper written for an English class, this claim will be the author’s the-
4
Portions of this section are taken from the author’s essay, “Theoretical Virtues and Theory
Adjudication in the Origin of Life Debate,” Auslegung, vol. 26, no. 1, 2002).
5
Irving Copi, Carl Cohen, and Kenneth McMahon, Introduction to Logic, 14th edition (Prentice Hall,
2011), p. 6

9
sis statement. In ordinary conversation, the claim will likely be one’s
viewpoint, such as one’s opinion about which player is most likely to
win the MVP award, who had the best-looking outfit at the party last
night, which companies are most likely to increase their dividends
next year, and so on. In philosophy, we call this the claim the conclu-
sion of the argument. The second part of an argument consists of the
statement or statements that someone uses to support his or her view.
We call these statements premises. An individual reason or statement
is called a premise.
At this point, it is very important to keep in mind that the con-
clusion of an argument and the conclusion of an essay or book are not
the same thing. The conclusion of a book or essay is always at the end.
But when we are reading an essay or book that contains an argument,
where should we look to find the author’s conclusion? The answer is
that it depends; we do not know until we have read the author’s work.
This is why we need to remember that the conclusion of an argument
is the idea or view that the author wants to convince us is true. To il-
lustrate, consider the following passage from an introductory text-
book on firefighting:

Extreme weather conditions usually have an adverse

effect on firefighting efforts. It is often necessary to
request additional assistance that would be relative-
ly routine during modest weather. High tempera-
tures and humidity fatigue firefighters rapidly. Warm
weather also brings many more people out into the
street…Temperatures below freezing result in slower
operations…In addition, severe cold also causes me-
chanical failures as hydrants freeze and apparatus be-
have sluggishly or malfunction entirely.6

In this passage, the author has made an argument. But where (or

6
John Norman, Fire Officer’s Handbook of Tactics, Second Edition, (PennWell Publishing Company,
1998), p. 32.

10
what) is the author’s argument? Begin by recalling the definition of an
argument: an argument is a set of claims, one or more of which is used to
rationally support some other claim in the set. Now, look for the conclu-
sion of the author’s argument. Where is it? Remember that a conclusion
is the view that the author aims to defend. It is the main idea that he
or she wants us to believe. In this case, the author’s conclusion is the
second sentence. His conclusion is, “It is often necessary to request
additional assistance that would be relatively routine during modest
weather.” We see, then, that the conclusion of the argument and the
conclusion of a book or essay (or, in this case, a passage) are not the
same thing. Here, the conclusion of the passage is the last sentence,
but the conclusion of the argument is the second sentence.
Once we believe we have located the conclusion of the author’s
argument, we can then look back and sort out what the author’s
premises are. Recall that philosophy develops our ability to order our
thoughts and actions in the way that makes the most sense. To help us
do this, it is often helpful to re-arrange what seem to be the most rel-
evant sentences from the author’s work in order to better understand
and evaluate the argument. As I understand the author, his argument
goes like this:

1. High temperatures and humidity fatigue firefighters rapidly.

2. Warm weather brings more people out into the street.
3. Below-freezing temperatures result in slow operations.
4. Severe cold can cause mechanical failures.
5. Thus, extreme weather conditions usually have an adverse
effect on firefighting efforts.
6. Therefore, it is often necessary to request additional assis-
tance that would be relatively routine during modest weather.

When we arrange the sentences this way, we see that the first four
statements support the fifth one. Specifically, the first four statements

11
highlight the author’s reasons for thinking that extreme weather con-
ditions usually have an adverse effect on firefighting efforts. So, these
statements are among the premises in his argument. In turn, the fact
that extreme weather conditions usually have an adverse effect on
firefighting efforts —statement number five—supports his claim that it
is often necessary for firefighters to request additional assistance that
might not be needed in more moderate weather, which is statement
number six. But take another look at statement five. What is it doing
in the argument? Is it a premise, or a conclusion? On the one hand, it
is supported by the first four claims, which seems to indicate that it is
a conclusion. However, it also supports the sixth claim, which seems
to indicate that it is a premise. So, which is it? The short answer is that
a statement can be a premise relative to one claim and a conclusion
relative to a different claim. For this reason, philosophers sometimes
mark this distinction by referring to an argument’s major and minor
premises, or by distinguishing between the main argument and sub
(or supplemental) arguments. For now, it will be enough to keep in
mind the following three things. First, an argument consists in one or
more statements which encapsulate the view that the author is trying
to defend (i.e., the author’s conclusion), along with one or more state-
ments that constitute the author’s reason(s) for holding that view (i.e.,
the author’s premises). Second, the conclusion of an argument and the
conclusion of an essay (or book or passage) are not the same thing, and
they are often located in different places in a body of writing. Third,
a statement can be a premise relative to one claim and a conclusion
relative to a different claim.

Three Main Types of Reasoning

Although the previous section describes giving an argument as
giving reasons in support of one’s view, in philosophy it is common
to distinguish between three different types of reasoning; namely,
deductive reasoning, inductive reasoning, and abductive reasoning,

12
which is sometimes called inference to the best explanation. Deduc-
tive reasoning is a bit like math in that it tends to be all-or-nothing.
The argument either works, or it doesn’t. The premises either support
the conclusion, or they don’t. Here is an example of a simple deductive
argument called a syllogism:

If it snowed heavily last night, then the roads will be slippery

on the way to work tomorrow.

It snowed heavily last night.

Therefore, the roads will be slippery on the way to work

tomorrow.

Note that the argument consists of two premises and a conclusion.

Notice also that the argument is worded in such a way that if the prem-
ises are true then the conclusion must also be true. If there is heavy
snowfall outside, and if heavy snowfall makes for slippery roads, then
there will be slippery roads. When the argument is set up in this way,
we say that it is a valid argument. It can be helpful to think of validity
as preserving truth from the premises all the way down to the conclu-
sion. Note, however, that validity only pertains to what happens if the
premises are true. Sometimes, that is a big if. An argument can be valid
even when one or more of its statements is false. Here is an example of
a valid argument that has one or more false statements:

All U.S. Presidents are space aliens.

George Washington was a U.S. President.
Therefore, George Washington was a space alien.

As before, the first two statements are the argument’s premises

and the third statement is the argument’s conclusion. The argument

13
is valid in that if the premises are true then the conclusion must also
be true. Of course, the first premise is false. Thus, the premises in the
argument do not support the claim that George Washington was a
space alien even though the argument is a deductively valid one. This
is because a valid argument is one that is set up in such a way that if
the premises are true then the conclusion must also be true. Again:
validity has to do with how the argument is set up (i.e., how the prem-
ises are worded and how they are ordered) and not with whether any
individual claim is actually true or not.
Before moving on, note also that it is possible for an argument to
contain only true statements and yet lack validity. Here is an example
of an argument that contains only true statements but is not valid. In
philosophy, we call this an invalid argument:

Carrots are orange.

Two plus two equals four.
Therefore, the Earth is round.

All of these claims are true. Does that mean that the argument is
a good one? Obviously not. But why not? Because the argument is (ri-
diculously!) invalid. The premises in no way support the conclusion,
even though they are all true statements. Again, a valid argument is
one that is set up in such a way that if the premises are true then the
conclusion must also be true. Here, the premises and conclusion are
all true. So, the problem is with how the argument is set up. The truth
of the premises does not guarantee that the conclusion is true. So, the
argument is invalid; it is a bad argument.
As you can see, it is fairly easy to set up some valid but trivial argu-
ments (as in the ‘space alien President’ example), and it is fairly easy to
set up some invalid arguments which contain only true claims (as in
the ‘carrots are orange’ example). When we reason deductively in real
life, we are looking for something better than either of these. What

14
we are really looking for is a valid argument which contains only true
claims. Philosophers call these arguments sound arguments. A sound
argument is a valid argument which contains only true claims. From
this, you can see that only the first deductive argument provided
above (the one about the roads being slippery) is a sound argument;
assuming, of course, that it snowed heavily last night.
There is much more to deductive reasoning than this. Some philos-
ophers spend their whole careers thinking and writing about deductive
reasoning. Likewise, most college courses in logic spend several weeks
examining many more details involved in deductive reasoning. For our
purposes, however, this brief look at deductive reasoning should be
good enough. Again, here are the main points: deductive reasoning is
a bit like math in that it tends to be all-or-nothing, and the two most
important features of deductive arguments are validity and soundness.
A valid argument is one that is set up in such a way that if the premises
are true then the conclusion must also be true. A sound argument is a
valid argument which contains only true claims.
Whereas deductive reasoning is an all-or-nothing affair (argu-
ments are valid or invalid, sound or unsound), inductive reasoning
and abductive reasoning are a more-or-less affair. That is because,
with inductive and abductive reasoning, arguments are not set up in
a way that would guarantee a true conclusion whenever the premis-
es are true. To get a better feel for this difference, let’s look at each of
these two non-deductive forms of reasoning one at a time, beginning
with inductive reasoning.
When we engage in inductive reasoning, we are typically looking
to establish one of two things. First, we might be looking to establish
the likelihood that a claim is true. Ordinary examples of this sort in-
clude claims like, “it will rain tomorrow” and, “the U.S. economy will
improve next year.” Second, we can use inductive reasoning to deter-
mine whether the next observed instance of a particular type will
have features common to previously observed members of that type.

15
To illustrate, consider the claim that all American black bears are
black. Perhaps every black bear that you have seen in zoos, in books,
online, or on TV has been black. On this basis, you might conclude
that all American black bears are black. (It’s even in the name after
all, right?) The fact that every black bear that you have ever seen has
been black provides some supporting evidence (albeit not conclusive
evidence) that all American black bears are black. And yet, even if it
were true that every American black bear ever seen by humans has
been black, it is still possible that, somewhere in the woods of North
America, there roams a member of the species Ursus americanus
that is not black.7 Some philosophers express this point by saying
that, whereas true premises in a valid deductive argument prove the
conclusion, true premises in an inductive argument can only sup-
port the conclusion.
We noted in the previous paragraph that when we engage in in-
ductive reasoning we are looking to establish the likelihood that a
claim is true. Abductive reasoning is similar in this regard. The main
difference between inductive reasoning and abductive reasoning is
that, whereas inductive reasoning aims to establish the likelihood
that a claim is true, abductive reasoning aims to provide the best ex-
planation for some event, or to establish the (non)existence of some
entity or other. Viewed in light of the American black bear example I
just gave, the difference between inductive reasoning and abductive
reasoning can be illustrated via the difference between (i) establish-
ing whether all American black bears are black, and (ii) explaining why
all American black bears are black (if all of them are).
Abductive arguments can be complex and detailed, especially
about big-picture issues like whether God exists, whether a monar-
chy is the best form of government, or whether we have an immaterial
soul. Even so, abductive reasoning is probably the type of reasoning
that we use most often in daily life. Here is an example of abductive
reasoning in a daily-life context: When my oldest son was about four,
7
Actually, according to the North American Bear Center, “Black bears come in more colors than any
other North American mammal. They can be black, brown, cinnamon, blond, blue-gray, or white.”
[Link]

16
my wife and I only owned one vehicle. Normally, when I came home
from work I would open the garage door and enter our home through
the garage. On one particular day, however, the garage door opener
was not in our vehicle. (I think I had taken it out over the previous
weekend so we could get back in through the garage after a long walk.)
So, I had to use my key and come through the front door. The front
door on that particular home had narrow side windows (some people
call them sidelights) on either side of the front door, both to let light
in and to help you see who is at your door. As I approached the door,
I looked through one of the sidelights and saw my then four-year-old
sitting on the floor, apparently watching TV. As I put the key in the
doorknob and began unlocking the door, I saw him suddenly scream,
get up, and run toward my wife, whom I could not see through the
window. Based on this information, my immediate thought was that I
had scared my son. He was used to hearing the garage door and must
have thought that I was a stranger breaking into the house.
Placed in premise-conclusion form, my argument for this conclu-
sion would go something like this:

Premise 1: It is very unlikely that my son would scream and

run away from my view right at the moment that I began un-
locking the door unless he didn’t recognize me and thought I
was a burglar.

Premise 2: My son screamed and ran away from my view

right as I began unlocking the door.

Conclusion: I scared my son; he thought I was a burglar.

The argument seems reasonable, right? Granted, the argument

does not guarantee the truth of the conclusion, but the facts I cited
above make the conclusion the most likely one to reach when com-

17
pared with other possible explanations, such as that something my
son saw on TV scared him right at that moment, or that at that mo-
ment he suddenly realized he forgot to put his toys away. With this
line of reasoning in mind, upon entering our home I immediately
found my son and began to console him.
The truth of the matter, however, was that at that moment some-
thing unlikely did happen. My son was not scared at all by my coming
through the door; he probably didn’t even realize that I was unlocking
the front door to begin with. Rather, he had been eating a snack while
watching TV and, at the exact time that I began unlocking the door,
he happened to bite his tongue. It was the pain of biting his tongue
and the desire for my wife’s comfort that caused him to get up and
run away, not the fear of a burglar. So, while my inference was a rea-
sonable one at the time, it did not guarantee that my conclusion was
true. Similarly, note that while my inference was a comparatively rea-
sonable one at the time, it would have been unreasonable for me to
maintain this conclusion indefinitely, especially once I had learned
from my wife that my son had just bitten his tongue. In other words,
the degree of confidence that we have for our conclusion must be sen-
sitive both to our currently-available evidence, as well as to any new
evidence that we acquire.

Strong, Weak, Cogent and Uncogent

Earlier, we noted that deductive arguments are an all-or-nothing
affair; they are either valid or invalid, sound or unsound. On the oth-
er hand, since inductive and abductive reasoning cannot guarantee
the truth of a conclusion, these forms of reasoning are more-or-less
in nature. This means that, when assessing inductive and abductive
arguments, we say that they are comparatively strong or weak, cogent
or uncogent. Here, strong and weak are roughly parallel to the terms
valid and invalid in that they refer to how the argument itself is set up.
In other words, assuming that the premises are true, how likely is it

18
that the conclusion is true? Similarly, cogent and uncogent are roughly
parallel to the terms sound and unsound in that they refer both to how
the argument itself is set up as well as to whether each of the premises
is true. So, a cogent argument is a strong argument in which all the
premises are true. If an inductive or abductive argument is weak or
is based on a false premise, then it is uncogent, much like a deductive
argument that is either invalid or based on a false premise is unsound.
The above considerations lead to the following somewhat star-
tling conclusion: it is possible to give a cogent argument for a false
conclusion. But if this is possible, then why bother with careful rea-
soning at all? Because, our aim in reasoning is to find out what, all
things considered, we should believe, or how we should proceed based
on the best evidence we have right now. None of us is omniscient; we
are not gods or goddesses, we are mortals. As mortals, we can only
make the best of what we have. Hopefully, sooner or later, we will get
it right. Again, this is also a common occurrence in daily life. Suppose
that your dishwasher is malfunctioning. Perhaps an appliance repair
person ran a diagnosis and concluded that replacing a particular part
would fix the problem. But, after replacing the part, the dishwasher
is still malfunctioning. So, something else must be wrong. The repair
person will need to look for new information and try something else.
This is an example of how philosophy is an iterative process.

Evaluating Competing Explanations or Arguments

What makes an argument comparatively strong or weak? It is
hard to say in just a sentence or two, and perhaps no one can give an
exhaustive list of considerations, so we can’t hope to do so here, either.
(Attempting such a task could, after all, be exhausting.) What we can
do is point to some of the main markers of strength or weakness in
each of the two different types of non-deductive reasoning.
When it comes to evaluating inductive inferences, the main thing
to keep in mind is that a strong inductive inference will be based on

19
a broad and representative set of data. What does this mean? Among
other things, a broad sample size consists of many instances or “data
points.” What this looks like can vary from case to case, but suffice it
to say that one or two instances of an occurrence are usually not suf-
ficient to cogently establish a principle. For example, suppose that a
basketball player made a basket from half court the first time she ever
attempted it. Should she conclude that she will probably make anoth-
er half-court shot on her next attempt as well? Probably not. It is very
difficult for most people to make a basket from half court; perhaps she
was just lucky. On the other hand, suppose that over the past three
seasons she has taken hundreds of long-distance shots and has made
85% of them. If this were the case then she can be more confident that
she will make the next shot, even though she might still miss.
Not only should one’s evidence consist of many data points, those
data points also need to be representative; that is, they need to be var-
ied enough to capture the information we need to make the correct
inference. For example, suppose we want to know whether, in general,
Americans believe that electric cars are worth the money. We want to
reach our conclusion based on a large amount of data, so we decide to
survey every person in the village of Monee, Illinois which, according
to the U.S. Census Bureau, has a population of just over 5,000.8 A sam-
ple size of 5,000 might seem comparatively large (it is better than a
few dozen, after all), but it does not represent a cross section of the en-
tire United States nearly as well as does a survey of 5,000 people that
includes residents from all 50 states, some of whom live in cites, oth-
ers in suburbs, and others in rural areas. Thus, our data set of opin-
ions from Monee, Illinois will only weakly support any inferences we
make about what Americans as a whole think about electric cars.
We noted earlier that inductive inferences typically aim to es-
tablish the likelihood that a claim is true. Or, they aim to determine
whether the next observed instance of a particular type will have fea-
tures common to previously observed members of that type. We also

8
[Link]

20
noted that, in contrast, abductive reasoning aims to provide the best
explanation for some event, or to establish the (non)existence of some
entity or other. When it comes to evaluating abductive inferences,
philosophers will often consider whether and to what degree a theory
under consideration exemplifies certain features that we call theoreti-
cal virtues. Theoretical virtues are features of a theory which increase
the likelihood that the theory in question is an accurate one. Some ex-
amples of theoretical virtues include predictive accuracy, simplicity,
and consilience. We will briefly consider each of these in more detail.
As the term predictive accuracy suggests, a theory makes accurate
predictions when we observe what the theory says we will observe un-
der the right conditions. For example, the planet Neptune was first hy-
pothesized to exist in 1846 when scientist Urbain Le Verrier observed
that the planet Uranus deviated from what, based on Newtonian
physics, scientists expected the path of its orbit should be. Le Verrier
suggested that Uranus deviated from its predicted orbit because some
other, very massive body was interacting with it. He then calculated
where the previously-undiscovered object should be in the night sky,
and he sent his calculations to astronomer Johann Galle at the Berlin
Observatory. As a NASA article on the discovery of Neptune express-
es it, “Based on Le Verrier’s calculations, on the night of Sept. 23-24,
1846, astronomer Johann Gottfried Galle used the Fraunhofer tele-
scope at the Berlin Observatory and made the first observations of the
new planet, only 1 degree from its calculated position.”9 Presumably,
the more frequently a scientist can accurately predict future phenom-
ena on the basis of a given theory, the more likely the theory is to be
true, or at least reasonable to believe. Conversely, a theory’s reliability
and/or explanatory power diminishes with each false or otherwise in-
accurate prediction.
In philosophy, we do not typically test competing views by making
predictions in the same way that Le Verrier predicted the existence of
Neptune. Nonetheless, philosophers sometimes put forth arguments

9
[Link]

21
that do something analogous to making a prediction. Consider, for
example, the following sketch of an argument from evil against the
existence of God:

If God were to exist, then God would prevent or eliminate

every instance of evil.

But instances of evil exist.

Therefore, God does not exist.

The above argument predicts that if God were to exist then we

would not observe instances of evil in the world. Since we do observe
instances of evil, the argument concludes that God does not exist.
Note, however, that one could use this same predictive method to ar-
gue the other way around. Someone who believes in God could argue
as follows:

If God did not exist then nothing would be objectively right

or wrong.

But evil exists; some actions are objectively wrong.

Thus, God exists.

Each of the above arguments predict the occurrence of evil based

on either the existence or non-existence of God. This fact suggests that
broad-level philosophical theories might not readily be disproven by
prediction and observation in the way that a more specific scientific
theory might be disproven by a failed prediction. If so, then assessing
competing philosophical theories, including ethical theories, might
involve weighing other virtues more heavily than predictive accuracy

22
or the lack thereof.
Another way of evaluating competing abductive inferences is to
appeal to the theoretical virtue of simplicity. The basic idea here is
that, all else equal, the simpler theory is more likely to be the correct
one. Recall, for example, my story about my son getting up and run-
ning away as I opened the door to my home. In that case, something
very unlikely did happen at that exact same moment. However, un-
less I had any new evidence in hand, the safest bet would have been to
conclude that I had scared my son rather than concluding that some-
thing my son saw on TV scared him right at that moment, or that at
that moment he suddenly realized he forgot to put his toys away. In
other words, the “burglar hypothesis” was simpler than the “he-just-
now-remembered-that-he-forgot-to-put-his-toys-away” hypothesis,
which means that it was the one most plausible one prior to my learn-
ing that my son had bitten his tongue.
What does it mean to say that one theory is simpler than another?
As you might expect, there are different ways in which one theory
might be simpler than another. On one way of looking at it, a simple
theory will successfully solve problems by consistently invoking the
same pattern of reasoning. Philosopher of science Philip Kitcher puts
it this way:

Good theories consist of just one problem-solving

strategy, or a small family of problem-solving strate-
gies, that can be applied to a wide range of problems.
The theory succeeds as it is able to encompass more
and more problem areas.10

An example of a simple theory of this sort is Newton’s law of grav-

ity, which states that, “any particle of matter in the universe attracts
any other with a force varying directly as the product of the masses
and inversely as the square of the distance between them.”11 Newton’s

10
Philip Kitcher, Abusing Science (The MIT Press, 1982) p. 47.
11
[Link]

23
law applies not just to medium-sized objects like cannon balls flying
through the air; it also applies to very small entities like amoeba and
very large entities like planets and galaxies. For this reason, as noted
earlier, it helped LeVerrier discover the planet Neptune.
A second way in which one theory can be simpler than another is
in terms of the type and/or number of explanatory entities posited or
required by the theory. For example, suppose that we want to know
what makes right actions right and wrong actions wrong. Some ethi-
cal theories hold that the morality of an action boils down to just one
thing; namely, whether that action tends to cause pleasure or pain. On
this approach, morally right actions are right if and because they tend
to bring about pleasure. Similarly, wrong actions are wrong if and be-
cause they tend to cause pain. An ethical theory of this sort is simpler
than a competing theory which claims that many different things,
such as pleasure, health, love, and knowledge, are intrinsically good
and thus potentially right-making for a given action. Whether such a
theory is correct, of course, depends on how well it would explain other
things that we take to be true about what makes right actions right
and wrong actions wrong. That this is so leads us to the final theoretical
virtue that we will discuss in this chapter: consilience.
A theory that displays the virtue of consilience is one that is sup-
ported by several different lines of evidence; often also accounting for
data that is difficult or impossible for other theories to accommodate.
Depending on the nature of the theory, this data may originate from
either within or outside of the field that the theory is a part of. For ex-
ample, a particular theory in physics or chemistry that can be used to
explain a previously inexplicable phenomenon in biology would dis-
play the virtue of consilience. In moral philosophy, consilience might
involve unifying or being consistent with both our everyday intuitions
and with the latest scientific data.
To illustrate this idea, recall the suggestion that perhaps the mo-
rality of an action boils down to just one thing; namely, whether that

24
action tends to cause pleasure or pain. On the one hand, this theory is
simpler than those which hold that many things are intrinsically good.
On the other hand, there is arguably more to life than the pursuit of
pleasure. Learning new things, helping others, exercising for health
and strength, and having a family all seem like elements of a good hu-
man life, and none of them seem to be the same thing as a pleasant
feeling. Can the theory that only pleasure is intrinsically good readily
accommodate this fact? If it can, then this theory possesses the virtue
of consilience. If it cannot, then this lack of consilience would tend to
count against the theory. Readers will have the opportunity to revis-
it this discussion later on in chapter four. In that chapter, a philoso-
pher named John Stuart Mill considers the objection that, in ordinary
thought, we view happiness and things like money or virtue or love
as different things. Thus, there is more to ethical living than the pro-
motion of happiness. In contrast, Mill contends that, at the end of the
day, these things are really just happiness of a certain sort. Whether
he succeeds in showing this will be for you to decide.

When Good Reasoning Goes Bad: Some Common Mistakes

in Reasoning
It can be difficult to do philosophy well. This is because, as noted in
chapter one, philosophical issues are typically both complex and per-
sonal. Since philosophical issues are typically complex, it takes time
and effort to sort out the different ways one might answer a question
and then consider each line of evidence for or against each view. Since
philosophical issues are typically personal, philosophy can also some-
times be frustrating or intimidating. For at least these reasons, all of us
can fall prey at some time or other to making any of a number of mis-
takes in our reasoning. In philosophy, we often call these mistakes fal-
lacies. This section will highlight a few of the more common ones.
Here are a few common fallacies of deductive reasoning. First,
there is a fallacy that is sometimes called the fallacy of affirming the

25
consequent. To illustrate this fallacy, recall an argument given at the
beginning of this chapter:

Premise 1: If it snowed heavily last night, then the roads will

be slippery on the way to work tomorrow.

Premise 2: It snowed heavily last night.

Conclusion: Therefore, the roads will be slippery on the way

to work tomorrow.

Suppose that we changed premise two in the above argument to

read, “The roads are slippery on the way to work.” If we did this, we
would have the following, somewhat different argument:

Premise 1: If it snowed heavily last night, then the roads will

be slippery on the way to work tomorrow.

Premise 2: The roads are slippery on the way to work.

Conclusion: Therefore, it snowed last night.

In this new argument, do the premises guarantee the truth of

the conclusion? A moment’s reflection shows that they do not. The
fact that the roads are slippery on the way to work does not guaran-
tee that it snowed last night. Perhaps it only rained last night, but the
temperature dropped low enough so that the water on the road turned
to ice. In that case, we would have slippery roads without snow. Or,
perhaps there was a chemical or gravel spill on our section of the road
and it became slippery as a result. So why don’t the premises in our
newly-modified version of the ‘slippery roads’ argument guarantee
the truth of the conclusion? Premise one is still true, and let’s assume

26
that premise two is also true. The problem lies with how the argument
is structured. Whereas in the initial version of the ‘slippery roads’ ar-
gument the second premise re-states the first half of the first premise
(it snowed heavily last night), in this version of the argument the sec-
ond premise re-states the second half of the first premise (the roads
are slippery). But, as we’ve just seen, structuring the argument this
way makes for an invalid argument.
Another fallacy of deductive reasoning would be to reason that
some are not; therefore none are. An example of this mistake occurs
in the following argument: Some would-be school shooters are not de-
terred by the possibility that they themselves might be shot and killed
in the process; therefore, arming teachers would be useless in reducing
school shootings. Regardless of what one thinks about arming teach-
ers, the fact that some would-be school shooters are not deterred
by the possibility of their own demise does not mean that none are.
Rather, human nature being what it is, it seems highly likely that some
people are dissuaded by this possibility. So, the fact that some people
would not be dissuaded by this risk does not prove that arming teachers
would be useless against preventing school shootings.
Tuning now to inductive reasoning, earlier paragraphs have al-
ready hinted at two fallacies common to inductive reasoning; namely,
the mistake of reasoning based on too small a sample size, and the mis-
take of putting more (or less) faith in the conclusion than the evidence
warrants. If the basketball player who made her first attempt at a half-
court shot infers, based on this fact alone, that she will probably make
her second shot, then she gives that possibility more weight than the
available evidence warrants (even if, somewhat paradoxically, telling
ourselves that we will succeed might actually increase the likelihood
that we will do so). Similarly, the example of surveying 5,000 people
from Monee, Illinois and drawing a conclusion about what Americans
in general believe about electric cars would be an example of the fallacy
of relying on too small a sample size.

27
 But there are a few other fallacies of inductive reasoning that we
should be keep in mind as we seek to reason well. The first of these
is associated with the work of Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky
and is known as the base rate fallacy.12 In statistics, the term base rate
refers to how often a particular feature occurs in a data set. You might
recall having encountered base rates in math problems like this one:
Jill has 100 marbles in a jar. 50 marbles are red, 30 marbles are green,
and 20 marbles are blue. If Jill mixes up the marbles and picks one out
of the jar at random, what are the odds that she will pick a blue marble?
The answer, of course, is that there is a 20 percent chance that Jill
will pull out a blue marble if she is picking them at random. It would
be a mistake to reason that since there are three different colors of
marbles in the jar, the odds of Jill picking a blue marble are one in
three, or that since Jill’s favorite color is blue then she will be more
likely to pick a blue marble. To do so would be to commit the base rate
fallacy, which is the fallacy of ignoring a known base rate when mak-
ing one’s predictions.
Surprisingly, we can all fall prey to mistakes like this. Kahneman
and Tversky discovered as much when conducting research on gradu-
ate students in psychology, all of whom had taken courses in statistics
(and, presumably, should have known better than to commit the base
rate fallacy). Kahneman and Tversky first had their subjects deter-
mine the likelihood that an imaginary student, Tom W., was majoring
in one of nine different fields. Just as with the marble example above,
the likelihood that Tom W. was majoring in, say, business, depends on
how common business majors are at that school. If the school has a
population of 2,000 students and 200 of them are business majors,
then the likelihood that Tom W is a business major is 10 percent. But
when Kahneman and Tversky gave the participants a fictitious de-
scription of Tom W. that stated things like, “Tom W. is of high intel-
ligence, although lacking true creativity…His writing is rather dull
and mechanical, occasionally enlivened by somewhat corny puns and

12
Daniel Kahneman, Thinking Fast and Slow (Farar, Strauss, and Giroux, 2015).

28
flashes of imagination of the sci-fi type…” participants in the study
were more likely to guess that Tom W. was a computer science or en-
gineering student, even if there were far more business majors at the
school than engineers or computer science students.13 To ignore the
statistics on how many busines majors are at the school and instead
infer the likelihood that Tom W. is a business student based on a de-
scription of his personality is to commit the base rate fallacy.
The final mistake of inductive reasoning that we will explore in
this chapter is commonly known as the gambler’s fallacy or the Monte
Carlo fallacy. Suppose that you are flipping a balanced coin, such that
50% of the time it comes up heads and 50% of the time it comes up
tails. Suppose also that, on your past eight flips, the coin has come up
tails every time. On the ninth flip, is the coin more likely to come up
heads, or tails? If guessing the correct answer would win you ten dol-
lars, which one would you choose? Seeing that the coin has come up
tails eight times in a row, and knowing intuitively that coming up tails
eight times in a row on a balanced coin is a very improbable event (one
in 256, to be exact), it can be tempting to infer that the next flip will
most likely come up heads. However, to guess that it will most likely
come up heads based on the result of the previous eight flips is to fall
prey to the gambler’s fallacy. The fact is that since the coin is balanced,
there is a fifty-fifty chance of it coming up tails on the ninth flip.
Turning now to abductive reasoning, one common way that our
thinking can go astray is when we beg the question. In common con-
versation, people use the phrase, “beg the question” to mean some-
thing like, “motivates us to ask,” as in a sentence like, “People keep
asking what we should do to prevent school shootings, but this begs
the question, why do people attack schools to begin with?” In philoso-
phy, this is not what “begging the question” means. Rather, in philos-
ophy, to beg the question means to assume something that needs to be
proven. Here are two sample arguments concerning the morality of
abortion that commit the fallacy of begging the question:

13
Ibid., pp. 146-148.

29
 Abortion is the taking of an innocent life; therefore,
abortions are immoral.

and

Abortion is one of a woman’s most fundamental moral rights;

therefore, abortions are morally permissible.

The problem with the first argument is that it assumes that moral
terms like guilt and innocence apply to what is killed in an abortion.
But this is one of the issues on which pro-life and pro-choice people
disagree. So, the pro-life person who makes this argument first needs
to provide reasons for thinking that moral terms apply to embryos
and fetuses. Otherwise, she begs the question against the pro-choice
position. The problem with the second argument is that it, too, as-
sumes something important without first providing evidence; name-
ly, that women have a moral right to an abortion. But since this is one
of the central issues at hand in the abortion debate, a pro-choice per-
son cannot just assume that it is true and then infer that abortions
are morally permissible. Otherwise, she begs the question against the
pro-life position.
Sometimes, when discussing controversial issues like abortion or
how to prevent gun violence, it can be tempting to think that those
who take a different view than we do have bad motives for holding the
views that they do. But when we try to support our views with char-
acter attacks rather than with evidence, we commit the ad hominem
fallacy. (In Latin, ad hominem means, “against the person.”) Our goal
of thinking carefully and critically about some of life’s most import-
ant questions requires us to focus on the evidence for or against a par-
ticular answer to those questions. It is the evidence for or against a
view that should sway us. So, if we attack the character of a person

30
who holds a different view than we do, accusing that person (for exam-
ple) of bigotry, racism, or [fill-in-the-blank]-phobia, or by calling that
person a “snowflake” (or worse), we have in no way undermined the
strength of that person’s argument for whatever view he or she might
be defending. Rather, we have made a mistake in our reasoning.
A related fallacy is the strawman fallacy. This is the fallacy of at-
tacking a weak or irrelevant version of an opponent’s view and thereby
concluding that all versions of that view are irrational. For example,
suppose that two people are discussing global warming. One says to
the other, “You climate deniers think that we should be able to pollute
all we want and it won’t harm anything” and the other replies, “You
global warming cultists think that the oceans are going to burn up
tomorrow unless we power our cars with fairy dust.” Not only would
each person have committed the ad hominem fallacy by using pejora-
tive terms like “climate denier” and “global warming cultist,” each
of them would be committing the strawman fallacy. There are more
reasonable ways of holding that global warming is largely human-in-
duced and potentially catastrophic, and there are more reasonable
ways being skeptical of such claims.
When we commit the strawman fallacy, it is about like having a
boxing match against a mannequin. If you knock the mannequin
down and it doesn’t get back up, that doesn’t show that you are a good
boxer. Rather, a good boxer is one who can defeat the strongest chal-
lengers. Similarly, if we want to have confidence that our view on some
issue is a reasonable one, we will want to find and engage with what we
think are the best-supported versions of the competing viewpoints.

Cognitive Biases
The final section of this chapter on critical thinking will briefly
highlight three cognitive biases; namely, recency bias, confirmation
bias, and groupthink. Cognitive biases are not fallacies per se, but they
are closely related in that they can lead us to make mistakes in our

31
reasoning. To begin, recall the gambler’s fallacy from the previous
section. There, the mistake was to infer that since a particular series
of events (in this case, the coin coming up tails on eight flips in a row)
was unlikely, a contrary event (the coin coming up heads) is more like-
ly. One cognitive bias that can lead us to commit the gambler’s fallacy
is known as recency bias. Recency bias is where, in our decision-mak-
ing, we give too much weight to recent events rather than making our
decision based on all of the relevant information. In the coin flip case,
rather than keeping in mind that each individual flip has a fifty-fif-
ty chance of coming up heads, recency bias might lead us to put too
much weight on the unlikelihood of the previous eight flips coming
up tails. We might then mistakenly infer that the coin will most likely
come up heads the next time around. Recency bias can also occur in
investing. Sometimes people will be inclined to buy a company’s stock
when and because its share price is rapidly increasing, without first
having a good grasp on why the stock is going up. Likewise, people
might be inclined to “panic sell” if a company’s stock price suddenly
drops, even if that company is a very profitable and well-managed one.
Whereas recency bias involves giving too much weight to recent
events rather than making our decision based on all of the relevant
information, confirmation bias is where we tend to believe things that
are in line with what we already believe. Similarly, we can exhibit con-
firmation bias when we make little or no effort at looking for evidence
that would disconfirm what we already believe. Social media compa-
nies arguably exploit this all-too-human tendency, making stories ap-
pear in our newsfeed that only magnify what our previous search his-
tory indicates that we have been looking for. Over time, this pattern
can make us more susceptible to our next cognitive bias: groupthink.
The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines groupthink as, “a pat-
tern of thought characterized by self-deception, forced manufacture
of consent, and conformity to group values and ethics.”14 We can put
this more succinctly by stating that groupthink is the tendency to

14
[Link]/dictionary/groupthink

32
believe (or value) something when and because many other people
around you believe (or value) it. Most of us want to fit in and get along
well with others; peer pressure is a real thing, and it can be hard to
speak our mind when many around us take a different view. On the
other hand, we know from history that masses of people in otherwise
civilized societies can be led to support and engage in even highly im-
moral actions. So, to help combat groupthink, it is wise to be aware of
this tendency and to foster a healthy dose of skepticism and intellec-
tual humility in ourselves.

Summing It All Up
This chapter has explained some of the mechanics involved in do-
ing philosophy well. First and foremost, thinking carefully and criti-
cally about important questions involves formulating and examining
arguments. An argument is a set of claims, one or more of which is used
to rationally support some other claim in the set. When formulating
an argument, define your key terms, and present your argument in as
clear a manner as you can. Either list your premises or signpost them
in your paragraphs. Then, try to be as clear as you can about what you
think your argument shows, how strongly you think your premises
support your conclusion, and so on. Finally, consider objections to
your view while remaining aware of the fallacies and cognitive biases
described in this chapter.

33
 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. In the philosophical sense of the term, what is an argument?

2. What are the two main parts of an argument?

3. What is the main job of each part in the argument?

4. What are the three main types of reasoning?

5. Explain in your own words the difference between validity and soundness.

6. What key factor(s) make for a strong inductive inference?

7. Briefly describe each of the three theoretical virtues discussed in

conjunction with abductive reasoning. Can you think of any other features
that a good theory will exhibit?

8. Which theoretical virtue(s) do you think will be the most relevant in as-
sessing competing ethical claims?

9. Explain the following mistakes of reasoning in your own terms:

ad hominem fallacy
affirming the consequent
base rate fallacy
confirmation bias
gambler’s fallacy
groupthink
recency bias
strawman fallacy

34
 CHAPTER 3
A N OV E R V I E W O F M O R A L P H I LO S O P H Y

We are sometimes faced with situations that challenge our moral val-
ues. Perhaps a classmate has asked us to help him or her cheat on an
upcoming assignment. Maybe we’ve just discovered that our boss is
stealing from the company, but we fear retaliation if we report it to
Human Resources. We might have a terminally ill family member on
life support and wonder whether it would be wrong to withdraw treat-
ment and let our loved one die.
Thinking carefully and critically about tough situations like these
is the domain of moral philosophy, sometimes referred to simply as
“ethics.” Moral philosophy is the branch of philosophy that deals most
centrally with questions about the rightness and wrongness of human
actions. Some philosophers use the terms “ethics” and “morality” to
refer to different things. For example, they might use “ethics” when
referring to theories about right and wrong, and “morals” to refer to
one’s personal beliefs about right and wrong. In this book, we will use
the terms interchangeably.

Three Areas of Moral Philosophy: Applied Ethics, Normative Ethics,

and Metaethics
There are three main areas of moral philosophy. The first area
is commonly called applied ethics. Applied ethics encompasses the
sorts of topics that are most hotly debated in our nation: abortion,
illegal immigration, gun control, drug legalization, artificial intelli-
gence, and so on. In applied ethics, the central question we want to
try and answer is, what is the moral status of this type of action? For
example, when thinking philosophically about abortion we want to
know whether it is ever morally permissible to have an abortion and,
if it is permissible, when and why it is morally okay to do so. When

35
thinking philosophically about lying, we want to know whether it is
ever morally okay to lie, whether we are always morally obligated to
tell the truth, and so on.
The second area of moral philosophy is commonly called nor-
mative ethics. To illustrate the central question of normative ethics,
suppose that lying to a co-worker in order to save your job is morally
wrong. If the action is wrong, then what, exactly, makes that action
wrong? Alternatively, suppose that it is morally right to help an elder-
ly neighbor by mowing her lawn in the summer time. What, exactly,
makes this action right? We can extend this line of inquiry and ask,
for any type of action, what makes right actions right and wrong actions
wrong? This is the central question of normative ethics. Our aim in
approaching normative ethical issues philosophically is to develop a
reasonable (and hopefully correct) normative ethical theory. A norma-
tive ethical theory, then, is a theory about what makes right actions
right and wrong actions wrong. Perhaps not surprisingly, philoso-
phers disagree about which normative ethical theory, if any, is the
correct one. There are roughly ten major normative ethical theories
out there. This book will consider five of them. Here is a brief look at
three of them.
One way of answering the question of what makes right actions
right and wrong actions wrong is to appeal to the effects or conse-
quences of the action(s) in question. For example, perhaps helping our
elderly neighbor is right because doing so makes her happy, or perhaps
it is right because helping our neighbors improves our relationships
with them. Notice that making someone happy and improving rela-
tions are two different consequences, even though in daily life they
tend to go together. Notice also that while some consequences of our
actions seem to be morally relevant, others do not. For example, it
probably doesn’t make a difference, morally speaking, whether you’re
wearing a red shirt today, or a blue shirt. Your choice might have aes-
thetic consequences (perhaps the red shirt matches better with the

36
pants you plan on wearing), but the color of shirt that you decide to
wear today probably does not have moral consequences. So, if we take
the view that actions are right or wrong depending on their conse-
quences then we will need to specify what sorts of consequences are
right-making, which ones are wrong-making, and which ones are not
morally relevant at all. The reading selection in chapter four by John
Stuart Mill, entitled Utilitarianism, defends a version of a consequen-
tialist ethical theory.
Earlier in this section, we supposed that it is wrong to lie to a
co-worker in order to keep one’s job. But suppose that, in this partic-
ular instance of lying, no one ever found out about it and, as far as we
can tell, there were no negative consequences. Would it still be wrong
to lie to a co-worker? Perhaps so. But if so, why? If the rightness or
wrongness of an action depends entirely on its consequences, and if
the action had no ostensibly bad consequences, then how could the
action be wrong? Well, perhaps lying to a co-worker is wrong not be-
cause of its consequences, but because lying is deceptive or unfair.
Perhaps it is wrong to lie to a co-worker because, if the situation were
reversed, we would not want someone lying to us, even if we never
found out about it. More generally, we might say that it is the principle
behind an action that makes it right or wrong. Here, we might adopt
something like the Golden Rule as stated by Jesus of Nazareth in the
Christian New Testament: “Do unto others as you would have them do
unto you.”15 In this case, then, lying would be wrong because it would
violate a principle that we would want all people to live by; namely,
the principle of treating others as they want to be treated. A principle
like this can provide the basis for a second type of normative ethical
theory. On this second type of normative ethical theory, actions are
right or wrong not because of their consequences; rather, actions are
right or wrong based on the motives or intentions behind the action.
The reading selection in chapter five by Immanuel Kant, entitled Duty
Ethics, defends a normative ethical theory like this.

15
The Gospel According to Luke, chapter six, verse 31.

37
 So far, we have considered the possibility that actions are right or
wrong depending on their consequences, and the possibility that ac-
tions are right or wrong depending on the principle behind the action.
But there are other factors that might make an action right or wrong.
We might say, for example, that lying to a co-worker is wrong because
it is deceitful or dishonest. That is, we might think that someone who
acts honestly toward her co-workers acts with integrity, just as some-
one who has a heart for the needy acts with compassion. More gener-
ally, we might explain the rightness or wrongness of an action by ap-
pealing to the character traits of the people who tend to act this way.
On this approach, right actions are right if and because they exemplify
certain good character traits called virtues, and wrong actions are
wrong because doing so exemplifies one or more bad character traits
called vices. The reading selection in chapter six by Aristotle, entitled
Virtue Ethics, defends a normative ethical theory like this.
The third area of moral philosophy is commonly called meta-
ethics. Metaethics is the branch of moral philosophy that attempts
to discern the fundamental nature of morality. After reading about
various normative ethical theories, one might wonder whether any
single normative ethical theory is correct, or whether any single such
theory could be correct. Similarly, one might wonder whether it is pos-
sible to know what makes an act right or wrong, or whether all eth-
ical theories are equally reasonable. At one point in human history,
many people thought that it was morally permissible to ‘own’ a slave.
Today, most if not all of us think that slavery is morally wrong. But if
slavery is wrong, why is it wrong? What makes slavery wrong? How
do we know? When we say that slavery is wrong, what feature(s) of
the world, exactly, are we talking about? Or is that not how morali-
ty works? And what is the ultimate basis for moral values, anyway?
These are examples of metaethical questions.
There are four major topics in metaethics. The first topic is called
moral metaphysics. Moral metaphysics encompasses questions about

38
the existence and nature of moral facts and properties. To illustrate,
suppose that some thieves are robbing a liquor store and holding its
owner at gunpoint. Obviously, they are doing something immoral.
But what, exactly, is the property ‘being morally wrong’? What are
its features? Where, exactly, is it located? It does not seem that we
can point to a moral feature of an action such as its being immoral in
the way that we can point to, say, the shoes that the thieves are wear-
ing. If we could, then it would make sense to ask, what does moral
rightness or wrongness look like? Similarly, suppose that the police
arrive after a few minutes. In the process of carrying out their du-
ties, the officers write up a report. Among other things, the officers
describe the scene of the crime, they take statements from witness-
es, and so on. How is the moral wrongness of the crime related to the
factual descriptions in the police report? Questions like these are
part and parcel of moral metaphysics.
A second topic in metaethics concerns what type of mental state
or states we are in when we make the moral judgments we do. Since
this area of metaethics examines the interplay between the nature
of morality and human psychology, this topic is typically called mor-
al psychology. One of, if not the central issue in moral psychology is
whether moral judgments are a type of belief, or whether they are a
type of emotion, or whether they are something in between. In ordi-
nary conversation, there is nothing odd about someone saying either,
“I believe that lying is wrong” or, “I feel that lying is wrong.” And yet,
we can also distinguish between what we feel and what we believe,
such as when someone says, “I still don’t feel totally certain about it,
but I believe that this is the right thing to do.” So, are moral judgments
beliefs, or are they feelings? Or are they both?
On the one hand, moral judgments seem able to motivate us in
ways that ordinary beliefs do not. This motivational aspect of moral
judgments seems to pose a problem for the idea that morality is based
on reason, or that moral judgments are a type of belief. Roughly, the

39
problem is this: The judgment that we have a moral obligation to help
the world’s poor, for example, tends to motivate us to act in a certain
way; namely, to do something that would help the poor. By contrast,
ordinary beliefs such as the belief that Paris is the capitol of France
do not seem to motivate any particular type of action at all. Thus, it
seems that moral judgments are not beliefs, at least not in the ordi-
nary sense of the term.
But if moral judgments are not ordinary beliefs, then what are
they? Perhaps they are feelings. After all, we are often motivated by
our feelings. But thinking of moral judgments as nothing more than
an expression of our feelings poses a different sort of problem. Sup-
pose that you were going for a walk outside on a sunny day, when sud-
denly a friend jumps out from behind some nearby bushes and scares
you. Startled, you shout, “Aaaah!” and jump back. With a puzzled
look, your friend then responds, “No, I disagree. What you just said
was false.” Strange, right? Your next thought might be that now your
friend is trying to play a different sort of joke on you. If someone gasps
in surprise or shrieks in fear, we do not normally evaluate that person’s
gasps or shrieks as being either true or false.
And yet, it seems to make sense to treat a moral judgment like,
“Slavery is immoral” as a true statement, in which case moral judg-
ments seem to be beliefs. Similarly, it seems that morality is something
that we can reason about. For example, we might construct an argu-
ment like the following:16

If it is wrong to steal, then it is wrong to get your little brother

to steal for you.

It is wrong to steal.

Therefore, it is wrong to get your little brother to steal for you.

16
This way of expressing the point comes from Simon Blackburn, Spreading the Word, (Oxford
University Press, 1984), p. 190.

40
 The argument appears to be deductively valid which, as you re-
call from chapter two, means that if the premises are true then the
conclusion must also be true. If this is correct, then moral judgments
seem more like beliefs in that they are capable of being either true or
false in a way that emotions are not. The upshot of the discussion thus
far is that moral judgments seem to have a Janus-faced character to
them. That is, moral judgments seem to have both belief-like elements
and motivational or commitment-like elements to them. But now we
are back to our original question of whether moral judgments are a
type of belief, or whether they are a type of emotion, or whether they
are something in between; a question which, again, is at the heart of
moral psychology.
A third topic in metaethics concerns moral knowledge. Since the
branch of philosophy that deals with questions about knowledge is
called epistemology, this area of metaethics is typically called moral
epistemology. Let’s return for a moment to our judgment that slavery
is immoral. We know that slavery is immoral, correct? If so, how do
we know this? Perhaps someone might say that, on reflection, we can
just see that slavery is immoral. But, as the liquor store scenario above
indicates, this seeing cannot be the visual kind. After all, what does
moral rightness (or wrongness) look like? What shape does it have? Is
it rectangular? Oblong? Does it glow at night? That these questions
seem nonsensical to ask about moral wrongness indicates that moral
wrongness (or moral rightness) is probably not something we can lit-
erally see with our visual system in the way we might see a car pass-
ing by on the street. If we can have knowledge of moral facts, then,
it seems that such knowledge will have to come through something
other than our visual faculties. Perhaps we know that slavery is wrong
because, on reflection, we feel a certain way about it. But what about
people in the past who felt that slavery was perfectly okay? Can our
feelings give us moral knowledge? If so, how? Alternatively, perhaps
we have a special faculty, our conscience, whose job it is to give us

41
moral knowledge much like vision, hearing, smell, taste, and touch
can give us factual knowledge about the world around us. If, so, how
does this faculty work? Are there special neural pathways or brain ar-
eas that enable moral knowledge in roughly the same way that there
are circuits in the brain that enable vision or hearing? Such are the
questions of moral epistemology.
The fourth topic in metaethics concerns how moral language
works. For this reason, this area is sometimes called moral semantics
since the word “semantics” refers to the meaning of words. Sometimes,
it seems, words mean what they do by referring to or in some sense
“pointing to” things in the world around us. For example, the English
word tree means what it does because it directs our attention toward
comparatively large organisms in the plant family with solid trunks,
extensive root systems, multiple branches, and so on. Similarly, house
means what it does in virtue of the fact that the word enables us to talk
about the walled structures that people live in. But not all words get
their meaning by pointing to something in the world. Question words
like “who?” and “why?” seem to fall into this latter category, as do con-
junctions like “and” and “but,” and exclamations like “hey you!”
What about moral terms like “right” and “wrong”? What do they
mean? And how do they get whatever meaning they have? Do they
mean what they do because they pick out or refer to features of the
world, in much the same way that tree and house point to features of
the world around us? Or do they operate more like question words or
exclamatory words? Note here that there is an overlap between the
different topics in metaethics; namely, between moral semantics,
moral metaphysics, and moral psychology. Some collections of views
in these different areas tend to go together. For example, if you tend
to think of moral judgments as beliefs and moral properties as fea-
tures of the world in some sense, then you will probably be inclined to
think that moral terms mean what they do in light of their pointing to
these features in people’s actions or character. On the other hand, if

42
you tend to think of moral judgments as expressions of emotion, and
if you tend to think of moral properties as human reactions, then you
might be inclined to think that moral language means what it does by
enabling us to express our feelings.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

AND STUDY

1. What are the three main areas of moral philosophy?

2. What is the central question that each area aims to answer?

3. What is a normative ethical theory?

4. What are the four major topics in metaethics?

5. Which of the three main areas of moral philosophy do you find

most interesting? Why?

6. Do you tend to think of moral judgments as beliefs, or as feelings?

Or as both? Or as neither? Why?

43
 SECTION II
NORM ATIVE E THIC S

You might recall from our introduction to moral philosophy (chapter

three in this book) that the central question of normative ethics is,
“What makes right actions right and wrong actions wrong?” Since
each of the philosophers in this section all aim to answer the same
question, it will help to try and express each philosopher’s view us-
ing the following template sentence: According to [insert philosopher’s
name here], an action is right if… and wrong if… Also, as you read these
selections, you will notice that each philosopher has a different ap-
proach to addressing the question of what makes right actions right
and wrong actions wrong. What one philosopher regards as proof of
his theory, another might regard as irrelevant. So, not only will you
want to try and get clear on what the author’s normative ethical theo-
ry is, you will also want to figure out what the author’s method is; that
is, what the author counts as data in favor of or against a particular
theory about what makes right actions right and wrong actions wrong.

44
 CHAPTER 4
UTILITARIANISM
John Stuart Mill (1806-1873)17

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

17
This reading selection has been adapted from John Stuart Mill, Utilitarianism. (New York:
Longmans, Green and Company, 1901).

45
What Utilitarianism Is
The creed which accepts as the foundation of morals, Utility, or the
Greatest Happiness Principle, holds that actions are right in propor-
tion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to produce
the reverse of happiness. By happiness is intended pleasure, and the
absence of pain; by unhappiness, pain, and the privation of pleasure.
To give a clear view of the moral standard set up by the theory, much
more requires to be said; in particular, what things it includes in the
ideas of pain and pleasure; and to what extent this is left an open ques-
tion. But these supplementary explanations do not affect the theory of
life on which this theory of morality is grounded- namely, that plea-
sure, and freedom from pain, are the only things desirable as ends;
and that all desirable things (which are as numerous in the utilitarian
as in any other scheme) are desirable either for the pleasure inherent
in themselves, or as means to the promotion of pleasure and the pre-
vention of pain.
Now, such a theory of life excites in many minds, and among them
in some of the most estimable in feeling and purpose, inveterate dis-
like. To suppose that life has (as they express it) no higher end than
pleasure- no better and nobler object of desire and pursuit- they des-
ignate as utterly mean and groveling; as a doctrine worthy only of
swine, to whom the followers of Epicurus were, at a very early period,
contemptuously likened; and modern holders of the doctrine are oc-
casionally made the subject of equally polite comparisons by its Ger-
man, French, and English assailants…
It is quite compatible with the principle of utility to recognize the
fact, that some kinds of pleasure are more desirable and more valuable
than others. It would be absurd that while, in estimating all other
things, quality is considered as well as quantity, the estimation of plea-
sures should be supposed to depend on quantity alone. If I am asked,
what I mean by difference of quality in pleasures, or what makes one
pleasure more valuable than another, merely as a pleasure, except its

46
being greater in amount, there is but one possible answer. Of two plea-
sures, if there be one to which all or almost all who have experience
of both give a decided preference, irrespective of any feeling of moral
obligation to prefer it, that is the more desirable pleasure. If one of the
two is, by those who are competently acquainted with both, placed so
far above the other that they prefer it, even though knowing it to be
attended with a greater amount of discontent, and would not resign it
for any quantity of the other pleasure which their nature is capable of,
we are justified in ascribing to the preferred enjoyment a superiority
in quality, so far outweighing quantity as to render it, in comparison,
of small account.
Now it is an unquestionable fact that those who are equally ac-
quainted with, and equally capable of appreciating and enjoying,
both, do give a most marked preference to the manner of existence
which employs their higher faculties. Few human creatures would
consent to be changed into any of the lower animals, for a promise
of the fullest allowance of a beast’s pleasures; no intelligent human
being would consent to be a fool, no instructed person would be an
ignoramus, no person of feeling and conscience would be selfish and
base, even though they should be persuaded that the fool, the dunce,
or the rascal is better satisfied with his lot than they are with theirs.
They would not resign what they possess more than he for the most
complete satisfaction of all the desires which they have in common
with him. If they ever fancy they would, it is only in cases of unhap-
piness so extreme, that to escape from it they would exchange their
lot for almost any other, however undesirable in their own eyes. A be-
ing of higher faculties requires more to make him happy, is capable
probably of more acute suffering, and certainly accessible to it at more
points, than one of an inferior type; but in spite of these liabilities, he
can never really wish to sink into what he feels to be a lower grade of
existence. We may give what explanation we please of this unwilling-
ness; we may attribute it to pride, a name which is given indiscrimi-

47
nately to some of the most and to some of the least estimable feelings
of which mankind are capable: we may refer it to the love of liberty
and personal independence, an appeal to which was with the Stoics
one of the most effective means for the inculcation of it; to the love of
power, or to the love of excitement, both of which do really enter into
and contribute to it: but its most appropriate appellation is a sense of
dignity, which all human beings possess in one form or other, and in
some, though by no means in exact, proportion to their higher faculties,
and which is so essential a part of the happiness of those in whom it is
strong, that nothing which conflicts with it could be, otherwise than
momentarily, an object of desire to them…
From this verdict of the only competent judges, I apprehend there
can be no appeal. On a question which is the best worth having of two
pleasures, or which of two modes of existence is the most grateful to
the feelings, apart from its moral attributes and from its consequences,
the judgment of those who are qualified by knowledge of both, or, if
they differ, that of the majority among them, must be admitted as fi-
nal. And there needs be the less hesitation to accept this judgment re-
specting the quality of pleasures, since there is no other tribunal to be
referred to even on the question of quantity. What means are there of
determining which is the acutest of two pains, or the intensest of two
pleasurable sensations, except the general suffrage of those who are
familiar with both? Neither pains nor pleasures are homogeneous,
and pain is always heterogeneous with pleasure. What is there to de-
cide whether a particular pleasure is worth purchasing at the cost of a
particular pain, except the feelings and judgment of the experienced?
When, therefore, those feelings and judgment declare the pleasures
derived from the higher faculties to be preferable in kind, apart from
the question of intensity, to those of which the animal nature, dis-
joined from the higher faculties, is susceptible, they are entitled on
this subject to the same regard…
Though it is only in a very imperfect state of the world’s arrange-

48
ments that anyone can best serve the happiness of others by the abso-
lute sacrifice of his own, yet so long as the world is in that imperfect
state, I fully acknowledge that the readiness to make such a sacri-
fice is the highest virtue which can be found in man. I will add, that
in this condition the world, paradoxical as the assertion may be, the
conscious ability to do without happiness gives the best prospect of
realizing, such happiness as is attainable. For nothing except that
consciousness can raise a person above the chances of life, by mak-
ing him feel that, let fate and fortune do their worst, they have not
power to subdue him: which, once felt, frees him from excess of anx-
iety concerning the evils of life, and enables him, like many a Stoic in
the worst times of the Roman Empire, to cultivate in tranquility the
sources of satisfaction accessible to him, without concerning himself
about the uncertainty of their duration, any more than about their in-
evitable end…
Meanwhile, let utilitarians never cease to claim the morality of
self-devotion as a possession which belongs by as good a right to them,
as either to the Stoic or to the Transcendentalist. The utilitarian mo-
rality does recognize in human beings the power of sacrificing their
own greatest good for the good of others. It only refuses to admit that
the sacrifice is itself a good. A sacrifice which does not increase, or
tend to increase, the sum total of happiness, it considers as wasted.
The only self-renunciation which it applauds, is devotion to the hap-
piness, or to some of the means of happiness, of others; either of man-
kind collectively, or of individuals within the limits imposed by the
collective interests of mankind…
I must again repeat, what the assailants of utilitarianism seldom
have the justice to acknowledge, that the happiness which forms the
utilitarian standard of what is right in conduct is not the agent’s own
happiness, but that of all concerned. As between his own happiness
and that of others, utilitarianism requires him to be as strictly impar-
tial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator. In the golden rule of

49
Jesus of Nazareth, we read the complete spirit of the ethics of utility.
To do as you would be done by, and to love your neighbor as yourself,
constitute the ideal perfection of utilitarian morality. As the means of
making the nearest approach to this ideal, utility would enjoin, first,
that laws and social arrangements should place the happiness, or (as
speaking practically it may be called) the interest, of every individual,
as nearly as possible in harmony with the interest of the whole; and
secondly, that education and opinion, which have so vast a power over
human character, should so use that power as to establish in the mind
of every individual an indissoluble association between his own happi-
ness and the good of the whole; especially between his own happiness
and the practice of such modes of conduct, negative and positive, as
regard for the universal happiness prescribes; so that not only he may
be unable to conceive the possibility of happiness to himself, consis-
tently with conduct opposed to the general good, but also that a di-
rect impulse to promote the general good may be in every individual
one of the habitual motives of action, and the sentiments connected
therewith may fill a large and prominent place in every human being’s
sentient existence. If the, impugners of the utilitarian morality repre-
sented it to their own minds in this its, true character, I know not what
recommendation possessed by any other morality they could possibly
affirm to be wanting to it; what more beautiful or more exalted devel-
opments of human nature any other ethical system can be supposed
to foster, or what springs of action, not accessible to the utilitarian,
such systems rely on for giving effect to their mandates…
We not uncommonly hear the doctrine of utility inveighed against
as a godless doctrine. If it be necessary to say anything at all against so
mere an assumption, we may say that the question depends upon what
idea we have formed of the moral character of the Deity. If it be a true
belief that God desires, above all things, the happiness of his creatures,
and that this was his purpose in their creation, utility is not only not a
godless doctrine, but more profoundly religious than any other. If it be

50
meant that utilitarianism does not recognize the revealed will of God
as the supreme law of morals, I answer, that a utilitarian who believes
in the perfect goodness and wisdom of God, necessarily believes that
whatever God has thought fit to reveal on the subject of morals, must
fulfil the requirements of utility in a supreme degree…
Again, defenders of utility often find themselves called upon to
reply to such objections as this- that there is not time, previous to ac-
tion, for calculating and weighing the effects of any line of conduct on
the general happiness. This is exactly as if any one were to say that it
is impossible to guide our conduct by Christianity, because there is
not time, on every occasion on which anything has to be done, to read
through the Old and New Testaments. The answer to the objection is,
that there has been ample time, namely, the whole past duration of
the human species. During all that time, mankind have been learn-
ing by experience the tendencies of actions; on which experience all
the prudence, as well as all the morality of life, are dependent. People
talk as if the commencement of this course of experience had hitherto
been put off, and as if, at the moment when some man feels tempted to
meddle with the property or life of another, he had to begin considering
for the first time whether murder and theft are injurious to human
happiness. Even then I do not think that he would find the question
very puzzling; but, at all events, the matter is now done to his hand…
But to consider the rules of morality as improvable, is one thing;
to pass over the intermediate generalizations entirely, and endeavor
to test each individual action directly by the first principle, is another.
It is a strange notion that the acknowledgment of a first principle is in-
consistent with the admission of secondary ones. To inform a traveler
respecting the place of his ultimate destination is not to forbid the use
of landmarks and direction-posts on the way. The proposition that
happiness is the end and aim of morality does not mean that no road
ought to be laid down to that goal, or that persons going thither should
not be advised to take one direction rather than another. Men real-

51
ly ought to leave off talking a kind of nonsense on this subject, which
they would neither talk nor listen to on other matters of practical con-
cernment. Nobody argues that the art of navigation is not founded on
astronomy, because sailors cannot wait to calculate the Nautical Al-
manack. Being rational creatures, they go to sea with it ready calcu-
lated; and all rational creatures go out upon the sea of life with their
minds made up on the common questions of right and wrong, as well
as on many of the far more difficult questions of wise and foolish. And
this, as long as foresight is a human quality, it is to be presumed they
will continue to do. Whatever we adopt as the fundamental principle
of morality, we require subordinate principles to apply it by; the im-
possibility of doing without them, being common to all systems, can
afford no argument against any one in particular; but gravely to argue
as if no such secondary principles could be had, and as if mankind had
remained till now, and always must remain, without drawing any gen-
eral conclusions from the experience of human life, is as high a pitch,
I think, as absurdity has ever reached in philosophical controversy…
There exists no moral system under which there do not arise un-
equivocal cases of conflicting obligation. These are the real difficul-
ties, the knotty points both in the theory of ethics, and in the consci-
entious guidance of personal conduct. They are overcome practically,
with greater or with less success, according to the intellect and virtue
of the individual; but it can hardly be pretended that any one will be
the less qualified for dealing with them, from possessing an ultimate
standard to which conflicting rights and duties can be referred. If
utility is the ultimate source of moral obligations, utility may be in-
voked to decide between them when their demands are incompatible.
Though the application of the standard may be difficult, it is better
than none at all: while in other systems, the moral laws all claiming in-
dependent authority, there is no common umpire entitled to interfere
between them; their claims to precedence one over another rest on
little better than sophistry, and unless determined, as they generally

52
are, by the unacknowledged influence of considerations of utility, af-
ford a free scope for the action of personal desires and partialities. We
must remember that only in these cases of conflict between second-
ary principles is it requisite that first principles should be appealed to.
There is no case of moral obligation in which some secondary princi-
ple is not involved; and if only one, there can seldom be any real doubt
which one it is, in the mind of any person by whom the principle itself
is recognized.

Of what sort of Proof the Principle of Utility is Susceptible.

It has already been remarked, that questions of ultimate ends do
not admit of proof, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. To be in-
capable of proof by reasoning is common to all first principles; to the
first premises of our knowledge, as well as to those of our conduct. But
the former, being matters of fact, may be the subject of a direct ap-
peal to the faculties which judge of fact- namely, our senses, and our
internal consciousness. Can an appeal be made to the same faculties
on questions of practical ends? Or by what other faculty is cognizance
taken of them?
Questions about ends are, in other words, questions what things
are desirable. The utilitarian doctrine is, that happiness is desirable,
and the only thing desirable, as an end; all other things being only de-
sirable as means to that end. What ought to be required of this doc-
trine- what conditions is it requisite that the doctrine should fulfil- to
make good its claim to be believed?
The only proof capable of being given that an object is visible, is
that people actually see it. The only proof that a sound is audible, is
that people hear it: and so of the other sources of our experience. In
like manner, I apprehend, the sole evidence it is possible to produce
that anything is desirable, is that people do actually desire it. If the
end which the utilitarian doctrine proposes to itself were not, in the-
ory and in practice, acknowledged to be an end, nothing could ever

53
convince any person that it was so. No reason can be given why the
general happiness is desirable, except that each person, so far as he
believes it to be attainable, desires his own happiness. This, however,
being a fact, we have not only all the proof which the case admits of,
but all which it is possible to require, that happiness is a good: that
each person’s happiness is a good to that person, and the general hap-
piness, therefore, a good to the aggregate of all persons. Happiness has
made out its title as one of the ends of conduct, and consequently one
of the criteria of morality.
But it has not, by this alone, proved itself to be the sole criterion.
To do that, it would seem, by the same rule, necessary to show, not
only that people desire happiness, but that they never desire anything
else. Now it is palpable that they do desire things which, in common
language, are decidedly distinguished from happiness. They desire,
for example, virtue, and the absence of vice, no less really than plea-
sure and the absence of pain. The desire of virtue is not as universal,
but it is as authentic a fact, as the desire of happiness. And hence the
opponents of the utilitarian standard deem that they have a right to
infer that there are other ends of human action besides happiness, and
that happiness is not the standard of approbation and disapprobation.
…The ingredients of happiness are very various, and each of them
is desirable in itself, and not merely when considered as swelling an
aggregate. The principle of utility does not mean that any given plea-
sure, as music, for instance, or any given exemption from pain, as for
example health, is to be looked upon as means to a collective some-
thing termed happiness, and to be desired on that account. They are
desired and desirable in and for themselves; besides being means, they
are a part of the end. Virtue, according to the utilitarian doctrine, is
not naturally and originally part of the end, but it is capable of becom-
ing so; and in those who love it disinterestedly it has become so, and
is desired and cherished, not as a means to happiness, but as a part of
their happiness.

54
 To illustrate this farther, we may remember that virtue is not the
only thing, originally a means, and which if it were not a means to
anything else, would be and remain indifferent, but which by associa-
tion with what it is a means to, comes to be desired for itself, and that
too with the utmost intensity. What, for example, shall we say of the
love of money? There is nothing originally more desirable about money
than about any heap of glittering pebbles. Its worth is solely that of the
things which it will buy; the desires for other things than itself, which
it is a means of gratifying. Yet the love of money is not only one of the
strongest moving forces of human life, but money is, in many cases,
desired in and for itself; the desire to possess it is often stronger than
the desire to use it, and goes on increasing when all the desires which
point to ends beyond it, to be compassed by it, are falling off. It may,
then, be said truly, that money is desired not for the sake of an end,
but as part of the end. From being a means to happiness, it has come
to be itself a principal ingredient of the individual’s conception of hap-
piness. The same may be said of the majority of the great objects of
human life- power, for example, or fame; except that to each of these
there is a certain amount of immediate pleasure annexed, which has
at least the semblance of being naturally inherent in them; a thing
which cannot be said of money…
It results from the preceding considerations that there is in real-
ity nothing desired except happiness. Whatever is desired otherwise
than as a means to some end beyond itself, and ultimately to happi-
ness, is desired as itself a part of happiness, and is not desired for itself
until it has become so. Those who desire virtue for its own sake desire
it either because the consciousness of it is a pleasure, or because the
consciousness of being without it is a pain, or for both reasons united;
as in truth the pleasure and pain seldom exist separately, but almost
always together, the same person feeling pleasure in the degree of
virtue attained, and pain in not having attained more. If one of these
gave him no pleasure, and the other no pain, he would not love or de-

55
sire virtue, or would desire it only for the other benefits which it might
produce to himself or to persons whom he cared for. We have now,
then, an answer to the question, of what sort of proof the principle of
utility is susceptible. If the opinion which I have now stated is psycho-
logically true- if human nature is so constituted as to desire nothing
which is not either a part of happiness or a means of happiness, we can
have no other proof, and we require no other, that these are the only
things desirable. If so, happiness is the sole end of human action, and
the promotion of it the test by which to judge of all human conduct;
from whence it necessarily follows that it must be the criterion of mo-
rality, since a part is included in the whole…

56
 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. According to John Stuart Mill, what makes right actions right and wrong
actions wrong?

2. What does Mill mean by “happiness”?

3. According to Mill, how can we know which pleasures are of the “higher”
or more worthwhile sort? Should we agree with him? Why or why not?

4. What objections does Mill consider against his theory?

How does Mill respond to each of these objections?

5. What specific reasons does Mill give to try and prove his normative
ethical theory? Do you find his proof convincing? Why or why not?

6. According to Mill, what counts as evidence for or against a particular

theory of what makes right actions right and wrong actions wrong?
Should we agree? Could anything else count as evidence for or against a
particular theory?

7. Biologically speaking, what are pleasure and pain for? Is all pleasure bio-
logically good for the organism that experiences it? Are all instances of pain
biologically bad for the organisms that experience it? Evaluate Mill’s theory
in light of your answers.

57
 CHAPTER 5
DUTY ETHICS
Immanuel Kant (1724-1804)18

Only a Good Will is Good in and of Itself

Nothing can possibly be conceived in the world, or even out of it,
which can be called good, without qualification, except a good will. In-
telligence, wit, judgement, and the other talents of the mind, however
they may be named, or courage, resolution, perseverance, as quali-
ties of temperament, are undoubtedly good and desirable in many
respects; but these gifts of nature may also become extremely bad
and mischievous if the will which is to make use of them, and which,
therefore, constitutes what is called character, is not good. It is the
same with the gifts of fortune. Power, riches, honor, even health, and
the general well-being and contentment with one’s condition which is
called happiness, inspire pride, and often presumption, if there is not
a good will to correct the influence of these on the mind, and with this
also to rectify the whole principle of acting and adapt it to its end. The
sight of a being who is not adorned with a single feature of a pure and
good will, enjoying unbroken prosperity, can never give pleasure to an
impartial rational spectator. Thus, a good will appears to constitute
the indispensable condition even of being worthy of happiness.
There are even some qualities which are of service to this good
will itself and may facilitate its action, yet which have no intrinsic un-
conditional value, but always presuppose a good will, and this quali-
fies the esteem that we justly have for them and does not permit us to
regard them as absolutely good. Moderation in the affections and pas-
sions, self-control, and calm deliberation are not only good in many
respects, but even seem to constitute part of the intrinsic worth of
the person; but they are far from deserving to be called good without
qualification, although they have been so unconditionally praised by

18
From Immanuel Kant, Fundamental Principles of The Metaphysic of Morals, translated by
Thomas Kingsmill Abbott (London: Longmans, Green and Company, 1895).

58
the ancients. For without the principles of a good will, they may be-
come extremely bad, and the coolness of a villain not only makes him
far more dangerous, but also directly makes him more abominable in
our eyes than he would have been without it.
A good will is good not because of what it performs or effects, not
by its aptness for the attainment of some proposed end, but simply by
virtue of the volition; that is, it is good in itself, and considered by it-
self is to be esteemed much higher than all that can be brought about
by it in favor of any inclination, nay even of the sum total of all incli-
nations. Even if it should happen that, owing to special disfavor of for-
tune, or the niggardly provision of a step-motherly nature, this will
should wholly lack power to accomplish its purpose, if with its greatest
efforts it should yet achieve nothing, and there should remain only
the good will (not, to be sure, a mere wish, but the summoning of all
means in our power), then, like a jewel, it would still shine by its own
light, as a thing which has its whole value in itself. Its usefulness or
fruitlessness can neither add nor take away anything from this value.
It would be, as it were, only the setting to enable us to handle it the
more conveniently in common commerce, or to attract to it the atten-
tion of those who are not yet connoisseurs, but not to recommend it to
true connoisseurs, or to determine its value.

Why Attaining Happiness Cannot be the Purpose of

Human Reasoning
There is, however, something so strange in this idea of the abso-
lute value of the mere will, in which no account is taken of its utility,
that notwithstanding the thorough assent of even common reason to
the idea, yet a suspicion must arise that it may perhaps really be the
product of mere high-flown fancy, and that we may have misunder-
stood the purpose of nature in assigning reason as the governor of our
will. Therefore, we will examine this idea from this point of view.
In the physical constitution of an organized being, that is, a being

59
adapted suitably to the purposes of life, we assume it as a fundamental
principle that no organ for any purpose will be found but what is also
the fittest and best adapted for that purpose. Now in a being which has
reason and a will, if the proper object of nature were its conservation,
its welfare, in a word, its happiness, then nature would have hit upon a
very bad arrangement in selecting the reason of the creature to carry
out this purpose. For all the actions which the creature has to perform
with a view to this purpose, and the whole rule of its conduct, would
be far more surely prescribed to it by instinct, and that end would have
been attained thereby much more certainly than it ever can be by rea-
son. Should reason have been communicated to this favored creature
over and above, it must only have served it to contemplate the happy
constitution of its nature, to admire it, to congratulate itself thereon,
and to feel thankful for it to the beneficent cause, but not that it should
subject its desires to that weak and delusive guidance and meddle bun-
glingly with the purpose of nature. In a word, nature would have taken
care that reason should not break forth into practical exercise, nor have
the presumption, with its weak insight, to think out for itself the plan of
happiness, and of the means of attaining it. Nature would not only have
taken on herself the choice of the ends, but also of the means, and with
wise foresight would have entrusted both to instinct.
And, in fact, we find that the more a cultivated reason applies itself
with deliberate purpose to the enjoyment of life and happiness, so
much the more does the man fail of true satisfaction. And from this
circumstance there arises in many, if they are candid enough to con-
fess it, a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred of reason, espe-
cially in the case of those who are most experienced in the use of it.
Because, after calculating all the advantages they derive, I do not say
from the invention of all the arts of common luxury, but even from
the sciences (which seem to them to be after all only a luxury of the
understanding), they find that they have, in fact, only brought more
trouble on their shoulders, rather than gained in happiness; and they

60
end by envying, rather than despising, the more common stamp of
men who keep closer to the guidance of mere instinct and do not al-
low their reason much influence on their conduct. And this we must
admit, that the judgement of those who would very much lower the
lofty eulogies of the advantages which reason gives us in regard to the
happiness and satisfaction of life, or who would even reduce them be-
low zero, is by no means morose or ungrateful to the goodness with
which the world is governed, but that there lies at the root of these
judgements the idea that our existence has a different and far nobler
end, for which, and not for happiness, reason is properly intended, and
which must, therefore, be regarded as the supreme condition to which
the private ends of man must, for the most part, be postponed.
For as reason is not competent to guide the will with certainty in
regard to its objects and the satisfaction of all our wants (which it to
some extent even multiplies), this being an end to which an implanted
instinct would have led with much greater certainty; and since, nev-
ertheless, reason is imparted to us as a practical faculty, i.e., as one
which is to have influence on the will, therefore, admitting that na-
ture generally in the distribution of her capacities has adapted the
means to the end, its true destination must be to produce a will, not
merely good as a means to something else, but good in itself, for which
reason was absolutely necessary. This will then, though not indeed
the sole and complete good, must be the supreme good and the con-
dition of every other, even of the desire of happiness. Under these cir-
cumstances, there is nothing inconsistent with the wisdom of nature
in the fact that the cultivation of the reason, which is requisite for the
first and unconditional purpose, does in many ways interfere, at least
in this life, with the attainment of the second, which is always condi-
tional, namely, happiness. Nay, it may even reduce it to nothing, with-
out nature thereby failing of her purpose. For reason recognizes the
establishment of a good will as its highest practical destination, and
in attaining this purpose is capable only of a satisfaction of its own

61
proper kind, namely that from the attainment of an end, which end
again is determined by reason only, notwithstanding that this may in-
volve many a disappointment to the ends of inclination.

What an Intrinsically Good Will Would Look Like

We have then to develop the notion of a will which deserves to be
highly esteemed for itself and is good without a view to anything fur-
ther, a notion which exists already in the sound natural understand-
ing, requiring rather to be cleared up than to be taught, and which in
estimating the value of our actions always takes the first place and
constitutes the condition of all the rest. In order to do this, we will
take the notion of duty, which includes that of a good will, although
implying certain subjective restrictions and hindrances. These, how-
ever, far from concealing it, or rendering it unrecognizable, rather
bring it out by contrast and make it shine forth so much the bright-
er…For example, it is always a matter of duty that a dealer should not
over charge an inexperienced purchaser; and wherever there is much
commerce the prudent tradesman does not overcharge, but keeps a
fixed price for everyone, so that a child buys of him as well as any other.
Men are thus honestly served; but this is not enough to make us be-
lieve that the tradesman has so acted from duty and from principles
of honesty: his own advantage required it; it is out of the question in
this case to suppose that he might besides have a direct inclination in
favor of the buyers, so that, as it were, from love he should give no ad-
vantage to one over another. Accordingly the action was done neither
from duty nor from direct inclination, but merely with a selfish view…
On the other hand, it is a duty to maintain one’s life; and, in ad-
dition, everyone has also a direct inclination to do so. But on this ac-
count, the anxious care which most men take for it has no intrinsic
worth, and their maxim has no moral import.19 They preserve their
life as duty requires, no doubt, but not because duty requires. On the
other hand, if adversity and hopeless sorrow have completely taken

19
The term “maxim” here refers to one’s motive(s) for acting in a certain way; that is, the reasons or
principles upon which one acts.

62
away the relish for life; if the unfortunate one, strong in mind, indig-
nant at his fate rather than desponding or dejected, wishes for death,
and yet preserves his life without loving it- not from inclination or
fear, but from duty- then his maxim has a moral worth…
To be beneficent when we can is a duty; and besides this, there are
many minds so sympathetically constituted that, without any other
motive of vanity or self-interest, they find a pleasure in spreading joy
around them and can take delight in the satisfaction of others so far as
it is their own work. But I maintain that in such a case an action of this
kind, however proper, however amiable it may be, has nevertheless no
true moral worth, but is on a level with other inclinations, e.g., the in-
clination to honor, which, if it is happily directed to that which is in fact
of public utility and accordant with duty and consequently honorable,
deserves praise and encouragement, but not esteem. For the maxim
lacks the moral import, namely, that such actions be done from duty,
not from inclination. Put the case that the mind of that philanthro-
pist were clouded by sorrow of his own, extinguishing all sympathy
with the lot of others, and that, while he still has the power to benefit
others in distress, he is not touched by their trouble because he is ab-
sorbed with his own; and now suppose that he tears himself out of this
dead insensibility and performs the action without any inclination to
it, but simply from duty. Then first has his action its genuine moral
worth. Further still, if nature has put little sympathy in the heart of
this or that man, if he, supposed to be an upright man, is by tempera-
ment cold and indifferent to the sufferings of others, perhaps because
in respect of his own he is provided with the special gift of patience
and fortitude and supposes, or even requires, that others should have
the same- and such a man would certainly not be the meanest product
of nature- but if nature had not specially framed him for a philanthro-
pist, would he not still find in himself a source from whence to give
himself a far higher worth than that of a good-natured temperament
could be? Unquestionably. It is just in this that the moral worth of

63
the character is brought out which is incomparably the highest of all,
namely, that he is beneficent, not from inclination, but from duty…It is
in this manner, undoubtedly, that we are to understand those passag-
es of Scripture also in which we are commanded to love our neighbor,
even our enemy. For love, as an affection, cannot be commanded, but
beneficence for duty’s sake may; even though we are not impelled to it
by any inclination- nay, are even repelled by a natural and unconquer-
able aversion. This is practical love and not pathological- a love which
is seated in the will, and not in the propensions of sense- in principles
of action and not of tender sympathy; and it is this love alone which
can be commanded.…
[The first proposition was that nothing can possibly be conceived
in the world, or even out of it, which can be called good, without qual-
ification, except a good will.] The second proposition is that an action
done from duty derives its moral worth, not from the purpose which
is to be attained by it, but from the maxim by which it is determined,
and therefore does not depend on the realization of the object of the
action, but merely on the principle of volition by which the action has
taken place, without regard to any object of desire. It is clear from
what precedes that the purposes which we may have in view in our ac-
tions, or their effects regarded as ends and springs of the will, cannot
give to actions any unconditional or moral worth. In what, then, can
their worth lie, if it is not to consist in the will and in reference to its
expected effect? It cannot lie anywhere but in the principle of the will
without regard to the ends which can be attained by the action…
The third proposition, which is a consequence of the two preced-
ing, I would express thus: “Duty is the necessity of acting from respect
for the law.” I may have inclination for an object as the effect of my
proposed action, but I cannot have respect for it, just for this reason
that it is an effect and not an energy of will. Similarly, I cannot have
respect for inclination, whether my own or another’s; I can at most, if
my own, approve it; if another’s, sometimes even love it; i.e., look on it

64
as favorable to my own interest. It is only what is connected with my
will as a principle, by no means as an effect- what does not subserve
my inclination, but overpowers it, or at least in case of choice excludes
it from its calculation- in other words, simply the law of itself, which
can be an object of respect, and hence a command. Now an action done
from duty must wholly exclude the influence of inclination and with it
every object of the will, so that nothing remains which can determine
the will except objectively the law, and subjectively pure respect for
this practical law, and consequently the maxim that I should follow
this law even to the thwarting of all my inclinations.
Thus, the moral worth of an action does not lie in the effect ex-
pected from it, nor in any principle of action which requires to borrow
its motive from this expected effect. For all these effects-agreeable-
ness of one’s condition and even the promotion of the happiness of
others- could have been also brought about by other causes, so that
for this there would have been no need of the will of a rational being;
whereas it is in this alone that the supreme and unconditional good
can be found. The pre-eminent good which we call moral can there-
fore consist in nothing else than the conception of law in itself, which
certainly is only possible in a rational being, in so far as this concep-
tion, and not the expected effect, determines the will. This is a good
which is already present in the person who acts accordingly, and we
have not to wait for it to appear first in the result…
But what sort of law can that be, the conception of which must de-
termine the will, even without paying any regard to the effect expect-
ed from it, in order that this will may be called good absolutely and
without qualification? As I have deprived the will of every impulse
which could arise to it from obedience to any law, there remains noth-
ing but the universal conformity of its actions to law in general, which
alone is to serve the will as a principle, i.e., I am never to act otherwise
than so that I could also will that my maxim should become a univer-
sal law. Here, now, it is the simple conformity to law in general, without

65
assuming any particular law applicable to certain actions, that serves
the will as its principle and must so serve it, if duty is not to be a vain
delusion and a chimerical notion…
I do not, therefore, need any far-reaching penetration to discern
what I have to do in order that my will may be morally good. Inexperi-
enced in the course of the world, incapable of being prepared for all its
contingencies, I only ask myself: Canst thou also will that thy maxim
should be a universal law? If not, then it must be rejected, and that not
because of a disadvantage accruing from it to myself or even to oth-
ers, but because it cannot enter as a principle into a possible universal
legislation, and reason extorts from me immediate respect for such
legislation. I do not indeed as yet discern on what this respect is based
(this the philosopher may inquire), but at least I understand this, that
it is an estimation of the worth which far outweighs all worth of what
is recommended by inclination, and that the necessity of acting from
pure respect for the practical law is what constitutes duty, to which
every other motive must give place, because it is the condition of a will
being good in itself, and the worth of such a will is above everything.
Thus, then, without quitting the moral knowledge of common hu-
man reason, we have arrived at its principle. And although, no doubt,
common men do not conceive it in such an abstract and universal
form, yet they always have it really before their eyes and use it as the
standard of their decision. Here it would be easy to show how, with
this compass in hand, men are well able to distinguish, in every case
that occurs, what is good, what bad, conformably to duty or inconsis-
tent with it…

The Categorical Imperative and Four Illustrations of it in Practice

Everything in nature works according to laws. Rational beings
alone have the faculty of acting according to the conception of laws,
that is according to principles, i.e., have a will. Since the deduction of
actions from principles requires reason, the will is nothing but prac-

66
tical reason… The conception of an objective principle, in so far as it
is obligatory for a will, is called a command (of reason), and the for-
mula of the command is called an imperative…All imperatives are
expressed by the word ought [or shall], and thereby indicate the re-
lation of an objective law of reason to a will, which from its subjective
constitution is not necessarily determined by it (an obligation)…Now
all imperatives command either hypothetically or categorically. The
former represent the practical necessity of a possible action as means
to something else that is willed (or at least which one might possibly
will). The categorical imperative would be that which represented an
action as necessary of itself without reference to another end, i.e., as
objectively necessary…If now the action is good only as a means to
something else, then the imperative is hypothetical; if it is conceived
as good in itself and consequently as being necessarily the principle
of a will which of itself conforms to reason, then it is categorical…
Accordingly the hypothetical imperative only says that the action is
good for some purpose, possible or actual…
When I conceive a hypothetical imperative, in general I do not
know beforehand what it will contain until I am given the condition.
But when I conceive a categorical imperative, I know at once what it
contains. For as the imperative contains besides the law only the ne-
cessity that the maxims shall conform to this law, while the law con-
tains no conditions restricting it, there remains nothing but the gen-
eral statement that the maxim of the action should conform to a uni-
versal law, and it is this conformity alone that the imperative properly
represents as necessary. There is therefore but one categorical imper-
ative, namely, this: Act only on that maxim whereby thou canst at the
same time will that it should become a universal law.
Now if all imperatives of duty can be deduced from this one im-
perative as from their principle, then, although it should remain un-
decided whether what is called duty is not merely a vain notion, yet
at least we shall be able to show what we understand by it and what

67
this notion means…We will now enumerate a few duties, adopting the
usual division of them into duties to ourselves and ourselves and to
others, and into perfect and imperfect duties… 20
1. A man reduced to despair by a series of misfortunes feels wea-
ried of life but is still so far in possession of his reason that he can ask
himself whether it would not be contrary to his duty to himself to
take his own life. Now he inquires whether the maxim of his action
could become a universal law of nature. His maxim is: “From self-love
I adopt it as a principle to shorten my life when its longer duration
is likely to bring more evil than satisfaction.” It is asked then simply
whether this principle founded on self-love can become a universal
law of nature. Now we see at once that a system of nature of which it
should be a law to destroy life by means of the very feeling whose spe-
cial nature it is to impel to the improvement of life would contradict
itself and, therefore, could not exist as a system of nature; hence that
maxim cannot possibly exist as a universal law of nature and, conse-
quently, would be wholly inconsistent with the supreme principle of
all duty.
2. Another finds himself forced by necessity to borrow money. He
knows that he will not be able to repay it, but sees also that nothing
will be lent to him unless he promises stoutly to repay it in a definite
time. He desires to make this promise, but he has still so much con-
science as to ask himself: “Is it not unlawful and inconsistent with
duty to get out of a difficulty in this way?” Suppose however that he
resolves to do so. Then the maxim of his action would be expressed
thus: “When I think myself in want of money, I will borrow money
and promise to repay it, although I know that I never can do so.” Now
this principle of self-love or of one’s own advantage may perhaps be
consistent with my whole future welfare; but the question now is, “Is

20
Editor’s note: A perfect duty is a duty that can only be carried out in a very specific sort of way.
For example, if we have a perfect duty to tell the truth, then we can only carry out that duty by telling
the truth. By contrast, with imperfect duties there is a lot more freedom in how we carry them out.
For example, if we have an imperfect duty to help the poor then we might carry out that duty by
giving to a particular charity. Or, we might decide instead help out at a local food bank or homeless
shelter. Alternatively, we might raise funds to contract with a company to build a well in a remote
village in a poor nation.

68
it right?” I change then the suggestion of self-love into a universal
law, and state the question thus: “How would it be if my maxim were
a universal law?” Then I see at once that it could never hold as a uni-
versal law of nature, but would necessarily contradict itself. For sup-
posing it to be a universal law that everyone when he thinks himself
in a difficulty should be able to promise whatever he pleases, with the
purpose of not keeping his promise, the promise itself would become
impossible, as well as the end that one might have in view in it, since
no one would consider that anything was promised to him, but would
ridicule all such statements as vain pretenses.
3. A third finds in himself a talent which with the help of some
culture might make him a useful man in many respects. But he finds
himself in comfortable circumstances and prefers to indulge in plea-
sure rather than to take pains in enlarging and improving his happy
natural capacities. He asks, however, whether his maxim of neglect of
his natural gifts, besides agreeing with his inclination to indulgence,
agrees also with what is called duty. He sees then that a system of
nature could indeed subsist with such a universal law although men
(like the South Sea islanders) should let their talents rest and resolve
to devote their lives merely to idleness, amusement, and propagation
of their species- in a word, to enjoyment; but he cannot possibly will
that this should be a universal law of nature, or be implanted in us as
such by a natural instinct. For, as a rational being, he necessarily wills
that his faculties be developed, since they serve him and have been
given him, for all sorts of possible purposes.
4. A fourth, who is in prosperity, while he sees that others have to
contend with great wretchedness and that he could help them, thinks:
“What concern is it of mine? Let everyone be as happy as Heaven
pleases, or as he can make himself; I will take nothing from him nor
even envy him, only I do not wish to contribute anything to his wel-
fare or to his assistance in distress!” Now no doubt if such a mode of
thinking were a universal law, the human race might very well subsist

69
and doubtless even better than in a state in which everyone talks of
sympathy and good-will, or even takes care occasionally to put it into
practice, but, on the other side, also cheats when he can, betrays the
rights of men, or otherwise violates them. But although it is possible
that a universal law of nature might exist in accordance with that
maxim, it is impossible to will that such a principle should have the
universal validity of a law of nature. For a will which resolved this
would contradict itself, inasmuch as many cases might occur in which
one would have need of the love and sympathy of others, and in which,
by such a law of nature, sprung from his own will, he would deprive
himself of all hope of the aid he desires.
These are a few of the many actual duties, or at least what we regard
as such, which obviously fall into two classes on the one principle that
we have laid down. We must be able to will that a maxim of our action
should be a universal law. This is the canon of the moral appreciation
of the action generally. Some actions are of such a character that their
maxim cannot without contradiction be even conceived as a universal
law of nature, far from it being possible that we should will that it should
be so. In others this intrinsic impossibility is not found, but still it is im-
possible to will that their maxim should be raised to the universality of
a law of nature, since such a will would contradict itself…

The Categorical Imperative is a Principle of the Will

The will is conceived as a faculty of determining oneself to action
in accordance with the conception of certain laws. And such a faculty
can be found only in rational beings. Now that which serves the will
as the objective ground of its self-determination is the end, and, if this
is assigned by reason alone, it must hold for all rational beings. On the
other hand, that which merely contains the ground of possibility of
the action of which the effect is the end, this is called the means. The
subjective ground of the desire is the spring, the objective ground of
the volition is the motive; hence the distinction between subjective

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ends which rest on springs, and objective ends which depend on mo-
tives valid for every rational being…
Supposing, however, that there were something whose existence
has in itself an absolute worth, something which, being an end in
itself, could be a source of definite laws; then in this and this alone
would lie the source of a possible categorical imperative, i.e., a practi-
cal law. Now I say: man and generally any rational being exists as an
end in himself, not merely as a means to be arbitrarily used by this
or that will, but in all his actions, whether they concern himself or
other rational beings, must be always regarded at the same time as an
end. All objects of the inclinations have only a conditional worth, for
if the inclinations and the wants founded on them did not exist, then
their object would be without value. But the inclinations, themselves
being sources of want, are so far from having an absolute worth for
which they should be desired that on the contrary it must be the uni-
versal wish of every rational being to be wholly free from them. Thus
the worth of any object which is to be acquired by our action is always
conditional. Beings whose existence depends not on our will but on
nature’s, have nevertheless, if they are irrational beings, only a rela-
tive value as means, and are therefore called things; rational beings,
on the contrary, are called persons, because their very nature points
them out as ends in themselves, that is as something which must not
be used merely as means, and so far therefore restricts freedom of
action (and is an object of respect). These, therefore, are not merely
subjective ends whose existence has a worth for us as an effect of our
action, but objective ends, that is, things whose existence is an end in
itself; an end moreover for which no other can be substituted, which
they should subserve merely as means, for otherwise nothing whatev-
er would possess absolute worth…
If then there is a supreme practical principle or, in respect of the
human will, a categorical imperative, it must be one which, being
drawn from the conception of that which is necessarily an end for ev-

71
eryone because it is an end in itself, constitutes an objective princi-
ple of will, and can therefore serve as a universal practical law. The
foundation of this principle is: rational nature exists as an end in it-
self. Man necessarily conceives his own existence as being so; so far
then this is a subjective principle of human actions. But every other
rational being regards its existence similarly, just on the same ratio-
nal principle that holds for me, so that it is at the same time an objec-
tive principle, from which as a supreme practical law all laws of the
will must be capable of being deduced. Accordingly the practical im-
perative will be as follows: So act as to treat humanity, whether in thine
own person or in that of any other, in every case as an end withal, never
as means only…

The Autonomy of the Will and the Supreme Principle of Morality

Autonomy of the will is that property of it by which it is a law to
itself (independently of any property of the objects of volition). The
principle of autonomy then is: “Always so to choose that the same
volition shall comprehend the maxims of our choice as a universal
law.” …If the will seeks the law which is to determine it anywhere
else than in the fitness of its maxims to be universal laws of its own
dictation, consequently if it goes out of itself and seeks this law in
the character of any of its objects, there always results heteronomy.
The will in that case does not give itself the law, but it is given by
the object through its relation to the will. This relation, whether it
rests on inclination or on conceptions of reason, only admits of hy-
pothetical imperatives: “I ought to do something because I wish for
something else.” On the contrary, the moral, and therefore categor-
ical, imperative says: “I ought to do so and so, even though I should
not wish for anything else.”
…What else then can freedom of the will be but autonomy, that is,
the property of the will to be a law to itself? But the proposition: “The
will is in every action a law to itself,” only expresses the principle: “To

72
act on no other maxim than that which can also have as an object it-
self as a universal law.” Now this is precisely the formula of the cate-
gorical imperative and is the principle of morality, so that a free will
and a will subject to moral laws are one and the same.

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 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. Complete the framework sentence to express Immanuel Kant’s ethical

theory: According to Immanuel Kant, and act is right if… and wrong if…”

2. Why does Kant think that the only thing that is good in an unqualified
way is a good will? For example, according to Kant, why couldn’t happiness
be the standard of what makes right actions right? Should we agree with
him? Why or why not?

3. Explain Kant’s method for figuring out what makes right actions right
and wrong actions wrong. What counts as evidence for his view? Compare
this with Mill’s approach. Which approach to determining what makes right
actions right and wrong actions wrong should we use? Mill’s approach?
Kant’s approach? Both? Neither? Explain.

4. Why doesn’t Kant think that our reasoning faculties exist in order to help
us discover what will make us happy? State his reasons in your own words.

5. What is an imperative? What is the difference between a hypothetical

imperative and a categorical imperative?

6. Kant claims that, “All objects of the inclinations have only a conditional
worth, for if the inclinations and the wants founded on them did not exist,
then their object would be without value” (p. 71). Is this true? Does anything
have value independent of someone valuing it? If so, what?

7. In this reading, Kant expresses the categorical imperative in two different

ways. Be able to state both ways and explain them in your own words.

8. Is there such a thing as an exceptionless moral rule? Why or why not?

74
 CHAPTER 6
VIRTUE ETHICS
Aristotle of Stageira (384 B.C.- 322 B.C.)21

Every art and every kind of inquiry, and likewise every act and pur-
pose, seems to aim at some good: and so it has been well said that the
good is that at which everything aims. But a difference is observable
among these aims or ends. What is aimed at is sometimes the exercise
of a faculty, sometimes a certain result beyond that exercise. And
where there is an end beyond the act, there the result is better than
the exercise of the faculty. Now since there are many kinds of actions
and many arts and sciences, it follows that there are many ends also;
e.g. health is the end of medicine, ships of shipbuilding, victory of the
art of war, and wealth of economy. But when several of these are sub-
ordinated to current some one art or science,—as the making of bri-
dles and other trappings to the art of horsemanship, and this in turn,
along with all else that the soldier does, to the art of war, and so on,—
then the end of the master-art is always more desired than the ends of
the subordinate arts, since these are pursued for its sake. And this is
equally true whether the end in view be the mere exercise of a faculty
or something beyond that, as in the above instances
If then in what we do there be some end which we wish for on its
own account, choosing all the others as means to this, but not every
end without exception as a means to something else (for so we should
go on ad infinitum, and desire would be left void and objectless), this
evidently will be the good or the best of all things. And surely from
a practical point of view it much concerns us to know this good; for
then, like archers shooting at a definite mark, we shall be more likely
to attain what we want. If this be so, we must try to indicate roughly
what it is, and first of all to which of the arts or sciences it belongs. It
would seem to belong to the supreme art or science, that one which

This reading selection has been adapted from Books I and II of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, (trans.
21

1893 by F.H. Peters), courtesy of Toronto Metropolitan University’s Public Domain Core Collection.

75
most of all deserves the name of master-art or master science. Now
Politics seems to answer to this description. For it prescribes which of
the sciences a state needs, and which each man shall study, and up to
what point; and to it we see subordinated even the highest arts, such
as economy, rhetoric, and the art of war. Since then it makes use of the
other practical sciences, and since it further ordains what men are to
do and from what to refrain, its end must include the ends of the oth-
ers, and must be the proper good of man. For though this good is the
same for the individual and the state, yet the good of the state seems a
grander and more perfect thing both to attain and to secure; and glad
as one would be to do this service for a single individual, to do it for a
people and for a number of states is nobler and more divine. This then
is the aim of the present inquiry, which is a sort of political inquiry.
We must be content if we can attain to so much precision in our
statement as the subject before us admits of; for the same degree of
accuracy is no more to be expected in all kinds of reasoning than in
all kinds of handicraft. Now the things that are noble and just (with
which Politics deals) are so various and so uncertain, that some think
these are merely conventional and not natural distinctions. There is
a similar uncertainty also about what is good, because good things
often do people harm: men have before now been ruined by wealth,
and have lost their lives through courage. Our subject, then, and our
data being of this nature, we must be content if we can indicate the
truth roughly and in outline, and if, in dealing with matters that are
not amenable to immutable laws, and reasoning from premises that
are but probable, we can arrive at probable conclusions. The reader,
on his part, should take each of my statements in the same spirit; for
it is the mark of an educated man to require, in each kind of inquiry,
just so much exactness as the subject admits of: it is equally absurd
to accept probable reasoning from a mathematician, and to demand
scientific proof from an orator
Since—to resume—all knowledge and all purpose aims at some

76
good, what is this which we say is the aim of Politics; or, in other
words, what is the highest of all realizable goods? As to its name, I
suppose nearly all men are agreed; for the masses and the men of cul-
ture alike declare that it is happiness, and hold that to “live well” or to
“do well” is the same as to be “happy.” But they differ as to what this
happiness is, and the masses do not give the same account of it as the
philosophers. The former take it to be something palpable and plain,
as pleasure or wealth or fame; one man holds it to be this, and another
that, and often the same man is of different minds at different times,—
after sickness it is health, and in poverty it is wealth; while when they
are impressed with the consciousness of their ignorance, they admire
most those who say grand things that are above their comprehension.
Some philosophers, on the other hand, have thought that, beside these
several good things, there is an “absolute” good which is the cause of
their goodness. As it would hardly be worthwhile to review all the
opinions that have been held, we will confine ourselves to those which
are most popular, or which seem to have some foundation in reason.
Let us now take up the discussion at the point from which we di-
gressed. It seems that men not unreasonably take their notions of the
good or happiness from the lives actually led, and that the masses who
are the least refined suppose it to be pleasure, which is the reason why
they aim at nothing higher than the life of enjoyment. For the most
conspicuous kinds of life are three: this life of enjoyment, the life of
the statesman, and, thirdly, the contemplative life. The mass of men
show themselves utterly slavish in their preference for the life of brute
beasts, but their views receive consideration because many of those
in high places have the tastes of Sardanapalus.22 Men of refinement
with a practical turn prefer honor; for I suppose we may say that honor
is the aim of the statesman’s life. But this seems too superficial to be
the good we are seeking: for it appears to depend upon those who give
rather than upon those who receive it; while we have a presentiment
that the good is something that is peculiarly a man’s own and can
22
Here, Aristotle is referring to an alleged Assyrian king in ancient times who was known for his
indulgence in a variety of physical pleasures. There is, however, no known ancient ruler of Assyria
by that name.

77
scarce be taken away from him. Moreover, these men seem to pursue
honor in order that they may be assured of their own excellence, at
least, they wish to be honored by men of sense, and by those who know
them, and on the ground of their virtue or excellence. It is plain, then,
that in their view, at any rate, virtue or excellence is better than hon-
or; and perhaps we should take this to be the end of the statesman’s
life, rather than honor. But virtue or excellence also appears too in-
complete to be what we want; for it seems that a man might have vir-
tue and yet be asleep or be inactive all his life, and, moreover, might
meet with the greatest disasters and misfortunes; and no one would
maintain that such a man is happy, except for argument’s sake. But we
will not dwell on these matters now, for they are sufficiently discussed
in the popular treatises. The third kind of life is the life of contempla-
tion: we will treat of it further on.
As for the money-making life, it is something quite contrary to na-
ture; and wealth evidently is not the good of which we are in search,
for it is merely useful as a means to something else. So we might rath-
er take pleasure and virtue or excellence to be ends than wealth; for
they are chosen on their own account. But it seems that not even they
are the end, though much breath has been wasted in attempts to show
that they are.
Dismissing these views, then, we have now to consider the “uni-
versal good”… Now what kind of things would one call “good in them-
selves”? Surely those things that we pursue even apart from their
consequences, such as wisdom and sight and certain pleasures and
certain honors; for although we sometimes pursue these things as
means, no one could refuse to rank them among the things that are
good in themselves…. Good, then, is not a term that is applied to all
these things alike in the same sense or with reference to one common
idea or form. But how then do these things come to be called good? For
they do not appear to have received the same name by chance merely.
Perhaps it is because they all proceed from one source, or all conduce

78
to one end; or perhaps it is rather in virtue of some analogy, just as we
call the reason the eye of the soul because it bears the same relation to
the soul that the eye does to the body, and so on. But we may dismiss
these questions at present; for to discuss them in detail belongs more
properly to another branch of philosophy…
…[L]et us return once more to the question, what this good can be
of which we are in search. It seems to be different in different kinds of
action and in different arts, one thing in medicine and another in war,
and so on. What then is the good in each of these cases? Surely that
for the sake of which all else is done. And that in medicine is health, in
war is victory, in building is a house, a different thing in each different
case, but always, in whatever we do and in whatever we choose, the
end. For it is always for the sake of the end that all else is done. If then
there be one end of all that man does, this end will be the realizable
good, or these ends, if there be more than one. By this generalization
our argument is brought to the same point as before. This point we
must try to explain more clearly. We see that there are many ends.
But some of these are chosen only as means, as wealth, flutes, and the
whole class of instruments. And so it is plain that not all ends are fi-
nal. But the best of all things must, we conceive, be something final. If
then there be only one final end, this will be what we are seeking, or if
there be more than one, then the most final of them. Now that which
is pursued as an end in itself is more final than that which is pursued
as means to something else, and that which is never chosen as means
than that which is chosen both as an end in itself and as means, and
that is strictly final which is always chosen as an end in itself and never
as means. Happiness seems more than anything else to answer to this
description: for we always choose it for itself, and never for the sake of
something else; while honor and pleasure and reason, and all virtue
or excellence, we choose partly indeed for themselves (for, apart from
any result, we should choose each of them), but partly also for the sake
of happiness, supposing that they will help to make us happy. But no

79
one chooses happiness for the sake of these things, or as a means to
anything else at all.
We seem to be led to the same conclusion when we start from the
notion of self-sufficiency. The final good is thought to be self-sufficing.
In applying this term, we do not regard a man as an individual leading
a solitary life, but we also take account of parents, children, wife, and,
in short, friends and fellow-citizens generally, since man is naturally a
social being. Some limit must indeed be set to this; for if you go on to
parents and descendants and friends of friends, you will never come to
a stop. But this we will consider further on: for the present we will take
self-sufficing to mean what by itself makes life desirable and in want of
nothing. And happiness is believed to answer to this description.
But perhaps the reader thinks that though no one will dispute the
statement that happiness is the best thing in the world, yet a still more
precise definition of it is needed. This will best be gained, I think, by
asking, What is the function of man? For as the goodness and the ex-
cellence of a piper or a sculptor, or the practiser of any art, and gen-
erally of those who have any function or business to do, lies in that
function, so man’s good would seem to lie in his function, if he has
one. But can we suppose that, while a carpenter and a cobbler has a
function and a business of his own, man has no business and no func-
tion assigned him by nature? Nay, surely as his several members, eye
and hand and foot, plainly have each his own function, so we must
suppose that man also has some function over and above all these.
What then is it? Life evidently he has in common even with the
plants, but we want that which is peculiar to him. We must exclude,
therefore, the life of mere nutrition and growth. Next to this comes
the life of sense; but this too he plainly shares with horses and cat-
tle and all kinds of animals. There remains then the life whereby he
acts—the life of his rational nature, with its two sides or divisions, one
rational as obeying reason, the other rational as having and exercising
reason. But as this expression is ambiguous, we must be understood

80
to mean thereby the life that consists in the exercise of the faculties;
for this seems to be more properly entitled to the name. The function
of man, then, is exercise of his vital faculties [or soul] on one side in
obedience to reason, and on the other side with reason. If this be so,
the result is that the good of man is exercise of his faculties in accor-
dance with excellence or virtue, or, if there be more than one, in ac-
cordance with the best and most complete virtue. But there must also
be a full term of years for this exercise; for one swallow or one fine day
does not make a spring, nor does one day or any small space of time
make a blessed or happy man. This, then, may be taken as a rough out-
line of the good; for this, I think, is the proper method, first to sketch
the outline, and then to fill in the details…
We must not be satisfied, then, with examining this starting-point
or principle of ours as a conclusion from our data, but must also view
it in its relation to current opinions on the subject; for all experience
harmonizes with a true principle, but a false one is soon found to be
incompatible with the facts… Some hold it to be virtue or excellence,
some prudence, others a kind of wisdom; others, again, hold it to be all
or some of these, with the addition of pleasure, either as an ingredi-
ent or as a necessary accompaniment; and some even include external
prosperity in their account of it…[T]he view that happiness is excel-
lence or a kind of excellence harmonizes with our account; for “exer-
cise of faculties in accordance with excellence” belongs to excellence.
And, further, the [the virtuous life] is in itself pleasant. For plea-
sure is an affection of the soul, and each man takes pleasure in that
which he is said to love, he who loves horses in horses, he who loves
sight-seeing in sight-seeing, and in the same way he who loves justice
in acts of justice, and generally the lover of excellence or virtue in vir-
tuous acts or the manifestation of excellence. And while with most
men there is a perpetual conflict between the several things in which
they find pleasure, since these are not naturally pleasant, those who
love what is noble take pleasure in that which is naturally pleasant.

81
For the manifestations of excellence are naturally pleasant, so that
they are both pleasant to them and pleasant in themselves. Their life,
then, does not need pleasure to be added to it as an appendage, but
contains pleasure in itself.
Since happiness is an exercise of the vital faculties in accordance
with perfect virtue or excellence, we will now inquire about virtue or
excellence; for this will probably help us in our inquiry about happi-
ness… The virtue or excellence that we are to consider is, of course,
the excellence of man; for it is the good of man and the happiness of
man that we started to seek. And by the excellence of man I mean ex-
cellence not of body, but of soul; for happiness we take to be an activ-
ity of the soul. If this be so, then it is evident that the statesman must
have some knowledge of the soul, just as the man who is to heal the eye
or the whole body must have some knowledge of them, and that the
more in proportion as the science of the state is higher and better than
medicine. But all educated physicians take much pains to know about
the body. As statesmen [or students of Politics], then, we must inquire
into the nature of the soul, but in so doing we must keep our special
purpose in view and go only so far as that requires; for to go into mi-
nuter detail would be too laborious for the present undertaking.
Now, there are certain doctrines about the soul which are stat-
ed elsewhere with sufficient precision, and these we will adopt. Two
parts of the soul are distinguished, an irrational and a rational part…
Of the irrational part, again, one division seems to be common to all
things that live, and to be possessed by plants—I mean that which
causes nutrition and growth; for we must assume that all things that
take nourishment have a faculty of this kind, even when they are em-
bryos, and have the same faculty when they are full grown…The ex-
cellence of this faculty, then, is plainly one that man shares with other
beings, and not specifically human. And this is confirmed by the fact
that in sleep this part of the soul, or this faculty, is thought to be most
active, while the good and the bad man are undistinguishable when

82
they are asleep… However, we need not pursue this further, and may
dismiss the nutritive principle, since it has no place in the excellence
of man.
But there seems to be another vital principle that is irrational, and
yet in some way partakes of reason [namely, the appetitive and desir-
ing part]. In the case of the continent and of the incontinent man alike
we praise the reason or the rational part, for it exhorts them rightly
and urges them to do what is best; but there is plainly present in them
another principle besides the rational one, which fights and struggles
against the reason.23 For just as a paralyzed limb, when you will to move
it to the right, moves on the contrary to the left, so is it with the soul;
the incontinent man’s impulses run counter to his reason. Only where-
as we see the refractory member in the case of the body, we do not see
it in the case of the soul. But we must nevertheless, I think, hold that in
the soul too there is something beside the reason, which opposes and
runs counter to it… It seems, however, to partake of reason also, as we
said: at least, in the continent man it submits to the reason; while in the
temperate and courageous man we may say it is still more obedient; for
in him it is altogether in harmony with the reason.
The irrational part, then, it appears, is twofold. There is the vege-
tative faculty, which has no share of reason, and the faculty of appetite
or of desire in general, which in a manner partakes of reason or is ra-
tional as listening to reason and submitting to its sway, rational in the
sense in which we speak of rational obedience to father or friends, not
in the sense in which we speak of rational apprehension of mathemat-
ical truths. But all advice and all rebuke and exhortation testify that
the irrational part is in some way amenable to reason. If then we like
to say that this part, too, has a share of reason, the rational part also
will have two divisions: one rational in the strict sense as possessing

23
By “continence” in this case, Aristotle is referring to a consistency among the elements of the
soul. What the continent person believes (s)he ought to do is the same thing that (s)he wants to do
and, consequently, is what (s)he does. In contrast, we have all experienced the inner turmoil of being
pulled in different directions by contrary beliefs or desires. For example, perhaps we know that we
should be studying, but we really want to watch videos on our phone. We know we should get up
early in the morning and exercise, but the bed feels so cozy, and so on. This inner turmoil is what
Aristotle calls incontinence, a discrepancy among the elements of the soul.

83
reason in itself, the other rational as listening to reason as a man lis-
tens to his father.
Now, on this division of the faculties is based the division of excel-
lence; for we speak of intellectual excellences and of moral excellences;
wisdom and understanding and prudence we call intellectual, liberal-
ity and temperance we call moral virtues or excellences. When we are
speaking of a man’s moral character we do not say that he is wise or
intelligent, but that he is gentle or temperate. But we praise the wise
man, too, for his habit of mind or trained faculty; and a habit or trained
faculty that is praiseworthy is what we call an excellence or virtue.
Excellence, then, being of these two kinds, intellectual and moral
intellectual excellence owes its birth and growth mainly to instruc-
tion, and so requires time and experience, while moral excellence is
the result of habit or custom, ethike, and has accordingly in our lan-
guage received a name formed by a slight change from ethos (habit).
From this it is plain that none of the moral excellences or virtues is
implanted in us by nature; for that which is by nature cannot be al-
tered by training. For instance, a stone naturally tends to fall down-
wards, and you could not train it to rise upwards, though you tried to
do so by throwing it up ten thousand times, nor could you train fire to
move downwards, nor accustom anything which naturally behaves
in one way to behave in any other way. The virtues, then, come nei-
ther by nature nor against nature, but nature gives the capacity for
acquiring them, and this is developed by training. Again, where we
do things by nature we get the power first, and put this power forth
in act afterwards: as we plainly see in the case of the senses; for it is
not by constantly seeing and hearing that we acquire those faculties,
but, on the contrary, we had the power first and then used it, instead
of acquiring the power by the use. But the virtues we acquire by doing
the acts, as is the case with the arts too. We learn an art by doing that
which we wish to do when we have learned it; we become builders by
building, and harpers by harping. And so by doing just acts we be-

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come just, and by doing acts of temperance and courage we become
temperate and courageous.
Again, both the moral virtues and the corresponding vices result
from and are formed by the same acts; and this is the case with the
arts also. It is by harping that good harpers and bad harpers alike are
produced: and so with builders and the rest; by building well they will
become good builders, and bad builders by building badly. Indeed, if it
were not so, they would not want anybody to teach them, but would all
be born either good or bad at their trades. And it is just the same with
the virtues also. It is by our conduct in our intercourse with other men
that we become just or unjust, and by acting in circumstances of dan-
ger, and training ourselves to feel fear or confidence, that we become
courageous or cowardly. So, too, with our animal appetites and the
passion of anger; for by behaving in this way or in that on the occa-
sions with which these passions are concerned, some become temper-
ate and gentle, and others profligate and ill-tempered. In a word, acts
of any kind produce habits or characters of the same kind. Hence we
ought to make sure that our acts be of a certain kind; for the resulting
character varies as they vary. It makes no small difference, therefore,
whether a man be trained from his youth up in this way or in that, but
a great difference, or rather all the difference.
We have thus found the genus to which virtue belongs; but we
want to know, not only that it is a trained faculty, but also what spe-
cies of trained faculty it is. We may safely assert that the virtue or ex-
cellence of a thing causes that thing both to be itself in good condi-
tion and to perform its function well. The excellence of the eye, for
instance, makes both the eye and its work good; for it is by the excel-
lence of the eye that we see well. So the proper excellence of the horse
makes a horse what he should be, and makes him good at running, and
carrying his rider, and standing a charge. If, then, this holds good in
all cases, the proper excellence or virtue of man will be the habit or
trained faculty that makes a man good and makes him perform his

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function well.
How this is to be done we have already said, but we may exhib-
it the same conclusion in another way, by inquiring what the nature
of this virtue is. Now, if we have any quantity, whether continuous or
discrete, it is possible to take either a larger [or too large], or a smaller
[or too small], or an equal [or fair] amount, and that either absolutely
or relatively to our own needs. By an equal or fair amount I under-
stand a mean amount, or one that lies between excess and deficiency.
By the absolute mean, or mean relatively to the thing itself, I under-
stand that which is equidistant from both extremes, and this is one
and the same for all. By the mean relatively to us I understand that
which is neither too much nor too little for us; and this is not one and
the same for all. For instance, if ten be larger [or too large] and two be
smaller [or too small], if we take six we take the mean relatively to the
thing itself [or the arithmetical mean]…this is the mean in arithmeti-
cal proportion. But the mean relatively to us cannot be found in this
way. If ten pounds of food is too much for a given man to eat, and two
pounds too little, it does not follow that the trainer will order him six
pounds: for that also may perhaps be too much for the man in ques-
tion, or too little; too little for [a professional athlete], too much for
the beginner. The same holds true in running and wrestling. And so
we may say generally that a master in any art avoids what is too much
and what is too little, and seeks for the mean and chooses it—not the
absolute but the relative mean.
If, then, every art or science perfects its work in this way, looking
to the mean and bringing its work up to this standard (so that people
are wont to say of a good work that nothing could be taken from it or
added to it, implying that excellence is destroyed by excess or deficien-
cy, but secured by observing the mean; and good artists, as we say, do
in fact keep their eyes fixed on this in all that they do), and if virtue,
like nature, is more exact and better than any art, it follows that virtue
also must aim at the mean—virtue of course meaning moral virtue or

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excellence; for it has to do with passions and actions, and it is these
that admit of excess and deficiency and the mean. For instance, it is
possible to feel fear, confidence, desire, anger, pity, and generally to be
affected pleasantly and painfully, either too much or too little, in ei-
ther case wrongly; but to be thus affected at the right times, and on the
right occasions, and towards the right persons, and with the right ob-
ject, and in the right fashion, is the mean course and the best course,
and these are characteristics of virtue. And in the same way our out-
ward acts also admit of excess and deficiency, and the mean or due
amount. Virtue, then, has to deal with feelings or passions and with
outward acts, in which excess is wrong and deficiency also is blamed,
but the mean amount is praised and is right—both of which are char-
acteristics of virtue.
Again, there are many ways of going wrong… but only one way of
going right; so that the one is easy and the other hard—easy to miss the
mark and hard to hit. On this account also, then, excess and deficiency
are characteristic of vice, hitting the mean is characteristic of virtue.
Virtue, then, is a habit or trained faculty of choice, the characteristic
of which lies in moderation or observance of the mean relatively to the
persons concerned, as determined by reason, i.e. by the reason by which
the prudent man would determine it. And it is a moderation, firstly, in-
asmuch as it comes in the middle or mean between two vices, one on the
side of excess, the other on the side of defect; and, secondly, inasmuch
as, while these vices fall short of or exceed the due measure in feeling
and in action, it finds and chooses the mean, middling, or moderate
amount. Regarded in its essence, therefore, or according to the defini-
tion of its nature, virtue is a moderation or middle state, but viewed in
its relation to what is best and right it is the extreme of perfection.
But not all actions nor all passions admit of moderation; there are
some whose very names imply badness, as malevolence, shamelessness,
envy, and, among acts, adultery, theft, murder. These and all other
like things are blamed as being bad in themselves, and not merely

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in their excess or deficiency. It is impossible therefore to go right in
them; they are always wrong: rightness and wrongness in such things
(e.g. in adultery) does not depend upon whether it is the right person
and occasion and manner, but the mere doing of any one of them is
wrong. It would be equally absurd to look for moderation or excess
or deficiency in unjust cowardly or profligate conduct; for then there
would be moderation in excess or deficiency, and excess in excess, and
deficiency in deficiency.

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 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. Complete the framework sentence to succinctly express Aristotle’s

normative ethical theory. According to Aristotle, an action is right if… and
wrong if…

2. Explain Aristotle’s method for figuring out what makes right actions right
and wrong actions wrong. What does he think we need to know in order to
determine whether something is good? Compare this with Mill’s approach
and Kant’s approach. Which approach(es) to determining what makes right
actions right and wrong actions wrong should we use? Why? Explain.

3. In this reading, Aristotle contrasts three different views on happiness.

Briefly state each one. Which view of happiness does Aristotle defend in
this reading?

4. As Aristotle uses the term, what exactly is a virtue? What kind of thing
is it? What is a vice? What features characterize virtues and vices?

5. Should we agree with Aristotle’s approach to what makes right actions

right and wrong actions wrong? Why or why not? Explain.

6. According to Aristotle, can a person be taught to be morally virtuous?

If so, how? For example, do we learn virtue in the same way that we learn
algebra? Do you agree with Aristotle on whether virtue can be taught?
Why or why not?

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 CHAPTER 7
N A T U R A L L A W E T H I C S 24
Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274)

Whether Law is Something Pertaining to Reason

Objection 1: It would seem that law is not something pertaining
to reason. For the Apostle [i.e., St. Paul of Tarsus] says in Romans
7:23, “I see another law in my members,” etc. But nothing pertaining
to reason is in the members, since the reason does not make use of a
bodily organ. Therefore, law is not something pertaining to reason.
Objection 2: Further, in the reason there is nothing else but pow-
er, habit, and act. But law is not the power itself of reason. In like man-
ner, neither is it a habit of reason because the habits of reason are the
intellectual virtues…Nor again is it an act of reason because then law
would cease when the act of reason ceases, for instance, while we are
asleep. Therefore, law is nothing pertaining to reason.
Objection 3: Further, the law moves those who are subject to it to
act aright. But it belongs properly to the will to move to act…Therefore
law pertains, not to the reason, but to the will…
On the contrary, it belongs to the law to command and to forbid.
But it belongs to reason to command…Therefore law is something
pertaining to reason. I answer that law is a rule and measure of acts
whereby man is induced to act or is restrained from acting. For, “lex”
[law] is derived from “ligare” [to bind], because it binds one to act. Now
the rule and measure of human acts is the reason, which is the first
principle of human acts… since it belongs to the reason to direct to the
end, which is the first principle in all matters of action, according to
the Philosopher [i.e., Aristotle]. Now that which is the principle in any
genus is the rule and measure of that genus. For instance, unity in the
genus of numbers, and the first movement in the genus of movements.
Consequently, it follows that law is something pertaining to reason.

24
From Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, translated by the Fathers of the English Dominican
Province (London: Burns, Oats, and Washbourne, 1920).

90
 Reply to Objection 1: Since law is a kind of rule and measure, it
may be in something in two ways. First, as in that which measures
and rules, and since this is proper to reason it follows that, in this way,
law is in the reason alone. Secondly, as in that which is measured and
ruled. In this way, law is in all those things that are inclined to some-
thing by reason of some law, so that any inclination arising from a law
may be called a law not essentially but by participation as it were. And
thus the inclination of the members to concupiscence is called “the
law of the members.”25
Reply to Objection 2: Just as in external action we may consider
the work and the work done, for instance the work of building and the
house built, so in the acts of reason we may consider the act itself of
reason, i.e. to understand and to reason, and something produced by
this act. With regard to the speculative reason, this is first of all the
definition; secondly, the proposition; thirdly, the syllogism or argu-
ment. And since also the practical reason makes use of a syllogism in
respect of the work to be done…hence we find in the practical reason
something that holds the same position in regard to operations as, in
the speculative intellect, the proposition holds in regard to conclu-
sions. Such like universal propositions of the practical intellect that
are directed to actions have the nature of law. And these propositions
are sometimes under our actual consideration, while sometimes they
are retained in the reason by means of a habit.
Reply to Objection 3: Reason has its power of moving from the
will… for it is due to the fact that one wills the end that the reason is-
sues its commands as regards things ordained to the end. But in order
that the volition of what is commanded may have the nature of law, it
needs to be in accord with some rule of reason. And in this sense is to
be understood the saying that the will of the sovereign has the force of
law; otherwise the sovereign’s will would savor of lawlessness rather
than of law.

25
The word “concupiscience” refers to strong desire, especially sexual desire.

91
Whether the Law is Always Directed to the Common Good
Objection 1: It would seem that the law is not always directed to
the common good as to its end. For it belongs to law to command and
to forbid. But commands are directed to certain individual goods.
Therefore the end of the law is not always the common good.
Objection 2: Further, the law directs man in his actions. But hu-
man actions are concerned with particular matters. Therefore the
law is directed to some particular good.
Objection 3: Further, Isidore26 says, “If the law is based on reason,
whatever is based on reason will be a law.” But reason is the foundation
not only of what is ordained to the common good, but also of that
which is directed to the private good. Therefore, the law is not only di-
rected to the good of all, but also to the private good of an individual.
On the contrary, Isidore says that “laws are enacted for no private
profit, but for the common benefit of the citizens.” I answer that, as
stated above, the law belongs to that which is a principle of human
acts, because it is their rule and measure. Now as reason is a principle
of human acts, so in reason itself there is something which is the prin-
ciple in respect of all the rest, wherefore to this principle chiefly and
mainly law must needs be referred. Now the first principle in practical
matters, which are the object of the practical reason, is the last end:
and the last end of human life is bliss or happiness, as stated above.
Consequently, the law must needs regard principally the relationship
to happiness. Moreover, since every part is ordained to the whole, as
imperfect to perfect, and since one man is a part of the perfect com-
munity, the law must needs regard properly the relationship to uni-
versal happiness. Wherefore the Philosopher in the above definition
of legal matters mentions both happiness and the body politic. For he
says that we call those legal matters “just, which are adapted to produce
and preserve happiness and its parts for the body politic” since the
state is a perfect community…
Now, in every genus that which belongs to it chiefly is the principle

The reference here is to Isidore of Seville (c.560-636), one of the most famous scholars of
26

Aquinas’s day.

92
of the others, and the others belong to that genus in subordination to
that thing. Thus fire, which is chief among hot things, is the cause of
heat in mixed bodies, and these are said to be hot in so far as they have a
share of fire. Consequently, since the law is chiefly ordained to the com-
mon good, any other precept in regard to some individual work must
needs be devoid of the nature of a law save in so far as it regards the
common good. Therefore, every law is ordained to the common good.
Reply to Objection 1: A command denotes an application of a law
to matters regulated by the law. Now the order to the common good,
at which the law aims, is applicable to particular ends. And in this way
commands are given even concerning particular matters.
Reply to Objection 2: Actions are indeed concerned with particu-
lar matters: but those particular matters are referable to the common
good, not as to a common genus or species, but as to a common final
cause, according as the common good is said to be the common end.
Reply to Objection 3: Just as nothing stands firm with regard to
the speculative reason except that which is traced back to the first
indemonstrable principles, so nothing stands firm with regard to the
practical reason unless it be directed to the last end which is the com-
mon good; and whatever stands to reason in this sense, has the nature
of a law.

The Eternal Law

Just as in every artificer there pre-exists a type of the things that
are made by his art, so too in every governor there must pre-exist the
type of the order of those things that are to be done by those who are
subject to his government. And just as the type of the things yet to be
made by an art is called the art or exemplar of the products of that
art, so too the type in him who governs the acts of his subjects bears
the character of a law… Now God, by His wisdom, is the Creator of all
things in relation to which He stands as the artificer to the products of
his art…Moreover, He governs all the acts and movements that are to

93
be found in each single creature…Wherefore as the type of the Divine
Wisdom, inasmuch as by It all things are created, has the character
of art, exemplar or idea, so the type of Divine Wisdom, as moving all
things to their due end, bears the character of law. Accordingly, the
eternal law is nothing else than the type of Divine Wisdom as direct-
ing all actions and movements.

Does Everybody Know the Eternal Law?

Objection 1: It would seem that the eternal law is not known to all
because, as the Apostle says, “no one knows the things that are of God
except for the Spirit of God” (1 Corinthians 2:11). But the eternal law
is a type existing in the Divine mind. Therefore, it is unknown to all
save God alone.
Objection 2: Further, as Augustine says, “the eternal law is that
by which it is right that all things should be most orderly.” But all do
not know how all things are most orderly. Therefore, all do not know
the eternal law.
Objection 3: Further, Augustine says that “the eternal law is not
subject to the judgment of man.” But according to [Aristotle in the
Nicomachean Ethics], “any man can judge well of what he knows.”
Therefore, the eternal law is not known to us.
On the contrary, Augustine says that, “knowledge of the eternal
law is imprinted on us.” I answer that a thing may be known in two
ways: first, in itself; secondly, in its effect, wherein some likeness of
that thing is found. Thus, someone not seeing the sun in its substance
may know it by its rays. So then no one can know the eternal law as
it is in itself, except the blessed who see God in His Essence. But every
rational creature knows it in its reflection, greater or less. For every
knowledge of truth is a kind of reflection and participation of the
eternal law which is the unchangeable truth, as Augustine says. Now
all men know the truth to a certain extent, at least as to the common
principles of the natural law. And as to the others, they partake of

94
the knowledge of truth: some more, some less, and in this respect are
more or less cognizant of the eternal law.
Reply to Objection 1: We cannot know the things that are of God,
as they are in themselves; but they are made known to us in their ef-
fects, according to Romans [Link] “The invisible things of God . . . are
clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made.”
Reply to Objection 2: Although each one knows the eternal law
according to his own capacity in the way explained above, yet none
can comprehend it; for it cannot be made perfectly known by its ef-
fects. Therefore, it does not follow that anyone who knows the eternal
law in the way aforesaid knows also the whole order of things whereby
they are most orderly.
Reply to Objection 3: To judge a thing may be understood in two
ways. First, as when a cognitive power judges of its proper object, ac-
cording to Job 12:11, “Does not the ear discern words, and the palate
discern the flavor of what one tastes?” It is to this kind of judgment
that the Philosopher alludes when he says that “anyone can judge well
of what he knows,” by judging, namely, whether what is put forward is
true. In another way we speak of a superior judging of a subordinate
by a kind of practical judgment, as to whether he should be such and
such or not. And thus none can judge of the eternal law.

Is Every Law Derived from the Eternal Law?

The law denotes a kind of plan directing acts towards an end.
Now wherever there are movers ordained to one another, the power
of the second mover must needs be derived from the power of the first
mover, since the second mover does not move except in so far as it is
moved by the first. Wherefore we observe the same in all those who
govern, so that the plan of government is derived by secondary gover-
nors from the governor in chief. Thus, the plan of what is to be done
in a state flows from the king’s command to his inferior administra-
tors. And again, in things of art, the plan of whatever is to be done by

95
art flows from the chief craftsman to the under-craftsmen, who work
with their hands. Since then the eternal law is the plan of government
in the Chief Governor, all the plans of government in the inferior gov-
ernors must be derived from the eternal law. But these plans of infe-
rior governors are all other laws besides the eternal law. Therefore,
all laws, in so far as they partake of right reason, are derived from the
eternal law. Hence Augustine says that, “in temporal law there is noth-
ing just and lawful, but what man has drawn from the eternal law.”

Whether all human affairs are subject to the eternal law?

…There are two ways in which a thing is subject to the eternal law,
as explained above. First, by partaking of the eternal law by way of
knowledge; secondly, by way of action and passion, i.e. by partaking of
the eternal law by way of an inward motive principle: and in this sec-
ond way, irrational creatures are subject to the eternal law, as stated
above. But since the rational nature, together with that which it has in
common with all creatures, has something proper to itself inasmuch
as it is rational, consequently it is subject to the eternal law in both
ways. Because, while each rational creature has some knowledge of
the eternal law, as stated above, it also has a natural inclination to that
which is in harmony with the eternal law; for “we are naturally adapted
to the recipients of virtue” (Nicomachean Ethics, Book II).
Both ways, however, are imperfect, and to a certain extent de-
stroyed, in the wicked; because in them the natural inclination to virtue
is corrupted by vicious habits, and, moreover, the natural knowledge
of good is darkened by passions and habits of sin. But in the good both
ways are found more perfect because in them, besides the natural
knowledge of good, there is the added knowledge of faith and wisdom;
and again, besides the natural inclination to good, there is the added
motive of grace and virtue.
Accordingly, the good are perfectly subject to the eternal law, as
always acting according to it, whereas the wicked are subject to the

96
eternal law, imperfectly as to their actions; indeed, since both their
knowledge of good and their inclination thereto are imperfect. But
this imperfection on the part of action is supplied on the part of pas-
sion in so far as they suffer what the eternal law decrees concerning
them, according as they fail to act in harmony with that law…
…A thing is maintained in the end and moved towards the end
by one and the same cause; thus, gravity which makes a heavy body
rest in the lower place is also the cause of its being moved thither. We
therefore reply that as it is according to the eternal law that some de-
serve happiness, others unhappiness, so is it by the eternal law that
some are maintained in a happy state, others in an unhappy state. Ac-
cordingly, both the blessed and the damned are under the eternal law.

The Natural Law

The precepts of the natural law are to the practical reason what
the first principles of demonstrations are to the speculative reason,
because both are self-evident principles. Now a thing is said to be
self-evident in two ways: first, in itself; secondly, in relation to us. Any
proposition is said to be self-evident in itself if its predicate is con-
tained in the notion of the subject; although, to one who knows not
the definition of the subject, it happens that such a proposition is not
self-evident. For instance, this proposition, “Man is a rational being,”
is, in its very nature, self-evident, since who says “man,” says “a ra-
tional being.” And yet to one who knows not what a man is, this prop-
osition is not self-evident. Hence it is that, as Boethius says, certain
axioms or propositions are universally self-evident to all; and such
are those propositions whose terms are known to all, as, “Every whole
is greater than its part,” and, “Things equal to one and the same are
equal to one another.” But some propositions are self-evident only to
the wise, who understand the meaning of the terms of such proposi-
tions: thus to one who understands that an angel is not a body, it is
self-evident that an angel is not circumscriptively in a place: but this

97
is not evident to the unlearned, for they cannot grasp it.
Now a certain order is to be found in those things that are ap-
prehended universally. For that which, before aught else, falls under
apprehension, is “being,” the notion of which is included in all things
whatsoever a man apprehends. Wherefore the first indemonstrable
principle is that “the same thing cannot be affirmed and denied at the
same time,” which is based on the notion of “being” and “not-being”:
and on this principle all others are based…Now as “being” is the first
thing that falls under the apprehension simply, so “good” is the first
thing that falls under the apprehension of the practical reason, which
is directed to action, since every agent acts for an end under the aspect
of good. Consequently, the first principle of practical reason is one
founded on the notion of good, viz. that “good is that which all things
seek after.” Hence this is the first precept of law, that “good is to be
done and pursued, and evil is to be avoided.” All other precepts of the
natural law are based upon this, so that whatever the practical reason
naturally apprehends as man’s good (or evil) belongs to the precepts
of the natural law as something to be done or avoided.
Since, however, good has the nature of an end, and evil, the nature
of a contrary, hence it is that all those things to which man has a natu-
ral inclination are naturally apprehended by reason as being good, and
consequently as objects of pursuit, and their contraries as evil, and ob-
jects of avoidance. Wherefore according to the order of natural incli-
nations is the order of the precepts of the natural law. Because in man
there is first of all an inclination to good in accordance with the nature
which he has in common with all substances, inasmuch as every sub-
stance seeks the preservation of its own being, according to its nature.
And by reason of this inclination, whatever is a means of preserving
human life, and of warding off its obstacles, belongs to the natural law.
Secondly, there is in man an inclination to things that pertain to him
more specially, according to that nature which he has in common with
other animals. And in virtue of this inclination, those things are said

98
to belong to the natural law, “which nature has taught to all animals”
such as sexual intercourse, education of offspring and so forth. Thirdly,
there is in man an inclination to good, according to the nature of his
reason, which nature is proper to him. Thus, man has a natural inclina-
tion to know the truth about God, and to live in society. And in this re-
spect, whatever pertains to this inclination belongs to the natural law,
for instance, to shun ignorance, to avoid offending those among whom
one has to live, and other such things regarding the above inclination.
All these precepts of the law of nature have the character of one
natural law, inasmuch as they flow from one first precept…All the in-
clinations of any parts whatsoever of human nature, e.g. of the concu-
piscible and irascible parts,27 in so far as they are ruled by reason, be-
long to the natural law, and are reduced to one first precept, as stated
above, so that the precepts of the natural law are many in themselves,
but are based on one common foundation…

Whether the natural law is the same in all men?

…[A]s stated above, to the natural law belongs those things to
which a man is inclined naturally, and among these it is proper to man
to be inclined to act according to reason. Now the process of reason is
from the common to the proper…The speculative reason, however, is
differently situated in this matter from the practical reason. For, since
the speculative reason is busied chiefly with the necessary things,
which cannot be otherwise than they are, its proper conclusions, like
the universal principles, contain the truth without fail. The practical
reason, on the other hand, is busied with contingent matters, about
which human actions are concerned. And consequently, although
there is necessity in the general principles, the more we descend to
matters of detail, the more frequently we encounter defects. Accord-
ingly then, in speculative matters truth is the same in all men, both as
to principles and as to conclusions, although the truth is not known to
all as regards the conclusions but only as regards the principles which

27
The “concupiscible and irascible parts” here are the aspects of the self that enable us to experience
strong desire (especially sexual desire) or anger.

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are called common notions. But in matters of action, truth or prac-
tical rectitude is not the same for all as to matters of detail, but only
as to the general principles. And where there is the same rectitude in
matters of detail, it is not equally known to all.
It is therefore evident that, as regards the general principles
whether of speculative or of practical reason, truth or rectitude is the
same for all and is equally known by all. As to the proper conclusions
of the speculative reason, the truth is the same for all but is not equal-
ly known to all. Thus it is true for all that the three angles of a triangle
are together equal to two right angles, although it is not known to all.
But as to the proper conclusions of the practical reason, neither is the
truth or rectitude the same for all, nor, where it is the same, is it equally
known by all. Thus it is right and true for all to act according to rea-
son. And from this principle it follows as a proper conclusion that
goods entrusted to another should be restored to their owner. Now
this is true for the majority of cases, but it may happen in a particular
case that it would be injurious, and therefore unreasonable, to restore
goods held in trust; for instance, if they are claimed for the purpose of
fighting against one’s country. And this principle will be found to fail
the more according as we descend further into detail, e.g. if one were
to say that goods held in trust should be restored with such and such a
guarantee, or in such and such a way because, the greater the number
of conditions added, the greater the number of ways in which the prin-
ciple may fail, so that it be not right to restore or not to restore.
Consequently, we must say that the natural law, as to general prin-
ciples, is the same for all, both as to rectitude and as to knowledge.
But as to certain matters of detail, which are conclusions, as it were, of
those general principles, it is the same for all in the majority of cases,
both as to rectitude and as to knowledge; and yet in some few cases it
may fail, both as to rectitude, by reason of certain obstacles (just as
natures subject to generation and corruption fail in some few cases
on account of some obstacle), and as to knowledge, since in some the

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reason is perverted by passion, or evil habit, or an evil disposition of
nature; thus formerly, theft, although it is expressly contrary to the
natural law, was not considered wrong among the Germans, as Julius
Caesar relates…

Whether every human law is derived from the natural law?

…Now in human affairs a thing is said to be just, from being right,
according to the rule of reason. But the first rule of reason is the law
of nature, as is clear from what has been stated above. Consequently,
every human law has just so much of the nature of law as it is derived
from the law of nature. But if in any point it deflects from the law of
nature, it is no longer a law but a perversion of law.
But it must be noted that something may be derived from the nat-
ural law in two ways: first, as a conclusion from premises, secondly,
by way of determination of certain generalities. The first way is like
to that by which, in sciences, demonstrated conclusions are drawn
from the principles, while the second mode is likened to that whereby,
in the arts, general forms are particularized as to details. Thus, the
craftsman needs to determine the general form of a house to some
particular shape. Some things are therefore derived from the general
principles of the natural law by way of conclusions; e.g. that “one must
not kill” may be derived as a conclusion from the principle that “one
should do harm to no man,” while some are derived therefrom by way
of determination; e.g. the law of nature has it that the evil-doer should
be punished, but that he be punished in this or that way is a determi-
nation of the law of nature.
Accordingly, both modes of derivation are found in the human
law. But those things which are derived in the first way are contained
in human law not as emanating therefrom exclusively, but have some
force from the natural law also. But those things which are derived in
the second way, have no other force than that of human law.

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 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. Complete the framework sentence to succinctly express Aquinas’s

normative ethical theory. According to Aquinas, an action is right if… and
wrong if…

2. Explain Aquinas’s method for figuring out what makes right actions
right and wrong actions wrong. What does he think we need to know in
order to determine whether something is good? Compare this with the
approaches of the previous philosophers in this book. Which approach(es) to
determining what makes right actions right and wrong actions wrong should
we use? Why? Explain.

3. Some students object to Aquinas’s approach to morality because Aquinas

makes reference to God as the source of the eternal law. In fairness to
Aquinas, the Summa Theologica is a massive work, and by the time he
addresses the topics in our current selection, he has already given at least
five separate arguments for the existence of God. How much of Aquinas’s
ethical theory might be true if God does not exist? How much of his ethical
theory requires the existence of God?

4. Aquinas approaches his subject by first stating viewpoints on the subject

that are contrary to his own. He then uses these objections as a basis for
stating and defending his own view, after which he replies to the objections.
What do think of this approach to doing philosophy? What are some of its
benefits? What are some of its drawbacks?

5. According to Aquinas, under what conditions are human laws just? Under
what conditions are human laws unjust? Do you agree? Why or why not?

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 SECTION III
THE NATURE OF MOR ALIT Y

In chapter three, we noted that metaethics is the branch of moral phi-

losophy that attempts to discern the fundamental nature of morality.
As you now know, there are four main topics in metaethics; namely,
moral metaphysics, moral psychology, moral epistemology, and mor-
al semantics. The readings in this section aim to address these topics
in some form or other, though not all of them are addressed in equal
detail. Some of the readings in this section are largely concerned with,
for example, whether morality is based on reason, or on emotion, or on
both. Others focus more on the nature of moral properties and moral
language. There are other questions concerning the nature of moral-
ity that were not discussed in chapter three, but which are addressed
by some of the authors in this section; questions like, Are humans ba-
sically selfish, or giving? Is genuine regard for others even possible? Do
our moral judgments depend more on our feelings, or on reason? Where
does morality come from? Nonetheless, the views of the authors in this
section can all be fruitfully compared to one another by asking, “How is
morality supposed to work, according to this philosopher?”

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 CHAPTER 8
HUM AN NATURE AND THE
SOCIAL CONTRACT
Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679)28

Editor’s note: I have modernized the language in this selection to help

make for easier reading by the student. For example, in the original
wording, the following reading selection begins with, “There be in An-
imals, two sorts of Motions peculiar to them: One called Vitall; begun
in generation, and continued without interruption through their whole
life; such as are the Course of the Bloud…” I have edited it to the more
familiar, “There are in animals two sorts of motions peculiar to them:
one called vital, begun in generation, and continued without interrup-
tion through their whole life, such as are the course of the blood…”

Vital and Animal Motion

There are in animals two sorts of motions peculiar to them: one
called vital, begun in generation, and continued without interruption
through their whole life, such as are the course of the blood, the pulse,
the breathing, etc., to which motions there needs no help of imagina-
tion. The other is animal motion, otherwise called voluntary motion,
as to go, to speak, [or] to move any of our limbs in such manner as is
first fancied in our minds. …[S]ense is motion in the organs and interi-
or parts of man’s body, caused by the action of the things we see, hear,
etc….[F]ancy is but the relics of the same motion, remaining after
sense…And because going, speaking, and the like voluntary motions
depend always upon a precedent thought of whither, which way, and
what, it is evident that the imagination is the first internal beginning
of all voluntary motion. And although unstudied men do not conceive
any motion at all to be there, where the thing moved is invisible or the
space it is moved in is (for the shortness of it) insensible, yet that does

28
From Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, (c. 1651 by William Wilson).

104
not hinder but that such motions are. For let a space be never so lit-
tle, that which is moved over a greater space, whereof that little one
is part, must first be moved over that. These small beginnings of mo-
tion within the body of man, before they appear in walking, speaking,
striking, and other visible actions, are commonly called endeavor.

Endeavour; Appetite; Desire; Hunger; Thirst; Aversion

This endeavor, when it is toward something which causes it, is
called appetite, or desire; the latter being the general name, and the
other, oftentimes restrained to signify the desire of food, namely hun-
ger and thirst. And when the endeavor is fromward something, it is
generally called aversion. These words appetite and aversion we have
from Latin; and both of them signify the motions, one of approaching,
the other of retiring. So also do the Greek words for the same…For na-
ture itself does often press upon men those truths which, afterwards,
when they look for somewhat beyond nature, they stumble at. For the
schools find in mere appetite to go, or move, no actual motion at all;
but because some motion they must acknowledge, they call it meta-
phorical motion, which is but an absurd speech; for though words may
be called metaphorical, bodies, and motions cannot.
That which men desire they are also said to love, and to hate those
things for which they have aversion, so that desire and love are the same
thing, save that by desire we always signify the absence of the object, by
love most commonly the presence of the same. So also by aversion we
signify the absence, and by hate the presence of the object.
Of appetites and aversions, some are born with men, as appetite
of food, appetite of excretion, and exoneration (which may also and
more properly be called aversions, from somewhat they feel in their
bodies) and some other appetites, not many. The rest, which are appe-
tites of particular things, proceed from experience and trial of their
effects upon themselves or other men. For of things we know not at all,
or believe not to be, we can have no further desire than to taste and

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try. But aversion we have for things not only which we know have hurt
us, but also that we do not know whether they will hurt us, or not…

Good and Evil

But whatsoever is the object of any man’s appetite or desire, that
is it which he for his part calls good, and the object of his hate and
aversion, evil, and of his contempt, vile, and inconsiderable. For these
words of good, evil, and contemptible are ever used with relation to
the person that uses them, there being nothing simply and absolutely
so, nor any common rule of good and evil to be taken from the na-
ture of the objects themselves, but from the person of the man (where
there is no commonwealth) or (in a commonwealth) from the person
that represents it, or from an arbitrator or judge, whom men disagree-
ing shall by consent set up, and make his sentence the rule thereof. […]

The Will
In deliberation, the last appetite or aversion immediately adhering
to the action or to the omission thereof is that we call the will, the act
(not the faculty) of willing. And beasts that have deliberation must
necessarily also have will. The definition of the will, given common-
ly by the schools, that it is a rational appetite, is not good. For if it
were, then could there be no voluntary act against reason. For a vol-
untary act is that which proceeds from the will and no other. But if
instead of a rational appetite we shall say an appetite resulting from
a precedent deliberation, then the definition is the same that I have
given here. Will, therefore, is the last appetite in deliberating. And
though we say in common discourse [that] a man had a will once to
do a thing that nevertheless he forbore to do, yet that is properly but
an inclination which makes no action voluntary. [This is] because the
action depends not of it, but of the last inclination or appetite. For
if the intervenient appetites make any action voluntary, then by the
same reason all intervenient aversions should make the same action

106
involuntary; and so one and the same action should be both voluntary
and involuntary. By this it is manifest that not only actions that have
their beginning from covetousness, ambition, lust, or other appetites
to the thing propounded, but also those that have their beginning
from aversion or fear of those consequences that follow the omission,
are voluntary actions…

Apparent/Seeming Good and Evil

And because in deliberation the appetites and aversions are raised
by foresight of the good and evil consequences, and sequels of the ac-
tion whereof we deliberate, the good or evil effect thereof depends on
the foresight of a long chain of consequences of which very seldomly
any man is able to see to the end. But for so far as a man sees, if the
good in those consequences be greater than the evil, the whole chain
is that which writers call apparent or seeming good. And contrarily,
when the evil exceeds the good, the whole is apparent or seeming evil,
so that he who has by experience or reason the greatest and surest
prospect of consequences deliberates best himself and is able, when
he will, to give the best counsel to others.…

What is Here Meant by Manners

By manners I mean not here decency of behavior, as how one man
should salute another, or how a man should wash his mouth, or pick
his teeth before company, and such other points of the small morals,
but those qualities of mankind that concern their living together in
peace and unity. To which end we are to consider that the felicity of
this life consists not in the repose of a mind satisfied. For there is no
such finis ultimus (utmost aim) nor summum bonum (greatest good)
as is spoken of in the books of the old moral philosophers. Nor can a
man any more live whose desires are at an end than he whose senses
and imaginations are at a stand. Felicity is a continual progress of the
desire from one object to another, the attaining of the former being

107
still but the way to the later. The cause whereof is that the object of
man’s desire is not to enjoy once only and for one instant of time, but
to assure forever the way of his future desire. And therefore the volun-
tary actions and inclinations of all men tend not only to the procuring,
but also to the assuring of a contented life and differ only in the way,
which arises partly from the diversity of passions in diverse men, and
partly from the difference of the knowledge or opinion each one has of
the causes which produce the effect desired.

A Restless Desire of Power in All Men

So that in the first place, I put for a general inclination of all man-
kind a perpetual and restless desire of power after power, that ceases
only in death. And the cause of this is not always that a man hopes
for a more intensive delight than he has already attained to, or that
he cannot be content with a moderate power, but [rather] because
he cannot assure the power and means to live well which he has [at]
present without the acquisition of more. And from hence it is that
kings, whose power is greatest, turn their endeavors to the assuring
it a home by laws or abroad by wars, and when that is done, there suc-
ceeds a new desire. In some, of fame from new conquest; in others, of
ease and sensual pleasure; in others, of admiration or being flattered
for excellence in some art or other ability of the mind.

Love of Contention from Competition

Competition of riches, honor, command, or other power inclines
to contention, enmity, and war, because the way of one competitor
to the attaining of his desire is to kill, subdue, supplant, or repel the
other. Particularly, competition of praise inclines to a reverence of an-
tiquity. For men contend with the living, not with the dead, to these
ascribing more than due, that they may obscure the glory of the other.

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Civil Obedience from Love of Ease
Desire of ease and sensual delight disposes men to obey a com-
mon power, because by such desires a man doth abandon the protec-
tion might be hoped for from his own industry and labor.

From Fear of Death or Wounds

Fear of death and wounds disposes to the same, and for the same
reason. On the contrary, needy men, and hardy, not contented with
their present condition, as also all men that are ambitious of military
command, are inclined to continue the causes of war, and to stir up
trouble and sedition, for there is no [military honor] but by war, nor
any such hope to mend an ill game as by causing a new shuffle.

And From Love of Arts

Desire of knowledge, and arts of peace, incline men to obey a com-
mon power. For such desire contains a desire of leisure and, conse-
quently, protection from some other power than their own.

Love of Virtue, From Love of Praise

Desire of praise disposes to laudable actions such as please them
whose judgement they value. For of these men whom we contemn, we
contemn also the praises. Desire of fame after death does the same.
And though after death there be no sense of the praise given us on
Earth, as being joys that are either swallowed up in the unspeakable
joys of Heaven, or extinguished in the extreme torments of Hell, yet
[such fame is not in vain] because men have a present delight therein
from the foresight of it, and of the benefit that may rebound thereby
to their posterity which, though they now see not, yet they imagine;
and any thing that is pleasure in the sense, the same also is pleasure
in the imagination.…

109
And From The Ignorance of Natural Causes
Want of science, that is, ignorance of causes, disposes or rather
constrains a man to rely on the advice and authority of others. For all
men whom the truth concerns, if they rely not on their own, must rely
on the opinion of some other whom they think wiser than themselves
and see not why he should deceive them.…

Credulity From Ignorance Of Nature

Ignorance of natural causes disposes a man to credulity, so as to
believe many times impossibilities. For such know nothing to the con-
trary but that they may be true, being unable to detect the impossibili-
ty. And credulity, because men love to be hearkened unto in company,
disposes them to lying, so that ignorance itself without malice is able
to make a man both to believe lies, and tell them; and sometimes also
to invent them.…

Of the Natural Condition of Mankind, as Concerning their Felicity

and Misery
Nature has made men so equal in the faculties of body and mind
as that though there be found one man sometimes manifestly stronger
in body or of quicker mind than another, yet when all is reckoned to-
gether, the difference between man and man is not so considerable
as that one man can thereupon claim to himself any benefit to which
another may not pretend as well as he. For as to the strength of body,
the weakest has strength enough to kill the strongest, either by secret
machination, or by confederacy with others that are in the same dan-
ger with himself.
And as to the faculties of the mind, (setting aside the arts ground-
ed upon words, and especially that skill of proceeding upon general
and infallible rules, called science, which very few have and but in few
things)…I find yet a greater equality among men than that of strength.
For prudence is but experience, which equal time equally bestows

110
on all men in those things they equally apply themselves unto. That
which may perhaps make such equality incredible is but a vain con-
ceit of one’s own wisdom, which almost all men think they have in a
greater degree than the vulgar; that is, than all men but themselves
and a few others whom by fame, or for concurring with themselves,
they approve. For such is the nature of men that howsoever they may
acknowledge many others to be more witty, or more eloquent, or
more learned, yet they will hardly believe there be many so wise as
themselves. For they see their own wit at hand and other men’s at a
distance. But this proves rather that men are in that point equal than
unequal. For there is not ordinarily a greater sign of the equal distri-
bution of anything than that every man is contented with his share.

From Equality Proceeds Diffidence

From this equality of ability arises equality of hope in the attain-
ing of our ends. And, therefore, if any two men desire the same thing,
which nevertheless they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies, and
in the way to their end (which is principally their own conservation,
and sometimes their delectation only), endeavor to destroy or subdue
one another. And from hence it comes to pass that where an invader
has no more to fear than another man’s single power, if one plant, sow,
build, or possess a convenient seat, others may probably be expected
to come prepared with forces united to dispossess and deprive him,
not only of the fruit of his labor, but also of his life or liberty. And the
invader again is in the like danger of another.

From Diffidence War

And from this diffidence of one another there is no way for any
man to secure himself so reasonable as anticipation; that is, by force, or
wiles, to master the persons of all men he can, [for] so long, until he see
no other power great enough to endanger him. And this is no more than
his own conservation requires and is generally allowed. Also because

111
there be some that take pleasure in contemplating their own power in
the acts of conquest, which they pursue farther than their security re-
quires. If others that otherwise would be glad to be at ease within mod-
est bounds should not by invasion increase their power, they would not
be able, long time, by standing only on their defense, to subsist. And by
consequence, such augmentation of dominion over men, being neces-
sary to a man’s conservation, it ought to be allowed him.
Again, men have no pleasure (but on the contrary a great deal of
grief) in keeping company where there is no power able to over-awe
them all. For every man looks that his companion should value him at
the same rate he sets upon himself. And upon all signs of contempt, or
undervaluing, naturally endeavors as far as he dares (which amongst
them that have no common power, to keep them in quiet, is far enough
to make them destroy each other) to extort a greater value from his
contemners by damage, and from others, by the example. So that in
the nature of man we find three principal causes of quarrel. First,
competition; secondly, diffidence; thirdly, glory. The first makes men
invade for gain; the second, for safety; and the third, for reputation.
The first use violence to make themselves masters of other men’s per-
sons, wives, children, and cattle; the second, to defend them; the third,
for trifles, as a word, a smile, a different opinion, and any other sign of
undervalue, either direct in their persons, or by reflection in their kin-
dred, their friends, their nation, their profession, or their name.

Out of Civil States, There is Always War of Every One Against

Every One
Hereby it is manifest that during the time men live without a com-
mon power to keep them all in awe, they are in that condition which
is called war, and such a war as is of every man against every man. For
war consists not in battle only, or the act of fighting, but in a tract of
time wherein the will to contend by battle is sufficiently known. And
therefore the notion of time is to be considered in the nature of war as

112
it is in the nature of weather. For as the nature of foul weather lies not
in a shower or two of rain, but in an inclination thereto of many days
together, so the nature of war consists not in actual fighting, but in the
known disposition thereto during all the time there is no assurance to
the contrary. All other time is peace.

The Incommodites of Such a War

Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of war, where every
man is enemy to every man, the same is consequent to the time where-
in men live without other security than what their own strength and
their own invention shall furnish them withall. In such condition,
there is no place for industry because the fruit thereof is uncertain,
and consequently no culture of the Earth, no navigation, nor use of
the commodities that may be imported by sea, no commodious build-
ing, no instruments of moving and removing such things as require
much force, no knowledge of the face of the Earth, no account of time,
no arts, no letters, no society, and which is worst of all, continual fear
and danger of violent death. And the life of man [is] solitary, poor, nasty,
brutish, and short…

In Such a War, Nothing Is Unjust

To this war of every man against every man this also is conse-
quent, that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right and wrong,
justice and injustice, have there no place. Where there is no common
power, there is no law; where no law, no injustice. Force and fraud are
in war the two cardinal virtues. Justice and injustice are none of the
faculties neither of the body nor mind. If they were, they might be in
a man that were alone in the world, as well as his senses and passions.
They are qualities that relate to men in society, not in solitude. It is
consequent also to the same condition that there be no propriety, no
dominion; no “mine” and “thine” distinct; but only that to be every
man’s that he can get, and for so long, as he can keep it. And thus much

113
for the ill condition which man by mere nature is actually placed in,
though with a possibility to come out of it consisting partly in the pas-
sions, partly in his reason…

Right of Nature, What

The right of nature which writers commonly call jus naturale is
the liberty each man has to use his own power, as he will himself, for
the preservation of his own nature; that is to say, of his own life, and
consequently, of doing anything which in his own judgment and rea-
son, he shall conceive to be the aptest means thereunto.

Liberty, What
By liberty is understood, according to the proper signification of
the word, the absence of external impediments which…may oft take
away part of a man’s power to do what he would, but cannot hinder
him from using the power left him, according as his judgement and
reason shall dictate to him.

A Law of Nature What

A law of nature (lex naturalis) is a precept or general rule, found
out by reason, by which a man is forbidden to do that which is destruc-
tive of his life or takes away the means of preserving the same, and
to omit that by which he thinks it may be best preserved. For though
they that speak of this subject used to confound jus and lex, right and
law, yet they ought to be distinguished; because right consists in lib-
erty to do or to forbear, whereas law determines and binds to one of
them, so that law and right differ as much as obligation, and liberty,
which in one and the same matter are inconsistent.

Naturally Every Man Has Right to Everything

And because the condition of man…is a condition of war of ev-
eryone against everyone, in which case everyone is governed by his

114
own reason, and there is nothing he can make use of that may not be
a help unto him in preserving his life against his enemies, it follows
that in such a condition every man has a right to everything, even to
one another’s body. And therefore, as long as this natural right of ev-
ery man to everything endures, there can be no security to any man
(how strong or wise soever he be) of living out the time which nature
ordinarily allows men to live.

The Fundamental Law of Nature

And consequently it is a precept or general rule of reason, “That
every man ought to endeavor peace as far as he has hope of obtaining
it; and when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek and use all helps and
advantages of war.” The first branch of [this] rule contains the first
and fundamental law of nature, which is, “To seek peace, and follow
it.” The second [branch is] the sum of the right of nature, which is, “By
all means we can, to defend ourselves.”

The Second Law of Nature

From this fundamental law of nature, by which men are com-
manded to endeavor peace, is derived this second law: “That a man be
willing, when others are so too, as far forth, as for peace and defense of
himself he shall think it necessary, to lay down this right to all things,
and be contented with so much liberty against other men as he would
allow other men against himself.” For as long as every man holds this
right of doing anything he likes so long are all men in the condition of
war. But if other men will not lay down their right as well as he, then
there is no reason for anyone to devest himself of his. For that [would]
expose himself to prey, (which no man is bound to), rather than to dis-
pose himself to peace. This is that law of the Gospel: “Whatsoever you
require that others should do to you, that do ye to them.” And that Law
of all men, “Quod tibi feiri non vis, alteri ne feceris.” [What you do not
want done to yourself, do not do unto others]…

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What it is to lay down a Right
To lay down a man’s right to any thing is to devest himself of the
liberty of hindering another of the benefit of his own right to the same.
For he that renounces or passes away his right gives not to any other
man a right which he had not before, because there is nothing to which
every man had not right by nature, but only stands out of his way that
he may enjoy his own original right without hindrance from him, not
without hindrance from another. So that the effect which redounds to
one man by another man’s defect of right is but so much diminution of
impediments to the use of his own [original] right.

Not All Rights are Alienable

Whensoever a man transfers his right or renounces it, it is either
in consideration of some right reciprocally transferred to himself, or
for some other good he hopes for thereby. For it is a voluntary act, and
of the voluntary acts of every man, the object is some good to himself.
And therefore there be some rights which no man can be understood
by any words or other signs to have abandoned or transferred…First,
a man cannot lay down the right of resisting them that assault him by
force to take away his life, because he cannot be understood to aim
thereby at any good to himself. The same may be said of wounds and
chains and imprisonment, both because there is no benefit consequent
to such patience as there is to the patience of suffering another to be
wounded, or imprisoned, as also because a man cannot tell, when he
sees men proceed against him by violence, whether they intend his
death or not. And lastly, the motive and end for which this renouncing
and transferring or right is introduced is nothing else but the security
of a man’s person in his life and in the means of so preserving life, as not
to be weary of it. And therefore if a man by words or other signs seems
to despoil himself of the end for which those signs were intended, he is
not to be understood as if he meant it, or that it was his will, but that
he was ignorant of how such words and actions were to be interpreted.

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Contract, What
The mutual transferring of right is that which men call “contract.”
There is a difference between transferring of right to the thing and
transferring or tradition; that is, delivery of the thing itself. For the
thing may be delivered together with the translation of the right, as
in buying and selling with ready money or exchange of goods or lands,
and it may be delivered sometime after.

Covenant, What
Again, one of the contractors may deliver the thing contracted for
on his part and leave the other to perform his part at some determi-
nate time after, and in the mean time be trusted. And then the contract
on his part is called “pact” or “covenant”. Or both parts may contract
now to perform hereafter, in which cases he that is to perform in time
to come, being trusted, his performance is called keeping of promise,
or faith; and the failing of performance (if it be voluntary), violation
of faith…

The Third Law of Nature, Justice

From that law of nature by which we are obliged to transfer to
another such rights as, being retained, hinder the peace of mankind,
there follows a third, which is this: that men perform their covenants
made. Without [this performance], covenants are in vain and but
empty words, and the right of all men to all things [remains, and] we
are still in the condition of war.

Justice And Injustice, What

And in this law of nature consists the fountain and original of
justice. For where no covenant has preceded, there has no right been
transferred, and every man has right to everything; and consequent-
ly, no action can be unjust. But when a covenant is made, then to break
it is unjust: And the definition of injustice is no other than the not per-

117
formance of covenant. And whatsoever is not unjust is just.
Justice and propriety begin with the constitution of com-
mon-wealth, but because covenants of mutual trust, where there is a
fear of not performance on either part (as hath been said in the for-
mer chapter) are invalid, though the origin of justice be the making of
covenants, yet injustice actually there can be none until the cause of
such fear be taken away, which, while men are in the natural condi-
tion of war, cannot be done. Therefore before the names of “just” and
“unjust” can have place, there must be some coercive power to com-
pel men equally to the performance of their covenants by the terror of
some punishment greater than the benefit they expect by the breach of
their covenant, and to make good that propriety which by mutual con-
tract men acquire in recompence of the universal right they abandon,
and such power there is none before the erection of a common-wealth.
And this is also to be gathered out of the ordinary definition of justice
in the schools. For, they say that, “Justice is the constant will of giving
to every man his own.” And therefore, where there is no “own,” that
is, no propriety, there is no injustice; and where there is no coerceive
power erected; that is, where there is no common-wealth, there is no
propriety, all men having right to all things. Therefore, where there is
no common-wealth, there nothing is unjust, so that the nature of jus-
tice consists in [the] keeping of valid covenants, but the validity of cov-
enants begins not but with the constitution of a civil power sufficient
to compel men to keep them. And then it is also that propriety begins…

The Science Of These Laws is The True Moral Philosophy

…Moral philosophy is nothing else but the science of what is good
and evil in the conversation and society of mankind. “Good” and “evil”
are names that signify our appetites and aversions which, in different
tempers, customs, and doctrines of men, are different. And diverse
men differ not only in their judgement, on the senses of what is pleas-
ant and unpleasant to the taste, smell, hearing, touch, and sight, but

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also of what is conformable or disagreeable to reason in the actions of
common life. Nay, the same man, in diverse times, differs from him-
self, and one time praises, that is, calls good, what another time he dis-
praises and calls evil, from whence arise disputes, controversies, and,
at last, war. Therefore, so long as man is in the condition of mere na-
ture, (which is a condition of war), as private appetite is the measure
of good and evil, and consequently all men agree…that peace is good…
therefore…the way or means of peace which (as I have shown before)
are justice, gratitude, modesty, equity, mercy, and the rest of the laws
of nature, are good; that is to say, moral virtues, and their contrary,
vices, [are] evil. Now the science of virtue and vice is moral philoso-
phy, and therefore the true doctrine of the laws of nature is the true
moral philosophy. But the writers of moral philosophy, though they
acknowledge the same virtues and vices, yet not seeing wherein con-
sisted their goodness, nor that they come to be praised as the means
of peaceable, sociable, and comfortable living, place them in a medi-
ocrity of passions, as if not the cause but the degree of daring made
fortitude, or not the cause but the quantity of a gift made liberality.
These dictates of reason men used to call by the name of laws,
but improperly. For they are but conclusions or theorems concerning
what conduces to the conservation and defense of themselves. Where-
as law, properly, is the word of him that by right has command over
others. But yet if we consider the same theorems as delivered in the
word of God, that by right commands all things, then are they prop-
erly called laws.

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 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. Describe Hobbes’s view of human psychology. What motivates us to do

what we do?

2. Describe Hobbes’s view of moral semantics. What do moral terms like

“good” and “evil” mean? To what do moral terms actually refer?

3. Previous philosophers, such as Aristotle and Aquinas, claim that there

is a final goal of action / greatest good. Hobbes disagrees. Why? Explain
his reasoning.

4. Explain Hobbes’s move from claiming that there is no greatest good to his
view that human life is continual conflict.

5. Why does Hobbes think that, in a state of war, nothing is right or wrong,
just or unjust? Explain his argument in your own words.

6. Explain Hobbes’s view on the nature of morality. Under what conditions

are our actions right or wrong, just or unjust?

7. Should we agree with Hobbes’s view on any or all of the above issues?
In your mind, which of his answers does he defend the best? What (if
anything) are some flaws in his reasoning?

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 CHAPTER 9
HUM AN NATURE AND THE
COMMON GOOD
Joseph Butler (1692-1752)29

Preface
…There are two ways in which the subject of morals may be treat-
ed. One begins from inquiring into the abstract relations of things;
the other from a matter of fact, namely, what the particular nature of
man is, its several parts, their economy or constitution; from whence
it proceeds to determine what course of life it is, which is correspon-
dent to this whole nature. In the former method the conclusion is ex-
pressed thus—that vice is contrary to the nature and reason of things;
in the latter, that it is a violation or breaking in upon our own nature.
Thus they both lead us to the same thing, our obligations to the prac-
tice of virtue; and thus they exceedingly strengthen and enforce each
other. This first seems the most direct formal proof, and in some re-
spects the least liable to cavil and dispute; the latter is in a peculiar
manner adapted to satisfy a fair mind; and is more easily applicable to
the several particular relations and circumstances in life.
The following discourses proceed chiefly in this latter method…
They were intended to explain what is meant by the nature of man,
when it is said that virtue consists in following, and vice in deviating
from it; and by explaining to show that the assertion is true. That the
ancient moralists had some inward feeling or other, which they chose
to express in this manner, that man is born to virtue, that it consists
in following nature, and that vice is more contrary to this nature than
tortures or death, their works in our hands are instances… [T]hough
there seems no doubt but that the generality of mankind have the in-
ward perception expressed so commonly in that manner by the an-
cient moralists,…yet it appeared of use to unfold that inward conviction

29
From, Fifteen Sermons Preached at the Rolls Chapel (London: Knapton, 1726)

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and lay it open in a more explicit manner than I had seen done; espe-
cially when there were not wanting persons who manifestly mistook
the whole thing, and so had great reason to express themselves dis-
satisfied with it. A late author of great and deserved reputation [i.e.,
William Wollaston, in his, Religion of Nature Delineated] says that to
place virtue in following nature is at best a loose way of talk. And he
has reason to say this if what I think he intends to express, though
with great decency, be true, that scarce any other sense can be put
upon those words, but acting as any of the several parts, without dis-
tinction, of a man’s nature happened most to incline him.
Whoever thinks it worthwhile to consider this matter thorough-
ly should begin with stating to himself exactly the idea of a system,
economy, or constitution of any particular nature, or particular any-
thing; and he will, I suppose, find that it is an one or a whole made
of several parts, but yet that the several parts even considered as a
whole do not complete the idea, unless in the notion of a whole you
include the relations and respects which those parts have to each other.
Every work both of nature and of art is a system; and as every partic-
ular thing, both natural and artificial, is for some use or purpose out
of and beyond itself, one may add, to what has been already brought
into the idea of a system, its conduciveness to this one or more ends.
Let us instance in a watch—suppose the several parts of it taken to
pieces and placed apart from each other: let a man have ever so exact
a notion of these several parts, unless he considers the respects and
relations which they have to each other, he will not have anything like
the idea of a watch. Suppose these several parts brought together and
anyhow united: neither will he yet, be the union ever so close, have an
idea which will bear any resemblance to that of a watch. But let him
view those several parts put together, or consider them as to be put to-
gether in the manner of a watch; let him form a notion of the relation
which those several parts have to each other—all conducive in their
respective ways to this purpose, showing the hour of the day; and then

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he has the idea of a watch. Thus it is with regard to the inward frame
of man. Appetites, passions, affections, and the principle of reflection,
considered merely as the several parts of our inward nature, do not at
all give us an idea of the system or constitution of this nature, because
the constitution is formed by somewhat not yet taken into consider-
ation, namely, by the relations which these several parts have to each
other; the chief of which is the authority of reflection or conscience.
It is from considering the relations which the several appetites and
passions in the inward frame have to each other, and, above all, the
supremacy of reflection or conscience, that we get the idea of the sys-
tem or constitution of human nature. And from the idea itself it will as
fully appear that this our nature, that is, our constitution, is adapted
to virtue, as from the idea of a watch if appears that its nature, that is,
constitution or system, is adapted to measure time. What in fact or
event commonly happens is nothing to this question. Every work of
art is apt to be out of order; but this is so far from being according to its
system that let the disorder increase, and it will totally destroy it. This
is merely by way of explanation what an economy, system, or constitu-
tion is. And thus far the cases are perfectly parallel. If we go further,
there is indeed a difference, nothing to the present purpose, but too
important a one ever to be omitted. A machine is inanimate and pas-
sive, but we are agents. Our constitution is put in our own power. We
are charged with it, and therefore are accountable for any disorder or
violation of it.
Thus, nothing can possibly be more contrary to nature than vice,
meaning by “nature” not only the several parts of our internal frame,
but also the constitution of it. Poverty and disgrace, tortures and death,
are not so contrary to it. Misery and injustice are indeed equally con-
trary to some different parts of our nature taken singly; but injustice
is moreover contrary to the whole constitution of nature…
Though I am persuaded the force of this conviction is felt by al-
most everyone, yet since, considered as an argument and put in

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words, it appears somewhat abstruse, and since the connection of it
is broken in the three first sermons, it may not be amiss to give the
reader the whole argument here in one view. (1) Mankind has various
instincts and principles of action, as brute creatures have; some lead-
ing most directly and immediately to the good of the community, and
some most directly to private good. (2) Man has several [instincts and
principles of action] which brutes have not, particularly, reflection or
conscience, an approbation of some principles or actions, and disap-
probation of others. (3) Brutes obey their instincts or principles of ac-
tion according to certain rules; suppose the constitution of their body,
and the objects around them. (4) The generality of mankind also obey
their instincts and principles all of them; those propensions we call
good, as well as the bad, according to the same rules, namely, the con-
stitution of their body and the external circumstances which they are
in… (5) Brutes in acting according to the rules before mentioned, their
bodily constitution and circumstances act suitably to their whole na-
ture…(6) Mankind also in acting thus could act suitably to their whole
nature, if no more were to be said of man’s nature than what has been
now said; if that, as it is true, were a complete, adequate, account of
our nature. (7) But that is not a complete account of man’s nature.
Somewhat further must be brought in to give us an adequate notion
of it, namely, that one of those principles of action, conscience or re-
flection, compared with the rest as they all stand together in the na-
ture of man, plainly bears upon it marks of authority over all the rest,
and claims the absolute direction of them all, to allow or forbid their
gratification—a disapprobation of reflection being in itself a principle
manifestly superior to a mere propension. And the conclusion is that
to allow no more to this superior principle or part of our nature than
to the other parts; to let it govern and guide only occasionally in com-
mon with the rest, as its turn happens to come, from the temper and
circumstances one happens to be in; this is not to act conformably to
the constitution of man; neither can any human creature be said to act

124
conformably to his constitution of nature unless he allows to that su-
perior principle the absolute authority which is due to it. And this con-
clusion is abundantly confirmed from hence, that one may determine
what course of action the economy of man’s nature requires, without
so much as knowing in what degrees of strength the several principles
prevail or which of them have actually the greatest influence.
The practical reason of insisting so much upon this natural au-
thority of the principle of reflection or conscience is that it seems in
great measure overlooked by many who are by no means the worse
sort of men. It is thought sufficient to abstain from gross wickedness,
and to be humane and kind to such as happen to come in their way.
Whereas in reality the very constitution of our nature requires that
we bring our whole conduct before this superior faculty, wait for its
determination, enforce upon ourselves its authority, and make it the
business of our lives, as it is absolutely the whole business of a moral
agent to conform ourselves to it. This is the true meaning of that an-
cient precept, reverence thyself.

Sermon I
“For as we have many members in one body, and all mem-
bers have not the same office; so we, being man, are one body
in Christ, and every one members one of another.” (St. Paul,
Epistle to the Romans, 12:4-5)

…The relation which the several parts or members of the natural

body have to each other and to the whole body is here compared to
the relation which each particular person in society has to other par-
ticular persons and to the whole society; and the latter is intended to
be illustrated by the former…But as there is scarce any ground for a
comparison between society and the mere material body, this without
the mind being a dead unactive thing, much less can the comparison
be carried to any length. And since the apostle speaks of the several

125
members as having distinct offices, which implies the mind, it cannot
be thought an unallowable liberty, instead of the body and its mem-
bers, to substitute the whole nature of man and all the variety of internal
principles which belong to it. And then the comparison will be between
the nature of man as respecting self and tending to the private good…
and the nature of man as having respect to society and tending to pro-
mote public good…These ends do indeed perfectly coincide; and to
aim at public and private good are so far from being inconsistent that
they mutually promote each other; yet in the following discourse they
must be considered as entirely distinct, otherwise the nature of man
as tending to one, or as tending to the other, cannot be compared.
From this review and comparison of the nature of man as respect-
ing self and as respecting society, it will plainly appear that there are
as real and the same kind of indications in human nature that we were
made for society and to do good to our fellow creatures, as that we were
intended to take care of our own life and health and private good…
For, first, there is a natural principle of benevolence in man, which is
in some degree to society what self-love is to the individual. And if there
be in mankind any disposition to friendship; if there be any such thing
as compassion…if there be any such thing as the paternal or filial af-
fections; if there be any affection in human nature the object and end
of which is the good of another—this is itself benevolence or the love
of another…I must however remind you that though benevolence and
self-love are different, though the former tends most directly to pub-
lic good, and the latter to private, yet they are so perfectly coincident
that the greatest satisfactions to ourselves depend upon our having
benevolence in a due degree, and that self-love is one chief security of
our right behavior toward society…
Secondly, this will further appear from observing that the several
passions and affections, which are distinct both from benevolence and
self-love, do in general contribute and lead us to public good as really
as to private…It is enough to the present argument that desire of es-

126
teem from others, contempt and esteem of them, love of society as dis-
tinct from affection to the good of it, indignation against successful
vice—that these are public affection or passions, have an immediate
resect to others, naturally lead us to regulate our behavior in such a
manner as will be of service to our fellow creatures…The sum is, men
have various appetites, passions, and particular affections, quite dis-
tinct both from self-love and benevolence—all of these have a tenden-
cy to promote both public and private good, and may be considered as
respecting others and ourselves equally and in common…
Thirdly, there is a principle of reflection in men by which they dis-
tinguish between, approve and disapprove, their own actions. We are
plainly constituted such sort of creatures as to reflect upon our own
nature. The mind can take a view of what passes within itself, its pro-
pensions, aversions, passions, affections, as respecting such objects
and in such degrees, and of the several actions contingent thereupon.
In this survey it approves of one, disapproves of another, and toward a
third is affected in neither of these ways, but is quite indifferent. This
principle in man by which he approves or disapproves his heart, tem-
per, and actions, is conscience… From this comparison of benevolence
and self-love, of our public and private affections, of the courses of life
they lead to, and of the principle of reflection or conscience as respect-
ing each of them, it is manifest that we were made for society and to
promote the happiness of it, as that we were intended to take care of
our own life and health and private good...
But allowing all this, it may be asked, “Has not man dispositions
and principles within, which lead him to do evil to others as well as
to do good? Whence come the many miseries else, which men are the
authors and instruments of to each other?” These questions, so far as
they relate to the foregoing discourse, may be answered by asking, Has
not man also dispositions and principles within, which lead him to do
evil to himself as well as good? Whence come the many miseries else,
sickness, pain, and death, which men are instruments and authors of

127
to themselves? It may be thought more easy to answer one of these
questions than the other, but the answer to both is really the same—
that mankind have ungoverned passions, which they will gratify at
any rate, as well as to the injury of others as in contradiction to known
private interest, but that as there is no such thing as self-hatred, so
neither is there any such thing as ill-will in one man toward another,
emulation and resentment being away, whereas there is plainly be-
nevolence or good-will; there is no such thing as love of injustice, op-
pression, treachery, ingratitude, but only eager desires after such and
such external goods, which, according to a very ancient observation,
the most abandoned would choose to obtain by innocent means if
they were as easy and as effectual to their end that even emulation and
resentment, but anyone who will consider what these passions really
are in nature, will be found nothing to the purpose of this objection;
and that the principles and passions in the mind of man which are dis-
tinct from both self- love and benevolence, primarily and most direct-
ly lead to right behavior with regard to others as well as himself, and
only secondarily and accidentally to what is evil. Thus, though men, to
avoid the shame of one villainy, are sometimes guilty of a greater, yet
it is easy to see that the original tendency of shame is to prevent the
doing of shameful actions; and its leading men to conceal such actions
when done is only in consequence of their being done, that is, of the
passion’s not having answered its first end. If it be said that there are
persons in the world who are in great measure without the natural
affections toward their fellow creatures, there are likewise instances
of persons without the common natural affections to themselves; but
the nature of man is not to be judged of by neither of these, but by what
happens in the common world, in the bulk of mankind…
The sum of the whole is plainly this: the nature of man considered
in his single capacity, and with respect only to the present world, is
adapted and leads him to attain the greatest happiness he can for him-
self in the present world. The nature of man considered in his pub-

128
lic or social capacity leads him to a right behavior in society, to that
course of life which we call virtue. Men follow or obey their nature in
both these capacities and respects to a certain degree, but not entire-
ly; their actions do not come up to the whole of what their nature leads
them to in either of these capacities or respects; and they often violate
their nature in both.

Sermon II
…Let us now take a view of the nature of man as consisting part-
ly of various appetites, passions, affections and partly of the principle
of reflection or conscience, leaving quite out all consideration of the
different degrees of strength in which either of them prevail, and it
will further appear that there is this natural superiority of one inward
principle to another, and that it is even part of the idea of reflection
or conscience. Passion or appetite implies a direct simple tendency
toward such and such objects, without distinction of the means by
which they are to be obtained. Consequently, it will often happen
that there will be a desire of particular objects in cases where they
cannot be obtained without manifest injury to others. Reflection or
conscience comes in and disapproves the pursuit of them in these cir-
cumstances; but the desire remains. Which is to be obeyed, appetite
or reflection? Cannot this question be answered, from the economy
and constitution of human nature merely, without saying which is
strongest? Or need this at all come into consideration? Would not the
question be intelligibly and fully answered by saying that the princi-
ple of reflection or conscience being compared with the various appe-
tites, passions, and affections in men, the former is manifestly supe-
rior and chief, without regard to strength? And how often soever the
latter happens to prevail, it is mere usurpation; the former remains
in nature and in kind its superior, and every instance of such prev-
alence of the latter is an instance of breaking in upon and violation
of the constitution of man. All this is no more than the distinction

129
which everybody is acquainted with, between mere power and author-
ity; only instead of being intended to express the difference between
what is possible and what is lawful in civil government, here it has
been shown applicable to the several principles in the mind of man.
Thus that principle by which we survey and either approve or disap-
prove our own heart, temper, and actions, is not only to be considered
as what is in its turn to have some influence, which may be said of ev-
ery passion, of the lower appetites, but likewise as being superior; as
from its very nature manifestly claiming superiority over all others,
insomuch that you cannot form a notion of this faculty, conscience,
without taking in judgment, direction, superintendency. This is a
constituent part of the idea, that is, of the faculty itself; and to preside
and govern, from the very economy and constitution of man, belongs
to it. Had it strength, as it his right; had it power, as it has manifest
authority, it would absolutely govern the world.
This gives us a further view of the nature of man, shows us what
course of life we were made for; not only that our real nature leads us
to be influenced in some degree by reflection and conscience, but like-
wise in what degree we are to be influenced by it if we will fall in with
and act agreeably to the constitution of our nature; that this faculty
was placed within to be our proper governor, to direct and regulate all
under principles, passions, and motives and action. This is its right of-
fice; thus sacred is its authority. And how often soever men violate and
rebelliously refuse to submit to it, for supposed interest which they
cannot otherwise obtain, or for the sake of passion which they cannot
otherwise gratify, this makes no alteration as to the natural right and
office of conscience.

130
 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. According to Butler, what are the two different ways that one could
approach the subject of morality? Which one does Butler take in this
reading selection?

2. What is Butler’s overall goal in this reading selection?

3. According to Butler, how is human nature like a watch? How is it

different? In what way(s) are we like other animals? In what ways do
we differ?

4. What is Butler’s view about the relationship between morality and human
nature? How does Butler’s view contrast with that of Thomas Hobbes?

5. Butler emphasizes that conscience is to reign supreme in governing the

passions. But what are the passions and appetites for? What might Butler
say the appetites and passions are for?

131
 CHAPTER 10
M O R A L I T Y- R E A S O N , O R E M O T I O N ?
David Hume (1711-1776)30

…Morality is a subject that interests us above all others: We fancy the

peace of society to be at stake in every decision concerning it; and it is
evident that this concern must make our speculations appear more
real and solid than where the subject is, in a great measure, indiffer-
ent to us. What affects us, we conclude, can never be a chimera; and as
our passion is engaged on the one side or the other, we naturally think
that the question lies within human comprehension which, in other
cases of this nature, we are apt to entertain some doubt of. Without
this advantage I never should have ventured upon a third volume of
such abstruse philosophy in an age wherein the greatest part of men
seem agreed to convert reading into an amusement, and to reject
everything that requires any considerable degree of attention to be
comprehended.
It has been observed that nothing is ever present to the mind but
its perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging,
loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. The mind
can never exert itself in any action which we may not comprehend un-
der the term of perception; and consequently that term is no less ap-
plicable to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and
evil than to every other operation of the mind. To approve of one char-
acter, to condemn another, are only so many different perceptions.
Now as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz. impres-
sions and ideas, this distinction gives rise to a question, with which we
shall open up our present enquiry concerning morals: Whether it is
by means of our ideas or impressions we distinguish between vice and
virtue, and pronounce an action blameable or praiseworthy? This will
immediately cut off all loose discourses and declamations, and reduce

From David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, translated by L.A. Selby-Bigge (Oxford
30

University Press, 1896).

132
us to something precise and exact on the present subject.
Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to rea-
son; that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which
are the same to every rational being that considers them; that the im-
mutable measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not only
on human creatures, but also on the Deity himself, all these systems
concur in the opinion that morality, like truth, is discerned merely by
ideas and by their juxtaposition and comparison. In order, therefore,
to judge of these systems, we need only consider whether it be pos-
sible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and evil,
or whether there must concur some other principles to enable us to
make that distinction.
If morality had naturally no influence on human passions and
actions, it were in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and noth-
ing would be more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts
with which all moralists abound. Philosophy is commonly divided
into speculative and practical; and as morality is always comprehend-
ed under the latter division, it is supposed to influence our passions
and actions, and to go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the
understanding. And this is confirmed by common experience which
informs us that men are often governed by their duties, and are de-
terred from some actions by the opinion of injustice, and impelled to
others by that of obligation.
Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and af-
fections, it follows that they cannot be derived from reason; and that
because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have any
such influence. Morals excite passions and produce or prevent ac-
tions. Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The rules
of morality therefore, are not conclusions of our reason.
No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is
there any other means of evading it than by denying that principle on
which it is founded. As long as it is allowed that reason has no influ-

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ence on our passions and action, it is in vain to pretend that morality
is discovered only by a deduction of reason. An active principle can
never be founded on an inactive; and if reason be inactive in itself, it
must remain so in all its shapes and appearances whether it exerts it-
self in natural or moral subjects, whether it considers the powers of
external bodies, or the actions of rational beings.
It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which I have
proved [Book II. Part III. Sect 3.], that reason is perfectly inert and can
never either prevent or produce any action or affection. It will be easy
to recollect what has been said upon that subject. I shall only recall on
this occasion one of these arguments which I shall endeavor to render
still more conclusive and more applicable to the present subject.
Reason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. Truth or falsehood
consists in an agreement or disagreement either to the real relations
of ideas, or to real existence and matter of fact. Whatever, therefore,
is not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement is incapable of
being true or false and can never be an object of our reason. Now it is
evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible of any
such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and realities,
complete in themselves and implying no reference to other passions,
volitions, and actions. It is impossible, therefore, they can be pro-
nounced either true or false, and be either contrary or conformable
to reason.
This argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. For
it proves, directly, that actions do not derive their merit from a confor-
mity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it proves
the same truth more indirectly by showing us that as reason can nev-
er immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or ap-
proving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which are
found to have that influence. Actions may be laudable or blameable,
but they cannot be reasonable. Laudable or blameable, therefore, are
not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit and demerit

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of actions frequently contradict and sometimes control our natural
propensities. But reason has no such influence. Moral distinctions,
therefore, are not the offspring of reason. Reason is wholly inactive,
and can never be the source of so active a principle as conscience, or a
sense of morals…
Thus, upon the whole it is impossible that the distinction betwixt
moral good and evil can be made to reason since that distinction has
an influence upon our actions of which reason alone is incapable. Rea-
son and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by
prompting, or by directing a passion. But it is not pretended that a
judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falsehood, is attended with
virtue or vice. And as to the judgments which are caused by our judg-
ments they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the actions,
which are their causes.
But to be more particular, and to show that those eternal im-
mutable fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by
sound philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations.
If the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the
boundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious
either must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter of fact
which is discovered by our reasoning. This consequence is evident, as
the operations of human understanding divide themselves into two
kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter of fact. Were
virtue discovered by the understanding, it must be an object of one of
these operations. Nor is there any third operation of the understand-
ing which can discover it. There has been an opinion very industri-
ously propagated by certain philosophers that morality is susceptible
of demonstration; and though no one has ever been able to advance
a single step in those demonstrations, yet it is taken for granted that
this science may be brought to an equal certainty with geometry or
algebra. Upon this supposition, vice and virtue must consist in some
relations since it is allowed on all hands that no matter of fact is ca-

135
pable of being demonstrated. Let us, therefore, begin with examining
this hypothesis and endeavor, if possible, to fix those moral qualities
which have been so long the objects of our fruitless researches. Point
out distinctly the relations which constitute morality or obligation
that we may know wherein they consist, and after what manner we
must judge of them.
If you assert that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible
of certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those
four relations which alone admit of that degree of evidence. And in
that case you run into absurdities from which you will never be able
to extricate yourself. For as you make the very essence of morality to
lie in the relations, and as there is no one of these relations but what is
applicable, not only to an irrational, but also to an inanimate object, it
follows that even such objects must be susceptible of merit or demer-
it. Resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality, and proportions in
quantity and number, all these relations belong as properly to matter
as to our actions, passions, and volitions. It is unquestionable, there-
fore, that morality lies not in any of these relations, nor the sense of it
in their discovery…
But to make these general reflections more dear and convincing,
we may illustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this
character of moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged.
Of all crimes that human creatures are capable of committing, the
most horrid and unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is com-
mitted against parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances
of wounds and death. This is acknowledged by all mankind, philos-
ophers as well as the people; the question only arises among philos-
ophers whether the guilt or moral deformity of this action be discov-
ered by demonstrative reasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, and
by means of some sentiment which the reflecting on such an action
naturally occasions. This question will soon be decided against the
former opinion if we can show the same relations in other objects

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without the notion of any guilt or iniquity attending them. Reason
or science is nothing but the comparing of ideas and the discovery of
their relations; and if the same relations have different characters, it
must evidently follow that those characters are not discovered merely
by reason. To put the affair, therefore, to this trial, let us choose any
inanimate object, such as an oak or elm; and let us suppose that by the
dropping of its seed, it produces a sapling below it which, springing
up by degrees, at last overtops and destroys the parent tree. I ask if, in
this instance, there be wanting any relation which is discoverable in
parricide or ingratitude? Is not the one tree the cause of the other’s ex-
istence; and the latter the cause of the destruction of the former, in the
same manner as when a child murders his parent? It is not sufficient
to reply that a choice or will is wanting. For in the case of parricide, a
will does not give rise to any different relations, but is only the cause
from which the action is derived; and consequently produces the same
relations that in the oak or elm arise from some other principles. It is
a will or choice that determines a man to kill his parent; and they are
the laws of matter and motion that determine a sapling to destroy the
oak from which it sprung. Here then the same relations have different
causes, but still the relations are the same. And as their discovery is
not in both cases attended with a notion of immorality, it follows that
that notion does not arise from such a discovery.
But to choose an instance still more resembling, I would fain ask
anyone why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very
same action and the same relations in animals have not the smallest
moral turpitude and deformity? If it be answered that this action is
innocent in animals because they have not reason sufficient to discov-
er its turpitude, but that man, being endowed with that faculty which
ought to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly becomes
criminal to him, should this be said I would reply that this is evidently
arguing in a circle. For before reason can perceive this turpitude, the
turpitude must exist and, consequently, is independent of the deci-

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sions of our reason, and is their object more properly than their effect.
According to this system, then, every animal that has sense and appe-
tite and will; that is, every animal, must be susceptible of all the same
virtues and vices for which we ascribe praise and blame to human
creatures. All the difference is that our superior reason may serve to
discover the vice or virtue, and by that means may augment the blame
or praise. But still this discovery supposes a separate being in these
moral distinctions, and a being which depends only on the will and
appetite and which, both in thought and reality, may be distinguished
from the reason. Animals are susceptible of the same relations, with
respect to each other, as the human species, and therefore would also
be susceptible of the same morality if the essence of morality consist-
ed in these relations. Their want of a sufficient degree of reason may
hinder them from perceiving the duties and obligations of morality,
but can never hinder these duties from existing; since they must an-
tecedently exist in order to their being perceived. Reason must find
them and can never produce them. This argument deserves to be
weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely decisive.
Nor does this reasoning only prove that morality consists not in
any relations that are the objects of science; but if examined, [it] will
prove with equal certainty that it consists not in any matter of fact
which can be discovered by the understanding. This is the second
part of our argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude
that morality is not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty
in proving that vice and virtue are not matters of fact whose existence
we can infer by reason? Take any action allowed to be vicious: willful
murder, for instance. Examine it in all lights and see if you can find
that matter of fact, or real existence, which you call vice. In whichever
way you take it, you find only certain passions, motives, volitions, and
thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case. The vice entirely
escapes you as long as you consider the object. You never can find it
till you turn your reflection into your own breast and find a sentiment

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of disapprobation which arises in you towards this action. Here is a
matter of fact; but it is the object of feeling, not of reason. It lies in
yourself, not in the object. So that when you pronounce any action or
character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the consti-
tution of your nature you have a feeling or sentiment of blame from
the contemplation of it. Vice and virtue, therefore, may be compared
to sounds, colors, heat, and cold, which, according to modern philoso-
phy, are not qualities in objects but perceptions in the mind. And this
discovery in morals, like that other in physics, is to be regarded as a
considerable advancement of the speculative sciences; though, like
that too, it has little or no influence on practice. Nothing can be more
real, or concern us more, than our own sentiments of pleasure and un-
easiness; and if these be favorable to virtue and unfavorable to vice, no
more can be requisite to the regulation of our conduct and behavior.
I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation which
may, perhaps, be found of some importance. In every system of mo-
rality which I have hitherto met with, I have always remarked that
the author proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning
and establishes the being of a God, or makes observations concerning
human affairs, when of a sudden I am surprised to find that, instead
of the usual copulations of propositions is and is not, I meet with no
proposition that is not connected with an ought, or an ought not. This
change is imperceptible but is, however, of the last consequence. For
as this ought, or ought not, expresses some new relation or affirma-
tion, it is necessary that it should be observed and explained, and at
the same time that a reason should be given for what seems altogeth-
er inconceivable; [namely,] how this new relation can be a deduction
from others, which are entirely different from it. But as authors do not
commonly use this precaution, I shall presume to recommend it to
the readers and am persuaded that this small attention would subvert
all the vulgar systems of morality and let us see that the distinction of
vice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor is

139
perceived by reason…
Thus, the course of the argument leads us to conclude that since
vice and virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or [by] the com-
parison of ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment
they occasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them.
Our decisions concerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently
perceptions; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas, the
exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other. Morality,
therefore, is more properly felt than judged of; though this feeling or
sentiment is commonly so soft and gentle that we are apt to confound
it with an idea, according to our common custom of taking all things
for the same, which have any near resemblance to each other.
The next question is, of what nature are these impressions, and
after what manner do they operate upon us? Here we cannot remain
long in suspense but must pronounce the impression arising from vir-
tue to be agreeable, and that proceeding from vice to be uneasy. Every
moment’s experience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle
so fair and beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which
gives us more abhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. No
enjoyment equals the satisfaction we receive from the company of
those we love and esteem, as the greatest of all punishments is to be
obliged to pass our lives with those we hate or condemn. A very play
or romance may afford us instances of this pleasure which virtue con-
veys to us; and pain, which arises from vice.
Now since the distinguishing impressions by which moral good
or evil is known are nothing but particular pains or pleasures, it fol-
lows that in all inquiries concerning these moral distinctions it will
be sufficient to show the principles which make us feel a satisfaction
or uneasiness from the survey of any character, in order to satisfy us
why the character is laudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment,
or character is virtuous or vicious; why? Because its view causes a
pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a reason, there-

140
fore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain the vice or
virtue. To have the sense of virtue is nothing but to feel a satisfaction
of a particular kind from the contemplation of a character. The very
feeling constitutes our praise or admiration. We go no farther, nor do
we enquire into the cause of the satisfaction. We do not infer a charac-
ter to be virtuous because it pleases. But in feeling that it pleases after
such a particular manner, we in effect feel that it is virtuous. The case
is the same as in our judgments concerning all kinds of beauty, and
tastes, and sensations. Our approbation is implied in the immediate
pleasure they convey to us…
…We have already observed that moral distinctions depend en-
tirely on certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that
whatever mental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction,
by the survey or reflection, is of course virtuous, as everything of this
nature that gives uneasiness is vicious. Now since every quality in
ourselves or others which gives pleasure always causes pride or love,
as everyone that produces uneasiness excites humility or hatred, it
follows that these two particulars are to be considered as equivalent
with regard to our mental qualities: virtue and the power of produc-
ing love or pride, vice and the power of producing humility or hatred.
In every case, therefore, we must judge of the one by the other and
may pronounce any quality of the mind virtuous which causes love or
pride, and any one vicious which causes hatred or humility.
If any action be either virtuous or vicious, it is only as a sign of
some quality or character. It must depend upon durable principles of
the mind which extend over the whole conduct and enter into the per-
sonal character. Actions themselves, not proceeding from any con-
stant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or humility,
and consequently are never considered in morality.
This reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to as
being of the utmost importance in the present subject. We are never
to consider any single action in our inquiries concerning the origin of

141
morals, but only the quality or character from which the action pro-
ceeded. These alone are durable enough to affect our sentiments con-
cerning the person. Actions are, indeed, better indications of a char-
acter than words, or even wishes and sentiments; but it is only so far as
they are such indications that they are attended with love or hatred,
praise or blame.
To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred,
which arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty
deep, and compare some principles which have been already exam-
ined and explained.
We may begin with considering a new the nature and force of sym-
pathy. The minds of all men are similar in their feelings and opera-
tions; nor can anyone be actuated by any affection, of which all others
are not, in some degree, susceptible. As in strings equally wound up
the motion of one communicates itself to the rest, so all the affec-
tions readily pass from one person to another and beget correspon-
dent movements in every human creature. When I see the effects of
passion in the voice and gesture of any person, my mind immediately
passes from these effects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea
of the passion as is presently converted into the passion itself. In like
manner, when I perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is con-
veyed to the effects and is actuated with a like emotion. Were I present
at any of the more terrible operations of surgery, it is certain that, even
before it begun, the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the
bandages in order, the heating of the irons with all the signs of anxi-
ety and concern in the patient and assistants would have a great effect
upon my mind and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror.
No passion of another discovers itself immediately to the mind. We
are only sensible of its causes or effects. From these we infer the pas-
sion: And consequently these give rise to our sympathy…
Before I proceed farther, I must observe two remarkable circum-
stances in this affair which may seem objections to the present sys-

142
tem. The first may be thus explained. When any quality or character
has a tendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it and ap-
prove of it because it presents the lively idea of pleasure which idea
affects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this sym-
pathy is very variable, it may be thought that our sentiments of mor-
als must admit of all the same variations. We sympathize more with
persons contiguous to us than with persons remote from us: With our
acquaintance, than with strangers: With our countrymen, than with
foreigners. But notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we
give the same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in
England. They appear equally virtuous and recommend themselves
equally to the esteem of a judicious spectator. The sympathy varies
without a variation in our esteem. Our esteem, therefore, proceeds
not from sympathy.
To this I answer: The approbation of moral qualities most certain-
ly is not derived from reason or any comparison of ideas but proceeds
entirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure
or disgust which arise upon the contemplation and view of particu-
lar qualities or characters. Now it is evident that those sentiments,
whence-ever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or
contiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the same lively pleasure from
the virtues of a person who lived in Greece two thousand years ago
that I feel from the virtues of a familiar friend and acquaintance. Yet
I do not say that I esteem the one more than the other: And therefore,
if the variation of the sentiment, without a variation of the esteem,
be an objection, it must have equal force against every other system
as against that of sympathy. But to consider the matter a-right, it has
no force at all and it is the easiest matter in the world to account for it.
Our situation, with regard both to persons and things, is in continual
fluctuation; and a man that lies at a distance from us may, in a little
time, become a familiar acquaintance. Besides, every particular man
has a peculiar position with regard to others, and it is impossible we

143
could ever converse together on any reasonable terms were each of us
to consider characters and persons only as they appear from his pecu-
liar point of view. In order, therefore, to prevent those continual con-
tradictions and arrive at a more stable judgment of things, we fix on
some steady and general points of view and always, in our thoughts,
place ourselves in them whatever may be our present situation. In like
manner, external beauty is determined merely by pleasure, and it is
evident [that] a beautiful countenance cannot give so much pleasure
when seen at the distance of twenty paces as when it is brought nearer
us. We say not, however, that it appears to us less beautiful, because
we know what effect it will have in such a position and by that reflec-
tion we correct its momentary appearance…
In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable accord-
ing to our situation of nearness or remoteness with regard to the
person blamed or praised, and according to the present disposition
of our mind. But these variations we regard not in our general deci-
sion, but still apply the terms expressive of our liking or dislike in the
same manner as if we remained in one point of view. Experience soon
teaches us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least, of
correcting our language where the sentiments are more stubborn and
inalterable. Our servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite stronger
sentiments of love and kindness than Marcus Brutus, as represented
in history; but we say not upon that account that the former character
is more laudable than the latter. We know that were we to approach
equally near to that renowned patriot, he would command a much
higher degree of affection and admiration. Such corrections are com-
mon with regard to all the senses; and indeed it were impossible we
could ever make use of language or communicate our sentiments to
one another did we not correct the momentary appearances of things
and overlook our present situation.
It is therefore from the influence of characters and qualities,
upon those who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame

144
or praise him. We consider not whether the persons affected by the
qualities, be our acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreign-
ers. Nay, we overlook our own interest in those general judgments and
blame not a man for opposing us in any of our pretensions when his
own interest is particularly concerned. We make allowance for a cer-
tain degree of selfishness in men because we know it to be inseparable
from human nature and inherent in our frame and constitution. By
this reflection we correct those sentiments of blame, which so natu-
rally arise upon any opposition.
But however the general principle of our blame or praise may be
corrected by those other principles, it is certain [that] they are not al-
together efficacious, nor do our passions often correspond entirely to
the present theory. It is seldom men heartily love what lies at a distance
from them, and what no way redounds to their particular benefit, as
it is no less rare to meet with persons who can pardon another any
opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable that oppo-
sition may be by the general rules of morality. Here we are contented
with saying that reason requires such an impartial conduct, but that
it is seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and that our passions do not
readily follow the determination of our judgment. This language will
be easily understood if we consider what we formerly said concerning
that reason, which is able to oppose our passion; and which we have
found to be nothing but a general calm determination of the passions,
founded on some distant view or reflection. When we form our judg-
ments of persons, merely from the tendency of their characters to our
own benefit, or to that of our friends, we find so many contradictions
to our sentiments in society and conversation, and such an uncer-
tainty from the incessant changes of our situation, that we seek some
other standard of merit and demerit which may not admit of so great
variation. Being thus loosened from our first station, we cannot after-
wards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means as by a sympathy
with those who have any commerce with the person we consider. This

145
is far from being as lively as when our own interest is concerned, or
that of our particular friends; nor has it such an influence on our love
and hatred. But being equally conformable to our calm and general
principles, it is said to have an equal authority over our reason and to
command our judgment and opinion. We blame equally a bad action,
which we read of in history, with one performed in our neighborhood
the other day. The meaning of which is that we know from reflection
that the former action would excite as strong sentiments of disappro-
bation as the latter, were it placed in the same position.
I now proceed to the second remarkable circumstance which I
proposed to take notice of. Where a person is possessed of a character
that in its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him vir-
tuous, and are delighted with the view of his character, even though
particular accidents prevent its operation and incapacitate him from
being serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in rags is still vir-
tue; and the love which it procures attends a man into a dungeon or
desert, where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action and is lost
to all the world. Now this may be esteemed an objection to the present
system. Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if sympa-
thy were the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of appro-
bation could only take place where the virtue actually attained its end
and was beneficial to mankind. Where it fails of its end, it is only an
imperfect means and therefore can never acquire any merit from that
end. The goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone
as are complete, and actually produce the end.
To this we may reply that where any object, in all its parts, is fit-
ted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure and is
esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be
wanting to render it altogether effectual. It is sufficient if everything
be complete in the object itself. A house that is contrived with great
judgment for all the commodities of life pleases us upon that account,
though perhaps we are sensible that no one will ever dwell in it. A fer-

146
tile soil and a happy climate delight us by a reflection on the happiness
which they would afford the inhabitants, though at present the coun-
try be desert and uninhabited. A man whose limbs and shape prom-
ise strength and activity is esteemed handsome though condemned
to perpetual imprisonment. The imagination has a set of passions
belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much depend.
These passions are moved by degrees of liveliness and strength,
which are inferior to belief, and independent of the real existence of
their objects. Where a character is, in every respect, fitted to be ben-
eficial to society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to the
effect without considering that there are some circumstances want-
ing to render the cause a complete one. General rules create a species
of probability which sometimes influences the judgment, and always
the imagination.
It is true [that] when the cause is complete and a good disposition
is attended with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to
society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator and is attended
with a more lively sympathy. We are more affected by it; and yet we do
not say that it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know
that an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition
entirely impotent, and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the
fortune from the disposition. The case is the same as when we correct
the different sentiments of virtue which proceed from its different
distances from ourselves. The passions do not always follow our cor-
rections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our ab-
stract notions and are alone regarded when we pronounce in general
concerning the degrees of vice and virtue…
Thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: Every
quality of the mind is denominated virtuous which gives pleasure by
the mere survey, as every quality which produces pain is called vicious.
This pleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. For
we reap a pleasure from the view of a character which is naturally fitted

147
to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is agreeable to
others, or to the person himself. One may, perhaps, be surprised. that
amidst all these interests and pleasures we should forget our own,
which touch us so nearly on every other occasion. But we shall easily
satisfy ourselves on this head when we consider that every particu-
lar person’s pleasure and interest being different, it is impossible men
could ever agree in their sentiments and judgments unless they chose
some common point of view from which they might survey their ob-
ject, and which might cause it to appear the same to all of them. Now
in judging of characters, the only interest or pleasure which appears
the same to every spectator is that of the person himself whose char-
acter is examined, or that of persons who have a connection with him.
And though such interests and pleasures touch us more faintly than
our own, yet being more constant and universal, they counter-bal-
ance the latter even in practice, and are alone admitted in speculation
as the standard of virtue and morality. They alone produce that par-
ticular feeling or sentiment, on which moral distinctions depend.

148
 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. Does Hume think that moral judgments are grounded more in reason, or
in emotion? Why? Try to present Hume’s argument in your own words.

2. On Hume’s view, are moral judgments capable of being true or false? Or

does Hume think that moral judgments are neither true nor false? Explain
your answer.

3. What is Hume’s view of moral semantics? According to Hume, what

do moral expressions mean? For example, suppose that someone says,
“genocide is a vicious act.” What, according to Hume, does the expression,
“genocide is a vicious act” mean?

4. Hume remarks that, when it comes to morality, we often reason from

what is to what ought (not) to be, such as when someone says, “Rape is
psychologically damaging to women; therefore, it is immoral.” And yet,
Hume seems to think that there is something incorrect about this way of
reasoning. What, according to Hume, is incorrect about reasoning from is
to ought (not)?

5. Explain in your own words each of the objections that Hume considers
against his view, along with his response to each objection.

6. Do you agree with Hume’s approach to the nature of moral judgments

and the nature of moral semantics? Why or why not?

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 CHAPTER 11
WHAT IS A MOR AL J UD GMENT ?
Thomas Reid (1710-1796)31

The approbation of good actions, and disapprobation of bad, are so

familiar to every man come to years of understanding, that it seems
strange there should be any dispute about their nature. Whether we
reflect upon our own conduct, or attend to the conduct of others with
whom we live, or of whom we hear or read, we cannot help approving
some things, disapproving of others, and regarding many with perfect
indifference. These operations of our minds we are conscious of every
day and almost every hour we live. Men of ripe understanding are capa-
ble of reflecting upon them, and of attending to what passes in their own
thoughts on such occasions; yet, for half a century, it has been a serious
dispute among philosophers what this approbation and disapprobation
is, Whether there be a real judgment included in it, which, like all other
judgments, must be true or false; or, Whether it include no more but some
agreeable or uneasy feeling in the person who approves or disapproves.
Mr. Hume observes very justly that this is a controversy started
of late. Before the modern system of Ideas and Impressions was in-
troduced, nothing would have appeared more absurd than to say that
when I condemn a man for what he has done, I pass no judgment at all
about the man, but only express some uneasy feeling in myself. Nor
did the new system produce this discovery all at once, but gradually,
by several steps, according as its consequences were more accurately
traced, and its spirit more thoroughly imbibed by successive philoso-
phers. Descartes and Mr. Locke went no farther than to maintain that
the secondary qualities of body—heat and cold, sound, color, taste and
smell—which we perceive and judge to be in the external object, are
mere feelings or sensations in our minds, there being nothing in bod-
ies themselves to which these names can be applied; and that the of-

31
From chapter seven of Essay V, “Of Morals,” in, Essays On the Active Powers of the Human Mind,
(Ediburgh, U.K.: Bell and Robinson, 1788).

150
fice of the external senses is not to judge of external things, but only to
give us ideas of sensations from which we are by reasoning to deduce
the existence of a material world without us, as well as we can. Arthur
Collier and Bishop Berkeley discovered, from the same principles,
that the primary, as well as the secondary, qualities of bodies, such as
extension, figure, solidity, motion, are only sensations in our minds;
and, therefore, that there is no material world without us at all. The
same philosophy, when it came to be applied to matters of taste, dis-
covered that beauty and deformity are not anything in the objects to
which men, from the beginning of the world, ascribed them, but cer-
tain feelings in the mind of the spectator. The next step was an easy
consequence from all the preceding, that moral approbation and dis-
approbation are not judgments which must be true or false, but barely
agreeable and uneasy feelings or sensations. Mr. Hume made the last
step in this progress and crowned the system by what he calls his hy-
pothesis, to wit, that belief is more properly an act of sensitive than of
the cogitative part of our nature. Beyond this I think no man can go in
this track; sensation or feeling is all, and what is left to the cogitative
part of our nature, I am not able to comprehend.
I have had occasion to consider each of these paradoxes, except-
ing that which relates to morals, in “Essays on the Intellectual Powers
of Man;” and, though they be strictly connected with each other, and
with the system which has produced them, I have attempted to show
that they are inconsistent with just notions of our intellectual powers
no less than they are with the common sense and common language
of mankind. And this, I think, will likewise appear with regard to the
conclusion relating to morals—to wit, that moral approbation is only
an agreeable feeling, and not a real judgment.
To prevent ambiguity as much as possible, let us attend to the
meaning of feeling and judgment. These operations of the mind, per-
haps, cannot be logically defined; but they are well understood, and
easily distinguished by their properties and adjuncts. Feeling, or sen-

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sation, seems to be the lowest degree of animation we can conceive.
We give the name of animal to every being that feels pain and plea-
sure; and this seems to be the boundary between inanimate and ani-
mal creation. We know of no being so low a rank in the creation of God
as to possess this animal power only without any other. We common-
ly distinguish feeling from thinking because it hardly deserves the
name; and though it be, in a more general sense, a species of thought,
is at least removed from the passive and inert state of things inani-
mate. A feeling must be agreeable, or uneasy, or indifferent. It may be
weak or strong. It is expressed in language either by a single word, or
by such a contexture of words as may be the subject or predicate of a
proposition, but such as cannot by themselves make a proposition. For
it implies neither affirmation nor negation, and therefore cannot have
the qualities of true or false which distinguish propositions from all
other forms of speech, and judgments from all other acts of the mind.
That I have such a feeling, is indeed an affirmative proposition,
and expresses testimony grounded upon an intuitive judgment. But
the feeling is only one term of this proposition; and it can only make
a proposition when joined with another term by a verb affirming or
denying. As feeling distinguishes the animal nature from the inan-
imate, so judging seems to distinguish the rational nature from the
merely animal. Though judgment in general is expressed by one word
in language, as the most complex operations of the mind may be, yet a
particular judgment can only be expressed by a sentence, and by that
kind of sentence which logicians call a proposition, in which there
must necessarily be a verb in the indicative mood, either expressed
or understood. Every judgment must necessarily be true or false, and
the same may be said of the proposition which it expresses. It is a de-
termination of the understanding with regard to what is true, or false,
or dubious. In judgment we can distinguish the object about which we
judge from the act of the mind in judging of that object. In mere feel-
ing there is no distinction. The object of judgment must be expressed

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by a proposition; and belief, disbelief, or doubt always accompanies
the judgment we form. If we judge the proposition we to be true, we
must believe it; if we judge it to be false, we must disbelieve it; and if
we be uncertain whether it be true or false, we must doubt it.
The toothache, the headache, are words which express uneasy feel-
ings; but to say that they express a judgment would be ridiculous. That
the sun is greater than the earth is a proposition, and therefore the object
of a judgment; and when affirmed or denied, believed or disbelieved,
or doubted, it expresses judgment; but to say that it expresses only a
feeling in the mind of him that believes it would be ridiculous. These
two operations of the mind, when we consider them separately, are
very different, and easily distinguished. When we feel without judg-
ing, or judge without feeling, it is impossible, without very gross in-
attention, to mistake the one for the other. But in many operations of
the mind, both are inseparably conjoined under one name; and when
we are not aware that the operation is complex, we may take one in-
gredient to be the whole and overlook the other. In former ages, that
moral power by which human action ought to be regulated was called
reason and considered, both by philosophers and by the vulgar, as the
power of judging what we ought and what we ought not do to. This is
very fully expressed by Mr. Hume, in his “treatise of human Nature”
Book II, Part iii, § 3. “Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even
in common life, than to talk of the combat of passion and reason, to
give preference to reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous
as they conform themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature,
‘tis said, is obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and, if any other
motive or principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to
oppose it, till it be entirely subdued, or, at least, brought to a conformi-
ty to that superior principle. On this method of thinking, the greatest
part of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems to be founded.”
That those philosophers attended chiefly to the judging power of
our moral faculty appears from the names they gave to its operations,

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and from the whole of their language concerning it. The modern phi-
losophy has led men to attend chiefly to their sensations and feelings,
and thereby to resolve into mere feeling, complex acts of the mind, of
which feeling is only one ingredient.
I had occasion, in the preceding Essays, to observe that several
operations of the mind to which we give one name and consider as one
act, are compounded of more simple acts inseparably united in our
constitution, and that, in these, sensation or feeling often makes one
ingredient. Thus, the appetites of hunger and thirst are compounded
of an uneasy sensation, and the desire of food and drink. In our benev-
olent affections, there is both an agreeable feeling and a desire of hap-
piness to the object of our affection; and malevolent affections have
ingredients of a contrary nature.
In these instances, sensation or feeling is inseparably conjoined
with desire. In other instances, we find sensation inseparably con-
joined with judgment or belief, and that in two different ways. In some
instances, the judgment or belief seems to be the consequence of the
sensation, and to be regulated by it. In other instances, the sensation
is the consequences of the judgment.
When we perceive an external object by our senses, we have a sen-
sation conjoined with a firm belief of the existence and sensible quali-
ties of the external object. Nor has all the subtilty of metaphysics been
able to disjoin what nature has conjoined in our constitution. Des-
cartes and Locke endeavored, by reasoning, to deduce the existence of
external objects from our sensations, but in vain. Subsequent philos-
ophers, finding no reason for this connection, endeavored to throw off
the belief of external objects as being unreasonable; but this attempt
is no less vain. Nature has doomed us to believe the testimony of our
senses, whether we can give a good reason for doing so or not.
In this instance, the belief or judgment is the consequence of the
sensation, as the sensation is the consequence of the impression made
on the organ of sense. But in most of the operations of mind in which

154
judgment or belief is combined with feeling, the feeling is the conse-
quence of the judgment and is regulated by it. Thus, an account of the
good conduct of a friend at a distance gives me a very agreeable feeling,
and a contrary account would give me a very uneasy feeling; but these
feelings depend entirely upon my belief of the report.
In hope, there is an agreeable feeling depending on the belief or
expectation of good to come; fear is made up of contrary ingredients.
In both, the feeling is regulated by the degree of belief. In the respect
we bear to the worthy, and in our contempt of the worthless, there
is both judgment and feeling, and the last depends entirely upon the
first. The same may be said of gratitude for good offices and resent-
ment of injuries.
Let me now consider how I am affected when I see a man exerting
himself nobly in a good cause. I am conscious that the effect of his con-
duct on my mind is complex, though it may be called by one name. I
look up to his virtue, I approve, I admire it. In doing so, I have pleasure
indeed, or an agreeable feeling; this is granted. But I find myself in-
terested in his success and in his fame. This is affection; it is love and
esteem, which is more than mere feeling. The man is the object of this
esteem; but in mere feeling there is no object.
I am likewise conscious that this agreeable feeling in me, and this
esteem of him, depend entirely upon the judgment I form of his con-
duct. I judge that this conduct merits esteem; and, while I thus judge,
I cannot but esteem him and contemplate his conduct with pleasure.
Persuade me that he was bribed, or that he acted form some mercenary
or bad motive; immediately my esteem and my agreeable feeling vanish.
In the approbation of a good action, therefore, there is feeling in-
deed, but there is also esteem of the agent; and both the feeling and
the esteem depend upon the judgment we form of his conduct.
When I exercise my moral faculty about my own actions or those
of other men, I am conscious that I judge as well as feel. I accuse and
excuse, I acquit and condemn, I assent and dissent, I believe and dis-

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believe, and doubt. These are acts of judgment, and not feelings.
Every determination of the understanding, with regard to what
is true or false, is judgment. That I ought not to steal, or to kill, or to
bear false witness, are propositions, of the truth of which I am as well
convinced as of any proposition in Euclid. I am conscious that I judge
them to be true propositions; and my consciousness makes all other ar-
guments unnecessary with regard to the operations of my own mind.
That other men judge as well as feel in such cases, I am convinced
because they understand me when I express my moral judgment, and
express theirs by the same terms and phrases.
Suppose that, in a case well known to both, my friend says, —such
a man did well and worthily, his conduct is highly approvable. This
speech, according to all rules of interpretation, expresses my friend’s
judgment of the man’s conduct. This judgment may be true or false,
and I may agree in opinion with him, or I may dissent from him with-
out offence, as we may differ in other matters of judgment. Suppose
again that, in relation to the same case, my friend says—The man’s con-
duct gave me a very agreeable feeling. This speech, if approbation be
nothing but an agreeable feeling, must have the very same meaning
with the first, and express neither more nor less. But this cannot be,
for two reasons. First, because there is no rule in grammar or rhet-
oric, nor any usage in language, by which these two speeches can be
construed as to have the same meaning. The first expresses plainly an
opinion or judgment of the conduct of the man but says nothing of the
speaker. The second only testifies a fact concerning the speaker—to
wit, that he had such a feeling.
Another reason why these two speeches cannot mean the same
thing is that the first may be contradicted without any ground of of-
fense, such contradiction being only a difference of opinion, which, to
a reasonable man, gives no offense. But the second speech cannot be
contradicted without an affront; for, as every man must know his own
feelings, to deny that a man had a feeling which he affirms he had, is to

156
charge him with falsehood.
If moral approbation be a real judgment, which produces an agree-
able feeling in the mind of him who judges, both speeches are perfect-
ly intelligible in the most obvious and literal sense. Their meaning is
different, but they are related, so that the one may be inferred from
the other, as we infer the effect from the cause or the cause from the
effect. I know that what a man judges to be a very worthy action, he
contemplates with pleasure; and what he contemplates with pleasure
must, in his judgment, have worth. But the judgment and the feeling
are different acts of his mind, though connected as cause and effect.
He can express either the one or the other with perfect propriety; but
the speech which expresses his feeling is altogether improper and in-
ept to express his judgment and for this evident reason, that judgment
and feeling though in some cases connected, are things in their na-
ture different.
If we suppose, on the other hand, that moral approbation is noth-
ing more than an agreeable feeling, occasioned by the contemplation
of an action, the second speech above mentioned [the man’s conduct
gave me a very agreeable feeling] has a distinct meaning and expresses
all that is mean by moral approbation. But the first speech [such a man
did well and worthily, his conduct is highly approvable] either means
the very same thing (which cannot be, for the reasons already men-
tioned), or it has no meaning.
Now, we may appeal to the reader, whether, in conversation upon
human characters, such speeches as the first are not as frequent,
as familiar, and as well understood, as anything in language; and
whether they have not been common in all ages that we can trace,
and in all languages?
This doctrine, therefore, that moral approbation is merely a feeling
without judgment necessarily carries along with it this consequence:
that a form of speech, upon one of the most common topics of dis-
course, which either has no meaning, or a meaning irreconcilable to

157
all rules of grammar or rhetoric, is found to be common and familiar
in all languages and in all ages of the world, while every man knows
how to express the meaning, if it have any, in plain and proper lan-
guage. Such a consequence I think sufficient to sink any philosophical
opinion on which it hangs.

158
 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. Early in this reading, Thomas Reid distinguishes between a feeling and

a judgment. What, according to Reid, is a feeling? What are some key
characteristics of feelings as distinct from judgments? What, according to
Reid, is a judgment? What are some key characteristics of judgments as
distinct from feelings?

2. Explain Thomas Reid’s view on the nature of moral judgments. According

to Reid, are moral judgments acts of reasoning, or acts of feeling? Or do
they include both? Or neither?

3. Explain Reid’s argument for his view on the nature of moral judgments.
What are the key reasons that Reid gives to support his view?

4. Explain Reid’s main objections to Hume’s view that moral judgments are
nothing more than expressions of an agreeable or disagreeable sentiment.

159
 CHAPTER 12
WHAT IS THE NATURE OF “GO OD” ?
G.E. Moore (1873-1958)32

From the Preface

It appears to me that in ethics, as in all other philosophical stud-
ies, the difficulties and disagreements, of which history is full, are
mainly due to a very simple cause; namely, to the attempt to answer
questions without first discovering precisely what question it is which
you desire to answer. I do not know how far this source of error would
be done away if philosophers would try to discover what question they
were asking before they set about to answer it; for the work of analysis
and distinction is often very difficult. We may often fail to make the
necessary discovery, even though we make a definite attempt to do so.
But I am inclined to think that in many cases a resolute attempt would
be sufficient to ensure success, so that, if only this attempt were make,
many of the most glaring difficulties and disagreements in philosophy
would disappear. At all events, philosophers seem, in general, not to
make the attempt; and, whether in consequence of this omission or
not, they are constantly endeavoring to prove that ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ will
answer questions to which neither is correct, owing to the fact that
what they have before their minds is not one question, but several, to
some of which the true answer is ‘No,’ to others ‘Yes’.
I have tried in this book to distinguish clearly two kinds of ques-
tion which moral philosophers have always professed to answer, but
which, as I have tried to show, they have almost always confused both
with one another and with other questions. These two questions may
be expressed, first in the form, “What kind of things ought to exist for
their own sakes?” the second in the form, “What kind of actions ought
we to perform?” I have tried to show exactly what it is that we ask
about a thing when we ask whether it ought to exist for its own sake, is

32
From Principia Ethica (Cambridge University Press, 1903).

160
good in itself or has intrinsic value, and exactly what it is that we ask
about an action when we ask whether we ought to do it, whether it is a
right action or a duty.
But from a clear insight into the nature of these two questions,
there appear to me to follow a second most important result; namely,
what is the nature of the evidence by which alone any ethical propo-
sition can be proved or disproved, confirmed or rendered doubtful?
Once we recognize the exact meaning of the two questions, I think it
also becomes plain exactly what kind of reasons are relevant as argu-
ments for or against any particular answer to them. It becomes plain
that, for answers to the first question, no relevant evidence whatsoev-
er can be adduced. From no other truth, except themselves alone, can
it be inferred that they are either true or false. We can guard against
error only by taking care that, when we try to answer a question of this
kind, we have before our minds that question only, and not some other
or others. But that there is great danger of such errors of confusion
I have tried to show, and also what are the chief precautions by the
use of which we may guard against them. As for the second question,
it becomes equally plain that any answer to it is capable of proof or
disproof—that, indeed, so many different considerations are relevant
to its truth or falsehood as to make the attainment of probability very
difficult, and the attainment of certainty impossible. Nonetheless the
kind of evidence, which is both necessary and alone relevant to such
proof and disproof, is capable of exact definition. Such evidence must
contain propositions of two kinds and two kinds only. It must consist,
in the first place, of truths with regard to the results of the action in
question—of causal truths—but it must also contain ethical truths of
our first or self-evident class. Many truths of both kinds are neces-
sary to the proof that any action ought to be done; and any other kind
of evidence is wholly irrelevant. It follows that, if any ethical philos-
opher offers for propositions of the first kind any evidence whatever,
or if, for propositions of the second kind he either fails to adduce both

161
causal and ethical truths, or adduces truths that are neither, his rea-
soning has not the least tendency to establish his conclusions. But not
only are his conclusions totally devoid of weight; we have, moreover,
reason to suspect him of the error of confusion, since the offering of
irrelevant evidence generally indicates that the philosopher who of-
fers it has had before his mind, not the question which he professes
to answer, but some other entirely different one. Ethical discussion,
hitherto, has perhaps consisted chiefly in reasoning of this totally ir-
relevant kind…

The Subject Matter of Ethics

It is very easy to point out some among our every-day judgments,
with the truth of which ethics is undoubtedly concerned. Whenever
we say, ‘So and so is a good man,’ or, ‘That fellow is a villain’; when-
ever we ask, ‘What ought I to do?’ or, ‘Is it wrong for me to [act] like
this?’; whenever we hazard such remarks as, ‘Temperance is a virtue
and drunkenness a vice’—it is undoubtedly the business of ethics
to discuss such questions and such statements; to argue what is the
true answer when we ask what it is right to do, and to give reasons
for thinking that our statements about the character of persons or
the morality of actions are true and false. In the vast majority of cases,
where we make statements involving any of the terms ‘virtue,’ ‘vice,’
‘duty,’ ‘right,’ ‘ought,’ ‘good,’ ‘bad,’ we are making ethical judgments;
and if we wish to discuss their truth, we shall be discussing a point
of ethics.
So much as this is not disputed, but it falls very far short of defin-
ing the province of ethics. That province may indeed be defined as the
whole truth about that which is at the same time common to all such
judgments and peculiar to them. But we have still to ask the question:
What is this that is thus common and peculiar? And this is a question
to which very different answers have been given by ethical philoso-
phers of acknowledged reputation, and none of them, perhaps, com-

162
pletely satisfactory.
If we take such examples as those given above, we shall not be far
wrong in saying that they are all of them concerned with the question
of ‘conduct’—with the question, what, in the conduct of us human
beings, is good, and what is bad, what is right, and what is wrong…
Accordingly, we find that many ethical philosophers are disposed to
accept as an adequate definition of ‘ethics’ the statement that it deals
with the question [of] what is good or bad in human conduct…Now,
without discussing the proper reasoning of the word…I may say that
I intend to use ‘ethics’ to cover more than this…I am using it to cover
an inquiry for which, at all events, there is no other word: the general
inquiry into what is good.
Ethics is undoubtedly concerned with the question what good
conduct is; but, being concerned with this, it obviously does not start
at the beginning unless it is prepared to tell us what is good as well as
what is conduct. For ‘good conduct’ is a complex notion. All conduct
is not good; for some is certainly bad and some may be indifferent.
And on the other hand, other things beside conduct may be good. And
if they are so, then ‘good’ denotes some property that is common to
them and conduct. And if we examine good conduct alone of all good
things then we shall be in danger of mistaking for this property some
property which is not shared by those other things. And thus we shall
have made a mistake about ethics even in this limited sense; for we
shall not know what good conduct really is. This is a mistake which
many writers have actually made from limiting their inquiry to con-
duct. And hence I shall try to avoid it by considering first what is good
in general, hoping that if we can arrive at any certainty about this, it
will be much easier to settle the question of good conduct. For, we all
know pretty well what ‘conduct’ is. This, then, is our first question:
What is good? And what is bad?...
But this is a question which may have many meanings…we may…
mean to ask, not what thing or things are good, but how ‘good’ is to

163
be defined. This is an inquiry which belongs only to ethics…and this
is the inquiry which will occupy us first…What, then, is good? How is
good to be defined? Now, it may be thought that this is a verbal ques-
tion. A definition does indeed often mean the expressing of one word’s
meaning in other words. But this is not the sort of definition I am ask-
ing for. Such a definition can never be of ultimate importance in any
study except lexicography. If I wanted that kind of definition I should
have to consider in the first place how people generally used the word
‘good’; but my business is not with its proper usage as established by
custom…My business is solely with that object or idea which I hold,
rightly or wrongly, that the word is generally used to stand for. What
I want to discover is the nature of that object or idea, and about this I
am extremely anxious to arrive at an agreement.
But, if we understand the question in this sense, my answer to it
may seem a very disappointing one. If I am asked ‘What is good?’ my
answer is that good is good, and that is the end of the matter. Or if I am
asked ‘How is good to be defined?’ my answer is that it cannot be de-
fined, and that is all I have to say about it. But disappointing as these
answers may appear, they are of the very last importance. To readers
who are familiar with philosophic terminology, I can express their
importance by saying that they amount to this: That propositions
about the good are all of them synthetic and never analytic; and that is
plainly no trivial matter.33 And the same thing may be expressed more
popularly by saying that, if I am right, then nobody can foist upon us
such an axiom as that ‘pleasure is the only good’ or that ‘the good is
the desired’ on the pretense that ‘this is the very meaning of the word’.
Let us, then, consider this position. My point is that ‘good’ is a sim-
ple notion, just as ‘yellow’ is a simple notion; that, just as you cannot by
33
To say that a proposition (or statement, or sentence) is analytic means, roughly, that the meaning
of a term used in that statement is expressed elsewhere in the statement. To use a common example,
consider the sentence: A bachelor is an unmarried male. Since the term “bachelor” just means,
“unmarried male,” stating that a bachelor is an unmarried male does not say anything new about
bachelors that is not already contained in the definition of the word, “bachelor.” On the other hand,
suppose someone says, “Neptune’s atmosphere is made mostly of hydrogen and helium.” Telling us
that Neptune’s atmosphere is made mostly of hydrogen and helium tells us something new; that is,
it tells us something that we don’t already know just by understanding terms like, “Neptune” and
“atmosphere.” In philosophy, statements of this latter sort are often called synthetic statements.

164
any manner of means explain to anyone who does not already know it,
what yellow is, so you cannot explain what good is. Definitions of the
kind I was asking for, definitions which describe the real nature of the
object or notion denoted by a word, and which to not merely tell us
what the word is used to mean, are only possible when the object or
notion in the question is something complex. You can give a definition
of a horse, because a horse has many different properties and qualities,
all of which you can enumerate. But when you have enumerated them
all, when you have reduced a horse to his simplest terms, then you can
no longer define those terms. They are simply something which you
think of or perceive, and to anyone who cannot think of or perceive
them, you can never, by ay definition, make their nature known…
…I do not mean that the good, that which is good, is thus indefin-
able; if I did think so, I should not be writing on ethics, for my main
object is to help towards discovering that definition. It is just because
I think there will be less risk of error in our search for a definition of
‘the good’ that I am now insisting that good is indefinable. I must try to
explain the difference between these two. I suppose it may be granted
that ‘good’ is an adjective. Well, ‘the good, that which is good’ must
therefore be the substantive to which the adjective ‘good’ will apply;
it must be the whole of that to which the adjective will apply, and the
adjective must always truly apply to it. But if it is that to which the
adjective will apply, it must be something different from the adjective
itself; and the whole of that something different, whatever it is, will be
our definition of the good…
‘Good’ then, if we mean by it that quality which we assert to be-
long to a thing when we say that the thing is good, is incapable of any
definition, in the most important sense of that word. The most im-
portant sense of ‘definition’ is that in which a definition states what
are the parts which invariably compose a certain whole; and in this
sense ‘good’ has no definition because it is simple and has no parts. It
is one of those innumerable objects of thought which are themselves

165
incapable of definition, because they are the ultimate terms by refer-
ence to which whatever is capable of definition must be defined. That
there must be an indefinite number of such terms is obvious, on re-
flection, since we cannot define anything except by an analysis which,
when carried as far as it will go, refers is to something which is simply
different from anything else, and which by that ultimate difference
explains the peculiarity of the whole which we are defining. For, every
whole contains some parts which are common to other wholes also.
There is, therefore, no intrinsic difficulty in the contention that ‘good’
denotes a simple and indefinable quality. There are many instances of
such qualities.
…It may be true that all things which are good are also something
else, just as it is true that all things which are yellow produce a certain
kind of vibration in the light. And it is a fact that ethics aims at discov-
ering what are those other properties belonging to all things which
are good. But far too many philosophers have thought that when they
named those other properties they were actually defining good; that
these properties, in fact, were not simply ‘other,’ but absolutely and
entirely the same with goodness. This view I propose to call the ‘natu-
ralistic fallacy’ and of it I shall now endeavor to dispose.
Let us consider what it is such philosophers say. And first it is to be
noticed that they do not agree among themselves. They not only say
that they are right as to what good is, but they endeavor to prove that
other people who say that it is something else are wrong. One, for in-
stance, will affirm that good is pleasure, another, perhaps, that good is
that which is desired. And each of these will argue eagerly to prove that
the other is wrong. But how is this possible? One of them says that good
is nothing but the object of desire, and at the same time tries to prove
that it is not pleasure. But from his first assertion, that good just means
the object of desire, one of two things must follow as regards his proof:
(1) He may be trying to prove that the object of desire is not plea-
sure. But, if this be all, where is his ethics? The position he is main-

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taining is merely a psychological one. Desire is something which oc-
curs in our minds, and pleasure is something else which so occurs,
and our would-be ethical philosopher is merely holding that the lat-
ter is not the object of the former. His opponent held that the ethical
proposition that pleasure was the good, and although he should prove
a million times over the psychological proposition that pleasure is not
the object of desire, he is no nearer proving his opponent is wrong…
(2) The other alternative will scarcely be more welcome. It is that
the discussion is after all a verbal one. When A says, ‘Good means
pleasant’ and B says, ‘Good means desired,’ they may merely wish to
assert that most people have used the word for what is pleasant and for
what is desired respectively. And this is quite an interesting subject
for discussion, only it is not a whit more an ethical discussion than the
last was. Nor do I think that any exponent of naturalistic ethics would
be willing to allow that this was all he meant. They are all so anxious
to persuade us that what they call the good is what we really ought to
do…And in so far as they tell us how we ought to act, their teaching
is truly ethical as they mean it to be. But how perfectly absurd is the
reason they would give for it! ‘You are to do this, because most people
use a certain word to denote conduct such as this.’ ‘You are to say the
thing which is not, because most people call it lying.’ That is an argu-
ment just as good!—My dear sirs, what we want to know from you as
ethical teachers is not how people use a word; it is not even what kind
of actions they approve, which the use of this word ‘good’ may certainly
imply. What we want to know is simply what is good…
Suppose a man says, ‘I am pleased’; and suppose that is not a lie
or a mistake but the truth. Well, if it is true, what does that mean? It
means that his mind, a certain definite mind, distinguished by certain
definite marks from all others, has at this moment a certain definite
feeling called pleasure. ‘Pleased’ means nothing but having pleasure…
And if anybody tried to define pleasure for us as being any other natu-
ral object; if anybody were to say, for instance, that pleasure means the

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sensation of red, and were to proceed to deduce from that that plea-
sure is a color, we should be entitled to laugh at him and to distrust his
future statements about pleasure. Well, that would be the same falla-
cy which I have called the naturalistic fallacy. That ‘pleased’ does not
mean ‘having the sensation of red,’ or anything else whatever, does
not prevent us from understanding what it does mean. It is enough
for us to know that ‘pleased’ does mean ‘having the sensation of plea-
sure,’ and though pleasure is absolutely indefinable, though pleasure
is pleasure and nothing else whatever, yet we feel no difficulty in say-
ing that we are pleased…And similarly no difficulty need be found in
my saying that ‘pleasure is good’ and yet not meaning that ‘pleasure’
is the same thing as ‘good,’ that pleasure means good, and that good
means pleasure…When a man confuses two natural objects with one
another, defining the one by the other…then there is no reason to call
the fallacy naturalistic. But if he confuses ‘good,’ which is not in the
same sense a natural object, with any natural object whatsoever, then
there is a reason for calling that a naturalistic fallacy; its being made
with regard to ‘good’ marks it as something quite specific, and this
specific mistake deserves a name because it is so common. As for the
reasons why good is not to be considered a natural object, they are re-
served for discussion in another place…
In fact, if it is not the case that ‘good’ denotes something simple
and indefinable, only two alternatives are possible. Either it is a com-
plex, a given whole, about the correct analysis of which there may be
disagreement, or else it means nothing at all, and there is no such sub-
ject as ethics. In general, however, ethical philosophers have attempted
to define good without recognizing what such an attempt must mean…
We are, therefore, justified in concluding that the attempt to define
good is chiefly due to want of clearness as to the possible nature of
definition. There are, in fact, only two serious alternatives to be con-
sidered in order to establish the conclusion that ‘good’ does denote
a simple and indefinable notion. It might possibly denote a complex,

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as ‘horse’ does, or it might have no meaning at all. Neither of these
possibilities has, however, been clearly conceived and seriously main-
tained, as such, by those who presume to define good, and both may be
dismissed by a simple appeal to facts.
The hypothesis that disagreement about the meaning of good
is disagreement with regard to the correct analysis of a given whole
may be most plainly seen to be incorrect by consideration of the fact
that, whatever definition may be offered, it may always be asked, with
significance, of the complex so defined, whether it is itself good. To
take, for instance, one of the more plausible, because one of the more
complicated, of such proposed definitions, it may easily be thought,
at first sight, that to be good may mean to be that which we desire to
desire. Thus, if we apply this definition to a particular instance and
say, “When we think that A is good, we are thinking that A is one of
the things which we desire to desire,” our proposition may seem quite
plausible. But, if we carry the investigation further and ask ourselves,
“Is it good to desire to desire A?” it is apparent, on a little reflection,
that this question is itself as intelligible as the original question, “Is A
good”—that we are, in fact, now asking for exactly the same informa-
tion about the desire to desire A for which we formerly asked with re-
gard to A itself. But it is also apparent that the meaning of this second
question cannot be correctly analyzed into, “Is the desire to desire A
one of the things which we desire to desire?” We have not before our
minds anything so complicated as the question, “Do we desire to de-
sire to desire to desire A?” Moreover, anyone can easily convince him-
self by introspection that the predicate of this proposition—good—is
positively different from this notion of ‘desiring to desire’ which en-
ters into its subject. “That we should desire to desire A is good” is not
merely equivalent to “That A should be good is good.” It may indeed be
true that what we desire to desire is also good; perhaps, even the con-
verse may be true. But it is very doubtful whether this is the case, and
the mere fact that we understand very well what is meant by doubting

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it shows clearly that we have two different notions before our minds.
And the same consideration is sufficient to dismiss the hypothesis
that ‘good’ has no meaning whatsoever. It is very natural to make the
mistake of supposing that what is universally true is of such a nature
that its negation would be self-contradictory, the importance of which
has been assigned to analytic propositions in the history of philosophy
shows how easy such a mistake is. And thus it is very easy to conclude
that what seems to be a universal ethical principle is in fact an iden-
tical proposition; that if, for example, whatever is called ‘good’ seems
to be pleasant, the proposition, ‘Pleasure is the good’ does not assert a
connection between two different notions, but involves only one, that
of pleasure, which is easily recognized as a distinct entity. But whoso-
ever will attentively consider with himself what is actually before his
mind when he asks the question, “Is pleasure (or whatever it may be)
after all good?” can easily satisfy himself that he is not merely won-
dering whether pleasure is pleasant. And if he will try this experiment
with each suggested definition in succession, he may become expert
enough to recognize that in every case he has before his mind a unique
object with regard to the connection of which with any other object a
distinct question may be asked. Everyone does in fact understand the
question, “Is this good?” When he thinks of it, his state of mind is dif-
ferent from what it would be, were he asked, ‘Is this pleasant, or de-
sired, or approved?’ It has a distinct meaning for him, even though he
may not recognize in what respect it is distinct. Whenever he thinks of
‘intrinsic value’ or ‘intrinsic worth’ or says a thing ‘ought to exist,’ he
has before his mind the unique object—the unique property of things—
which I mean by ‘good.’ Everybody is constantly aware of this notion,
although he may never become aware at all that it is different from
other notions of which he is also aware. But for correct ethical reason-
ing, it is extremely important that he should become aware of this fact;
and as soon as the nature of the problem is clearly understood, there
should be little difficulty in advancing so far in analysis.

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 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
AND STUDY

1. G.E. Moore begins this reading by contrasting two different ethical

questions. What are they?

2. Which of the above questions does Moore try to answer in this reading
selection? What is his answer to that question?

3. Moore claims that ‘good’ is a simple notion, just as ‘yellow’ is a simple

notion. What does he mean by this?

4. Moore claims that good is undefinable. What does he mean by this?

For example, does Moore think that “good” is undefinable and therefore
meaningless? Explain his view.

5. Explain the approach to ethics that Moore calls the naturalistic fallacy.

6. Moore claims that, “if it is not the case that ‘good’ denotes something
simple and indefinable, only two alternatives are possible.” What are the two
alternatives?

7. How does Moore argue against the view that disagreement about the
meaning of good is disagreement with regard to the correct analysis of a
complex idea?

8. How does Moore argue against the view that ‘good’ has no meaning
whatsoever? Explain.

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeffrey Wisdom is Professor of Philosophy at Joliet Junior College

in Joliet, Illinois. He has broad interests in ethics and the philosophy
of mind. He is particularly interested in exploring the implications,
if any, that contemporary psychology and neuroscience might have
for major metaethical debates, such as debates about the nature of
moral judgments.

His professional website is: [Link]

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